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“That’s a fault,” Stockton said with mock contrition. “Not a crime. P’raps I should get a different employment?”
“You’ll be employed breaking rocks for a good few years,” Monk said tartly. “Unless they think you killed Beshara yourself.”
“Then I’ll get a medal!” Stockton said with a sneer.
“Then I’ll see you hang!” Monk snapped. He stood up and went to the door. He turned before he opened it. “If this man who killed Beshara really exists, are you supposing he did it in revenge for the sinking of the Princess Mary?”
“ ’Course,” Stockton replied. “Wot else?”
“How about to make sure of his silence?” Monk suggested.
The color bled out of Stockton’s face.
“Watch your back,” Monk said softly, and went out of the door, closing it behind him.
CHAPTER
17
RATHBONE SAT BEHIND BRANCASTER at the Old Bailey, as the Central Criminal Court in London was known. Last time he had been here, he himself had been in the dock. Brancaster had defended him, with courage, eloquence, and, now and then, flares of brilliance.
In the past Rathbone had appeared here as a barrister, sometimes prosecuting and at others defending. Now he was merely an observer, an assistant to Brancaster without the right to address the court at all. It was a strange feeling, as if he were not quite real to those who were part of the proceedings.
The jury had been chosen and sworn in. The court had begun proceedings with Lord Justice Antrobus presiding. He was a lean man, ascetic, with a quick mind and a dry sense of humor. He was perceived as a man who relied on his intellect more than his heart. Rathbone, though, had seen the rarely shown side of him that was capable of compassion, and deep anger at those times when the law was unable to punish cruelty. He had warned Brancaster of Antrobus’s nature, but he wondered now if he had done so with sufficient vehemence.
Brancaster was on his feet addressing the judge and jury. He must be acutely aware of the crowded gallery, the journalists, and the vast mass of men and women beyond the building, who would know only what the newspaper headlines told them.
Rathbone watched with his body clenched, his hands rigid in his lap. Would Brancaster judge well how to press his case? Would he horrify people too much, or just enough? Or might he allow them to become complacent that justice had already been done, and they should not question it now?
“The crime of sinking the Princess Mary, and drowning nearly two hundred human beings, is a terrible one,” Brancaster was saying. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried in the silent room. Everyone was looking at him.
“We have lived with this knowledge for several months now,” he continued. “We had been led to believe that the man responsible for it was in prison, ill, and possibly dying, in some degree of pain.”
He waited for the effect of his remark and looked at the faces of the jurors. “Twelve good men, like yourselves, had been presented with evidence and reached that conclusion.” He took a long breath. “I am now here to tell you that they were given only part of the evidence: Some evidence was misguided, some incomplete, some was false, possibly deliberately so. I will ask you to reach a different conclusion.”
/> At the defense table, Pryor dropped a piece of paper and bent to retrieve it. His movement broke the spell.
Brancaster smiled. “Gentlemen, it seems I have startled my learned friend for the defense to the point where he let his work fall onto the floor.” He looked at Pryor. “I hope you did not get ink on your clothes?”
Everyone, even those in the gallery, turned to look at Pryor again. There was a slight titter of amusement.
Pryor flushed. “Not at all,” he said sharply.
Brancaster resumed his remarks to the jury.
“I shall ask you to reach a different conclusion,” he repeated. “Not necessarily that Habib Beshara was a nice man, or innocent of all wrongdoing, but that he was not guilty of the crime with which he was charged. Indeed, that he could not have been. Whether he was implicated at all in this tragedy is another matter, and not one for us to decide today.”
He became suddenly very grave. “There is also another very serious question that you will inevitably face, and that is, what happened that we were so disastrously wrong in our earlier judgment? How many people lied? Was it simply a series of errors? Or was there corruption?”
Pryor was fuming. He was close to the point where his outrage would erupt into words, inappropriate as that would be.
Brancaster went on, “This is not a legal question for you to address, but these thoughts will come into your mind. It is impossible to avoid them. Is our legal system so totally flawed that this could happen? Do you fear that you yourself, or someone you love, could be falsely accused and convicted of a crime, and no one but you will know their innocence until it is too late?”
“My lord!” Pryor could bear it no longer.
“Mr. Brancaster,” Antrobus said quietly, “I think you are a trifle ahead of yourself. Mr. Pryor may well be going to suggest such things, but you do him an injustice to assume so in advance.”
“Yes, my lord,” Brancaster agreed. It was not difficult to concede; he had already made his point. He resumed his address to the jury.
