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They were interrupted by a knock on the front door. Monk looked up in surprise, fearing that it would be one of his men calling on him about some case too urgent to leave until the next day.
Scuff had finished his dinner. He had not yet lost the habit of eating as fast as he could in case his food were taken, as it had been sometimes in his years living in the docks. He stood up.
“I’ll get it …” he said willingly, going toward the door before Monk could check him.
He returned a moment later, closely followed by Runcorn.
“Sorry,” Runcorn said, more to Hester than to Monk. He stood awkwardly, his height seeming to crowd the room. His eyes went to Monk’s unfinished meal. “I thought you’d want to know, maybe hear all there is, rather than whatever the papers say, which’ll be plenty.”
Hester stood up, smiling. “Would you like tea, and maybe a piece of cake?”
Runcorn shook his head, and then changed his mind instantly. “If it’s not a trouble?”
“None at all,” Hester answered him, ignoring her own plate. “Why don’t you go and sit in the parlor? You’ll be more comfortable. Scuff, you can help me …” It was an order. He obeyed with only one backward glance, his brow puckered with worry.
Runcorn accepted the suggestion, and followed as Monk stood up and led the way. In the parlor they sat down opposite each other. Monk waited.
Runcorn shook his head. “You’ll hear tomorrow morning. It’ll be all over the place, and I’m reckoning it’ll be ugly. It seems this Egyptian fellow, Beshara, comes from a pretty important family back at home. To be precise, in the port of Suez, which I gather is small, scruffy, and very busy. But his family is in a way of business, and has quite a lot of money.”
Monk was skeptical. “Who says so? And if he comes from an important family, why was he working in the London docks? Why did none of this important family come and speak for him during his trial?”
Runcorn looked tired. He pushed his fingers through his thick, grizzled hair. “He always claimed he wasn’t working at the dockside.” He looked very directly at Monk, a shadow in his eyes. “Actually, the Egyptian embassy said as much, but nobody believed them—or, more accurately, everyone thought they were mistaken.”
Monk felt the chill of unease touch him. Why had Runcorn come with this now? Was it anything more than what they must have expected, even if a little late? “Several people identified him,” he pointed out. “It didn’t rest on one.”
Runcorn looked down at the table. “I know …”
Memories flickered through Monk’s mind, other cases they had worked on together, long ago, people who had been certain of what they had seen—and wrong. Something else stirred in his mind, but eluded him before he could identify it. Something that night on the river.
“Have you doubts?” he asked gently. If Runcorn had, he would understand. In a couple of days Beshara could be hanged and it would be too late to correct errors then, however obvious in hindsight. Mistakes would be sealed in death, unalterable. Nightmares of error would creep into the dreams of every man, no matter how honest his investigation had been. Monk had woken with the same fear himself, cold sweat on his body at the finality of it. Did jurors feel it too? Or did the company of eleven other “good men and true” relieve the responsibility?
Runcorn was staring at him again. Whatever he said, the truth of it was in his eyes, but also a bitter humor, surely horribly misplaced.
“What is it?” Monk asked.
“They’re not going to hang him,” Runcorn replied. “At least not yet. He’s ill, so the doctors say. Can’t hang a sick man. Got to cure him first. Except I’m not sure there is a cure for that. Instead of hanging him quickly, they’ll let him die slowly.”
Now Monk understood what he had seen in Runcorn’s eyes.
Hester came in with the tea on a tray, and several slices of cake.
Both men thanked her for it, unintentionally speaking at the same time, as she reached the door. She smiled briefly, and went out, leaving them alone.
Silently, Monk poured both cups of tea and took a slice of the cake.
Runcorn helped himself to one also. “Actually I do have doubts,” he answered the first question. “At least … I think I do.” He bit into the cake and smiled with satisfaction. He finished the mouthful before he went on. “Eyewitnesses see what they expect to see, and when they’ve said something to the police, unless they’re scared out of it, they tend to stay with whatever it was. And when they’ve said it a dozen times, they’re sure anyway.”
“I know,” Monk agreed. “And by the time they’ve sworn to it in court, they’re boxed in and can’t change. Do you think they’re all wrong?”
Runcorn bit his lip. “How much does anyone really remember faces? Especially of people you don’t know? I believe they probably saw someone who was an Egyptian, or similar looking, but how could they know with absolute certainty it was him …”
“What do you know about Beshara, his background?”
“He’s a very questionable dealer in artifacts, beyond doubt some of them stolen. Uncertain temper and … different … ideas about what qualifies as customs and excise duty,” Runcorn replied. “Not all cultures see bribery as a crime. To some it’s a way of life, a necessary expense of doing business.”
“So a man on the edge of the law …”
“Over the edge,” Runcorn corrected him.
