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“The handling of it was,” Monk agreed, now taking his last mouthful.
“It’s a mess itself,” Brancaster said, pulling his mouth into a tight line. “Pryor has already been engaged to defend Sabri, and he won’t defer to anyone, whomever or whatever he brings down. He’s already made his mark, and his money.” The muscles in his face tightened. “I know him. He’d rather win this and go down in history, even if it means he never practices again. He won’t be swayed by loyalty, offers of a seat in the House of Lords, or threat of never working again if he gets Sabri off.”
“Sabri is guilty,” Monk pointed out. “The evidence is physical this time, no eyewitness identifications to be mistaken. The Seahorse is unmistakable. And before you ask, there are no other boats on the river with that particular device on them, not to mention the fact that the damages from the ramming of the ferry are still present. They’re structural; they can’t be painted over as the outside was, or replaced with new wood—that would make it even more obvious. I can give you half a dozen witnesses, apart from myself. I’m sure Pryor will try, but you have the facts.”
“Precedent,” Brancaster said unhappily. “He’ll make a big play of the fact that we already convicted Beshara for it. He’ll attack the police, the prison system that let Beshara be beaten, the whole shambles of the investigation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he brings in the issue of Suez, or the debate as to whether it’ll ruin British shipping and the mastery of the sea lanes we’ve given a century’s blood to secure.”
He accepted a mug of tea and the cake from Hester with a smile of thanks.
“And don’t think he wouldn’t do it!” he went on with his mouth full. “He would. And draw in all the weight and influence he can to protect those like Ossett, who stand to be ridiculed if the courts convict Sabri, thereby vindicating Beshara.”
“I’ll give you all the evidence I can,” Monk promised. “And I’ll testify.”
“I need more than that,” Brancaster said grimly. “I want Rathbone’s advice. I know he can’t appear until his disbarment is over, but I need his counsel, his ideas. I can’t find him!”
“He’s in Paris,” Hester told him. “I’m sure he’ll come home for this, if you want him to.”
“Yes, please,” Brancaster said with intense relief. “I know that technically it should be a simple case, but it’s only partially a matter of law. Mostly it’s emotions, beliefs, rage, and grief, and fear of chaos. And we need to win, not just for the victims of the Princess Mary—for all of us.”
CHAPTER
14
OLIVER RATHBONE SAT IN the ferry across the Thames with the westerly sun hot on his face, in spite of the fact that it was early evening and the heat of the day gone. After nearly three years traveling around with his father, he was home again, in his new apartment, and on his way to see Hester and Monk, and, of course, Scuff.
He had promised his father for years that they would take a trip together, and yet he had always had some reason to put it off. Then with the Taft case he had been disbarred and legal matters no longer kept him in England.
With that event many of his values had changed. His wife, Margaret, had left him. There was no possibility of a reconciliation, nor did he now want one. He had seized the chance to go abroad, and travel with Henry Rathbone wherever they wished. It had been marvelous. They had walked miles in old cities steeped in history, in rich countryside; they had eaten good food, laughed at jokes and stories, and talked of every subject imaginable. It had enriched him immeasurably. They had come to know each other as friends in a way that made him feel as if their entire past life had led toward this. Friendship, generous and unforced, without duty or obligation—that was surely the foundation of all the love that mattered.
Now it was time to return to the present, to London, and to pick up what threads were left of his life. It was a strange, bittersweet feeling. All the old familiarity was here. He had known this city and its river all his life. Yet the time in Egypt, and then in Italy and France, had changed the way he saw almost everything.
Had he grown up, became wiser? Or simply different?
He looked around at the other craft on the water. The tiny waves were no more than ripples. Barely a breeze moved as they cut their way across for Wapping Stairs toward Greenwich. The air smelled of salt and mud. Usually he did not even notice it except perhaps with slight distaste. Today it filled him as if it had been strange and new. He had been to so many other places that he was drenched with all their various tastes and sounds, the smells of different foods, different lives. In his imagination he could feel the desert sand itch his skin, or recall the silence of the Egyptian night, alone with that great, ancient river and the ghosts of pharaohs lost in the dimness of time.
His hands were knotted in his lap, his shoulders tight. He was home again, facing challenges, a life different from all he was accustomed to, which was sometimes awkward. He could either handle it well, or handle it badly. Every day when he got up from his bed in the new flat he had rented, away from the beautiful, lonely house he had shared with Margaret, once so full of hope, the choice was his.
The ferry bumped gently against the Greenwich dock. He paid the fare and got out onto the steps. He thanked the ferryman and began to make his way up the hill toward Paradise Place. He realized he was walking rapidly, expectantly, pleased at the thought of seeing Monk and Hester again. He refused to acknowledge that i
t was still mainly Hester he was looking forward to seeing.
They welcomed him with surprise and a warmth that wrapped around him like the odor of all the things he liked: clean sheets, fresh bread from the oven, mown grass, sunset wind off the Downs.
They asked after Henry Rathbone, and about their travels.
“Excellent,” he replied. “A week in the recounting, even to begin. But first tell me about the Princess Mary, and Beshara, and the trial of Gamal Sabri. What evidence was there before? How was it so mistaken? What is there now?”
Monk smiled.
Rathbone noticed how tired he looked, and that he sat a little awkwardly. “What is it?” he asked, anxiety biting him with a sudden chill.
Monk told briefly him about the Seahorse ramming the ferry and how close he had come to drowning. He did not use emotional words, or describe his fear. Perhaps his tale was the more powerful for it.
“And now?” Rathbone asked with concern.
“All healed up. Just a little stiff.”
Rathbone looked at Hester to confirm it, or not.
