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“Yes,” Scuff said, swallowing hard. Two or three minutes later he was back again, holding out both the basket and the brandy.
“I don’t like brandy,” Hooper said between his teeth.
“It isn’t for you,” Hester smiled at him. “It’s for the needle and the thread. Now please sit still. It will feel unpleasant maybe, a bit of pulling, but it won’t hurt nearly as much as the stab did.”
Hooper clenched his teeth, but apart from a slight grunt he neither moved nor made a noise.
Quickly and deftly, Hester washed the wound with the spirit. Then with Scuff’s assistance she threaded the needle with linen and stitched up the wound, drawing the sides together carefully. Finally, she knotted the finished work and cut off the ends.
“There,” she said, looking at Hooper’s ashen face. “In a few days, a week or so, I’ll take them out. In the meantime you should go and see a doctor named Crow. I’ll give you his address. Tell him who you are, and that I sent you. He’ll be happy to help. Are you still sure you don’t like brandy?”
“I might manage to swallow it d
own,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thank you, ma’am.” He looked at Scuff. “And you too.”
Scuff smiled but had no idea what to say.
“You’d better stay here for tonight,” Hester went on.
“Yer can have my bed,” Scuff said quickly. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Thank you,” Hester said to Scuff. “That’s an excellent idea. Now we should all go to bed. It’s halfway to morning already. Mr. Hooper, Scuff will show you upstairs. I will come to see you through the night, just to make sure you aren’t feverish. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m a nurse, and used to wounded men.”
Hooper nodded very slowly, and then, with Scuff at his side, ready to help, he went up to bed.
OVER THE NEXT FEW days the newspapers were full of the arrest of Gamal Sabri, and the questions it raised as to the original trial and conviction of Habib Beshara.
How much of that error had been incompetence, and on whose part? Lydiate, who had been in command? Or the Metropolitan Police in general? The entire idea of a police force was relatively new; doubts were raised again as to whether it was a good one, or did society require something different? Those who could remember the original “peelers” were still alive, having objected then to their power, and the consequent invasion of privacy to the respectable citizen.
Monk swore under his breath, and then continued reading. He was at his desk in Wapping, still sore, and more easily tired than he would wish, but well enough to be back working a full day. Hooper he could order to stay at home until he was better recovered, although he was doing well. This he heard from Hester, who insisted on visiting him regularly, since he had no family and she did not trust him to care sufficiently for himself. She had actually asked Monk if he thought Hooper would stay for a few nights at the clinic, but Monk had been unequivocally certain Hooper would refuse.
The newspapers all went on to speculate that if the police were not incompetent, were they then corrupt? Or did the corruption possibly lie in the judicial system? If they were both competent and totally honest, then how had an innocent man been convicted and sentenced to death? In fact how was it that his guilt had never been seriously questioned? Might such a thing happen to any man? Or woman, for that matter? How safe was anyone at all?
Others asked still further: Did a verdict in the courts, or even a police charge in the first place, depend upon money, privilege of birth, influence, the color of your skin, or a tragic combination of all these things?
Such questions were asked not only in the newspapers, and on the streets, but in the House of Commons. The words “corruption” and “collusion” were spoken.
As the week progressed the questions became deeper, more probing, and spread into other spheres. International and diplomatic issues were raised. Lord Ossett was mentioned as not having dealt with the matter in an open and competent way. What political favors were being offered, or called in? Inevitably the Suez Canal was mentioned also, and all the old arguments for it and against.
Letters to The Times became more and more open in their challenges to authority, and demands that deeper inquiries be made. They named several prominent ship owners with questions that were close to libelous. Lawsuits were threatened.
Everyone was uneasy, even on the streets and docksides along the river. Several policemen were hurt in brawls that began in taverns and spilled out into the streets and alleys. Leaflets demanding justice were nailed up on doors. Crude pictures of a hanged man were painted on walls, with the words “It could be you next” scrawled beside it.
Two weeks after the arrest of Gamal Sabri, his trial was announced. The haste was a matter of keeping some kind of control on public opinion, both at home and abroad.
Rufus Brancaster, the young lawyer who had so brilliantly defended Rathbone at his trial, was chosen to prosecute Sabri.
The following evening he knocked tentatively at the front door of Monk’s house in Paradise Place.
Monk had just arrived home, tired and disheveled but beginning to regain his strength. He was pleased to have Hooper back, even if restricted to duty at the Wapping station for a further week or two.
Hester brought Brancaster straight into the kitchen where Monk was eating a late supper. She offered the barrister something to eat, and he accepted tea and a thick slice of cake.
“I suppose you know I’ve been asked to prosecute Sabri?” he asked, looking from Monk to Hester and then back again.
“No.” Monk’s face lit with interest, and he momentarily ignored his food. “When does the trial begin?”
“Three weeks. Doesn’t give me much time. But I think they’re terrified public unrest will boil over if they don’t settle this soon. It’s been a long, wretched summer since the sinking, and people are beginning to think it won’t ever be properly resolved. It’s one hell of a mess!”
