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“Possibly,” Hester conceded. “At least that’s what they might think.”
“So then we can hang all of them,” Scuff concluded.
“Well, at least we could catch all of them,” she amended. “We really don’t want them going free, if we can prevent it.”
Scuff looked satisfied. “You going to help?” he asked Monk.
It was time for certainty. “Yes.”
“They let yer?” Scuff said with doubt.
This time Monk smiled properly. “I wasn’t intending to ask.”
Scuff grinned back and went on with his breakfast.
When he left the table to get ready for the day, Monk looked at Hester.
“You don’t look as angry as I feel. How do you manage it? Do you really have some kind of pity for them? I mean the politicians who wriggle and twist as the wind turns?”
“You know me better than that,” she replied, putting the used plates on top of each other. “I’ve seen too many battlefields to feel the same raw shock that you do, that’s all. It doesn’t hurt any less, just differently. I’ve learned to keep my powder dry …”
“Gunpowder?” he said with a twist of his mouth. “Do we have any?”
“I don’t know. Nobody’s given a real reason yet for Beshara, or anyone else, to have blown up the Princess Mary, have they?”
“No. It doesn’t make a lot of sense. Unless there’s something about Beshara or his family that we don’t know about.”
“Could we have cheated them out of something, or vice versa?” she asked very quietly. “Land, for example?”
He had thought of that and hoped it was not so. Of course, there were vast shipping companies whose fortunes were built on Britain’s dominance of the seas. With a canal from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea that power would largely disappear.
“Paid by someone to do it? Or someone paid to make it look like he did it?” he said, hating the words.
“It could be … William, please …” She did not finish.
“I know,” he said very quietly. “Don’t tell Scuff.”
“He has enough trouble with authority,” she agreed. “All his natural instincts are to deny it. Don’t add to that. He needs to stay in school. If he rebels now he’ll lose all he’s gained so far. He’ll close so many doors that won’t open for him again.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I’ll be careful.”
“Is Beshara guilty?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not happy with the evidence. The whole investigation was too quick, too pressured. I’m not blaming Lydiate for that, but his men don’t know the river the way we do. I’ve found some oddities, but I don’t know if they make any real difference.”
“Enough for a retrial?”
“No. Just for a lot of doubt and ugliness.”
She looked even more worried. “People are talking about riots to force them to hang him. They don’t know what they’re talking about, but they’re so angry that doesn’t matter anymore.”
“I know. Please … you be careful …” He did not know how to say what he wanted. He felt a nameless fear, a darkness just beyond grasping.
IT WAS RUNCORN WHO told him the following day that Habib Beshara had been attacked in prison and was now in a critical condition.
Monk was stunned. “Attacked?” he repeated, as if saying the word again would explain it. He stared at Runcorn standing in the Greenwich dockside in the sun, the busy river bright behind him, endlessly moving. “Who? Were they moving him, or something? Why?”
Runcorn looked unhappy and just as confused. “No. He was safe in prison. At least he was supposed to be safe. Fortridge-Smith isn’t saying a damn thing!”
