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Monk was surprised. Ossett was very senior indeed, a man of great power, highly respected in government circles. A member of the House of Lords rather than the House of Commons, he was an adviser to both the Home and Foreign Offices and occasionally to the prime minister himself on important matters of international trade and finance.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Hooper replied steadily, his face unreadable.
“When?” Monk asked, his stomach knotting tight.
“Now … sir.” Hooper took a deep breath. “Maybe we’re getting back on the case, sir. Do you want me to tell Mr. Orme, and start sorting the duties out?”
Monk felt a sense of dread, but he didn’t let it show on his face. “Yes … please,” he agreed. I think you’d better. Don’t change anything yet, but get ready.”
Hooper’s smile was twisted, and without replying he turned and walked with his easy, loping gait toward the station.
Monk caught the first passing hansom toward Lord Ossett’s office in Whitehall. On the ride through the docklands he was all but unaware of the high, barn-like warehouses, wagons laden with all kinds of goods, the towering cranes and the creak of loads, shouts of stevedores, and the rattle of wheels on the stones. His mind was on the case of Habib Beshara and the sinking of the Princess Mary.
Was he going to be given back the investigation, now that it was thoroughly contaminated? Could he refuse? What would it mean for his career if he did? No—that was not the issue. He was irritated with himself for having thought of it at all. What mattered was the reputation of the River Police, and whether they had any chance of finding the truth, for Beshara, and for those who were dead or bereaved.
Was it important to find those beyond, the incompetent, and the corrupt? Or was that expecting miracles, which might also take down a great many people who were only peripherally involved? In eagerness to find the guilty, he could destroy the bystanders as well, those who were misguided, afraid, confused, guilty only of not understanding.
He had found no answers to any of his questions when he alighted. He paid the driver and walked across the pavement and in through the imposing doorway of Lord Ossett’s office.
He was received immediately. He had the distinct impression from Ossett’s lean and rather somber secretary that Monk was not so much paying a visit as obeying a summons.
Ossett was waiting in his office. He was a striking man, slender, a little over average height, and with a bearing that made it obvious that he had served many years in the army. He stood like a soldier, back straight, shoulders square, but quite clearly with the ease of an officer well used to command. Monk respected that whatever rank he had borne, Ossett did not now use it. He had no urge to impress.
“Ah,” he said with evident satisfaction. “I’m obliged you have come.” He did not even obliquely refer to the fact that Monk had had no choice. “I’m afraid we have a very ugly situation.” He waved his arm toward one of the well-upholstered leather armchairs near the classic fireplace, which was at present unlit and masked by a tapestry screen.
As Monk sat down, he noticed that above the marble mantel hung a four-foot-high portrait of what appeared to be Ossett himself as a young man. His face was quite plainly recognizable. His hair was thicker and several shades fairer, but the way it grew from his brow was exactly the same. He was handsome, his chin held high, a half-smile on his mouth. His military scarlet was immaculate.
Ossett sat in the chair opposite Monk, leaning forward a little so as to indicate the urgency of the matter. There was no time for the indulgence of relaxation.
“Lydiate tells me that you have discovered a serious flaw in some of the evidence against Beshara,” he said gravely. “Evidence that wouldn’t stand up to exposure, should you pursue your inquiries. Is that true?”
“Yes
, sir, I’m afraid it is,” Monk replied.
“Lydiate gave me some of the details, but I would like to hear it from you. Please be specific. If it really does cast doubt on the verdict, then it is so serious it would be hard to overstate the damage it could do.”
Monk recounted exactly what he had learned, and how.
Ossett listened to him silently, but with clearly growing concern.
“So if this is accurate, then Beshara may be involved,” Ossett said finally. “But we cannot confirm that he is the person who placed the dynamite on the Princess Mary.”
“No, sir,” Monk agreed.
“And have we any idea who did?”
“Not yet,” Monk answered. “I assume the investigation will have to be reopened.”
Ossett bit his lip. Monk noticed that his hands were tight, knuckles pale as he sat. He was deeply disturbed by the situation. All the comfort and familiarity of the office with its leather chairs, glowing Turkey carpet, shelves of well-used books on the history of the Empire, the exploration of the world and the arts and sciences of the mind, could have been another man’s possessions for any sense of comfort they offered him.
“I regret this,” Ossett said quietly. “But we cannot turn a blind eye to the new evidence. It would not be morally unacceptable to ignore it, even if we could. But it is a moot point. It will emerge somehow, sooner or later, and that will damage Britain’s reputation beyond anyone’s ability to repair. Some mistakes can be salvaged. This would be one that cannot.”
Monk did not reply. He knew that Ossett was speaking as much to himself as to Monk.
“This will be highly political,” he said at last.
