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Camborne had not raised the subject at all at the trial, and Juniver had not challenged him, nor given any account of his own, and Beshara had very wisely not insisted on taking the stand himself. But if the truth was damning, why had Camborne not disclosed it?
The obvious answer to that was that it involved other people whom Camborne did not wish to call, either because of their own dubious reputations, or because they would implicate others of great influence, and possibly high office. And as it had transpired, none of it was necessary for a conviction.
Regarding the present case, several people had testified to seeing Beshara in the neighborhood of the Princess Mary’s sinking. Unfortunately their descriptions did not agree. One said he wore a high-collared shirt and a jacket similar to those worn by waiters on the ship. Another made him appear much more like a river man. A third and fourth were too emotional to have more than impressions, but these grew firmer with each retelling.
It all added up to no more than impressions, beliefs: nothing that should have carried a verdict in a court of law, but emotions were too high and York had overruled Juniver’s few objections.
Then there was also the question as to who had attacked him in prison, and came so close to actually killing him that he was still kept segregated in the prison infirmary. Had Lydiate looked into that? No report had been made public, and there was nothing regarding it in the notes that had been given to Monk. Monk decided he must press that with Lydiate, to find out whether it was an oversight or a deliberate omission.
WHEN MONK FACED LYDIATE in his tidy, comfortable office, which was at least three times the size of Monk’s own, it was an awkward interview. Monk disliked having to force the issue, so he did it directly and without misleading pleasantries.
“I was told it was simply a prison fight,” Lydiate said grimly. “I accepted that. I thought it was possible someone had taken their own revenge, and frankly I didn’t blame them.” He bit his lip, but there was defiance in his eyes. “Or it may have been some prison quarrel. He is not a pleasant man.”
“Did you speak to him?” Monk could not let it go so easily. It was one of the few threads he had to follow that might lead somewhere.
“No. I asked to, but was refused,” Lydiate replied as if the answer were both expected and adequate.
“You accepted that?” Monk could not keep the incredulity from his voice.
“No,” Lydiate replied with a touch of coldness. “I took the matter higher; the best I could achieve was to see Fortridge-Smith, which was unsatisfactory, but it was better than nothing.”
“What did Fortridge-Smith say?” Monk asked.
“That Beshara was an unpleasant man, guilty of this particular crime and many others, and fully deserved to be hanged, which he gave me credit for proving,” Lydiate replied with a flush of embarrassment. “The government had seen fit to commute his sentence, for reasons he did not understand and had not been told, but if the man was killed in prison then it was no more than his due.” Clearly Lydiate did not admire Fortridge-Smith.
Monk changed tack slightly. “I see from your notes that you and your men tried to get any information you could from Beshara when you arrested him, and he said nothing at all about any coconspirators?”
“Yes. You can try talking to him if you want to,” Lydiate acknowledged. “But I think it’s a waste of time. Looking at it with hindsight, it is even possible that he may not actually know anything.”
“I’ve been trying. I think I will try again.” Monk stood up. “Thank you.”
MONK DULY ASKED FOR official permission to speak to Habib Beshara again, in order to question him about certain times and places he had been near the river on the night of the explosion, and what he might have seen or heard. He did not expect to learn anything useful, at least not intentionally from Beshara, but sometimes a creative lie revealed other truths.
Beyond that, he was very interested indeed as to what Beshara would say about the attack on him. Was it a prison quarrel, as Fortridge-Smith had claimed, or was it revenge by someone who believed him responsible for the atrocity? Or—far more interestingly—was it to keep him silent about whatever he knew: either a warning, or a failed attempt to kill him?
Permission was again refused. Monk asked for an explanation and was denied one. It made him more determined than ever.
Hooper was less known to the authorities than Orme. Monk had Hooper find out the news and backgrounds of those currently in the same prison block as Beshara. When Hooper returned with a list of names Monk chose one that the Thames River Police could justifiably wish to question. It had to be regarding a crime currently under investigation.
Giles Witherspoon had been found guilty of receiving stolen goods of considerable value. Orme had already tried to elicit information from him as to who had stolen them in the first place, and gained nothing. He had not really expected to. Giles was an opulent receiver, and a man did not succeed in that calling if he betrayed his clients, either buyers or sellers.
Monk went to the prison armed with the permission he needed.
Fortridge-Smith was a tall, lean man with sandy hair and a closely clipped mustache. His military bearing made him seem to be in uniform, even though he was not.
He stood very straight, almost to attention, when he spoke to Monk as he arrived at the prison and reported to the governor’s office.
Fortridge-Smith read the letter of permission closely, then handed it back. “Seems to be in order,” he said with a slight nod.
“Yes, sir,” Monk agreed, sensing the hostility immediately and making more effort than he wished to conceal his own.
“You’ll get nothing from him,” Fortridge-Smith continued, looking Monk up and down to assess him. “You can’t threaten him with anything like the kind of punishment the thieves could!”
“I know that,” Monk said quietly. “But sometimes people say more than they mean to.”
Fortridge-Smith shrugged. “If you say so.” He looked at Monk with sudden suspicion. “Commander Monk, Thames River Police? Didn’t you apply to see Habib Beshara?”
Monk tensed. “Yes. I was refused. Is he too ill?”
