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“Near enough to the truth,” she conceded. “And Hooper was wounded also, when they arrested Sabri.”
Rathbone relaxed a little. He had not expected to be so alarmed for Monk’s welfare. He did not normally give consideration to the physical dangers of his calling, only the always-looming possibility of failure.
“And you said in your letter that Rufus Brancaster is going to prosecute. I can already see dozens of questions, difficulties, tactics the defense is likely to use.”
That was a bleak half truth, but he needed to approach the real subject crowding his mind a step at a time.
All the papers were clamoring for justice, but the more deep-thinking ones were asking who was behind the incompetence of convicting the wrong man. Where were the vested interests that had weighed the balances so crookedly? Whose money, whose political power had done this?
It was the shadow of incompetence and almost certainly corruption within the law that weighed most heavily on Rathbone, the failure that had so easily condemned Beshara, an innocent man, at least as far as this crime went. So what if he was apparently unpleasant and a foreigner? None of these things should be relevant to a fair trial and a true verdict.
How deeply had the error and corruption eaten into the soul of the law? With his own recent acts, for which he was now disbarred, was he another part of the same disease, excusing himself for his personal morality’s sake?
Monk was regarding him with a slightly twisted smile, but it was an acknowledgment of both his presence and his help.
“Let’s start with what evidence we have that is physical, and not capable of more than one interpretation.” Rathbone glanced at Hester and saw the corners of her mouth twitch in amusement at his inclusion of himself in the case.
He colored very slightly but did not make it worse by trying to explain. She did not need to know how important it was to him, how much a part of being “at home” again. He would not try to explain to anyone, even his father, his hunger to know that he was intellectually and morally honest in his service of justice. That was too poisoned a wound to touch.
“What does this evidence prove?” he continued. “What does it only indicate, and what more is needed? Is there anything that specifically implicates Beshara, or can we ignore him now? What about the eyewitnesses? Are any of them reliable? Any we need to explain, or discredit, to prove Sabri guilty?”
Monk named a few, but added that there was no way to predict in advance who might change their story under pressure, or what the changes might be.
“That’s the whole issue, isn’t it!” Rathbone leaned back in his chair. “What’s really behind this?” He looked from one to the other of them. “Does anybody know what Beshara’s motive was supposed to have been? Hester didn’t mention anything more than emotion and supposition in her letters. Do you know anything, Monk?”
Monk shook his head slightly. “Talk of revenge, but we don’t know for what, if it was on his own behalf, or that of his family, his community, or if it was merely someone who paid him. We found no evidence of money passing hands—but if it were well done, there wouldn’t be. It needn’t have been paid to him; anyone could have received it on his behalf. Maybe it’s sitting in a bank in Egypt.”
“There’s the devil of a lot to find out,” Rathbone said with a touch of both exhilaration and awe. He remembered their past battles, the long nights when he was so tired he could barely see straight, the nagging ache in the back of the head, the prickle of desperation as the answers eluded him. But no triumph comes without work and the corresponding possibility of loss.
The difference now was that the last case he had sat through at trial was his own. He was not the one who fought, he was the one whose life would pay the price for win or lose. He was never going to have been hanged, but he could have spent years in that wretched prison with the noise, the stench, the utter lack of privacy. It had seemed to him as if that penetrated even his mind and his soul, and he would slowly have changed into the man they thought he was.
“Oliver!”
He heard Hester’s voice, sharp, demanding his attention. Had she sensed what he was thinking? Even seen something of it in his face? Surely the hot Mediterranean sun had burned away the prison pallor? Or would there always be the sick shadow of it in his eyes?
He trusted Hester. She was his friend, not because of who he was, but who she was. His ex-wife no longer mattered. She would hate him and think the worst of him, regardless of facts. Hers was a hate born of disillusion, out of something that had once been love, and perhaps an unreal hope. Thinking about Hester and Margaret automatically made him think of Beata York. But she was also different, from both Hester and Margaret. He had met and become fast friends with her in a rash moment; possibly more than that, in dreams.
He must discipline his mind not to think of her. He had been getting better at it, until now. But this case—the struggle, the insatiable desire to fight for the truth—was as much part of his life and his nature as was breathing. He could not stand up in court and speak, but he could put the words into Brancaster’s mouth, and he was grateful for that opportunity.
“Oliver!” Hester said more sharply.
“I am trying to think through to the key questions we must answer. The eyewitnesses are not the issue. I think we may safely conclude that they were emotionally distressed, pressured by the police and by circumstances and the desire to please. It is also obvious that Lydiate’s men were given no time to investigate properly, as public feeling was running so high about a crime so appalling. But what are the officers of the court concealing, and for whom?”
“For whom?” Hester asked, puzzled.
“Who has the power to order such a thing?” he explained. “What would be revealed by a complete exposure? Who would it damage?” He looked from Hester to Monk, and back again.
Hester shivered.
“Is this thing they are concealing related to the sinking of the Princess Mary? Or is the connection only incidental?”
“It has to be,” she replied.
“No, actually it doesn’t,” Rathbone argued. “Not more than by chance, or the coincidence of one man who is implicated in both the sinking and something else involving money or power, position, even reputation. I am only exploring possibilities.”
Monk nodded slowly but said nothing.
“Lydiate’s motives are easy enough to understand,” Rathbone continued. “His professional reputation, and that of his men, is on the line for a quick and unquestioned solution that damages no one of importance.”
