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“Between thirty-five and fifty,” Rivers replied.
“Clean-shaven, or bearded?” Brancaster persisted.
“I don’t recall,” Rivers said hotly. “But he was a good witness, clean and well-spoken.”
Pryor stiffened.
Brancaster smiled. “But you, a trained police officer, who stood opposite him in the daylight, cannot recall anything specific about him, not the color of his hair, his age except within fifteen years, or whether he was clean-shaven or had a mustache!”
Now he had the jury’s total attention.
“I was trying to judge his honesty, not remember his appearance!”
Rivers protested.
“Of course,” Brancaster agreed. “I imagine your witness was minding his own business rather than trying to recall the face of the man he saw boarding the Princess Mary.” He smiled. “He, too, was an honest man, doing his best to help after an appalling act. And, just like you, Sergeant Rivers, his memory is fuzzy. He does not know the details, because at the time they did not matter. Thank you. That is all I have for you.”
Pryor hesitated, briefly scanning the jurors’ faces. Then he gave a slight, dismissive wave of his hand and declined to pursue the issue.
Brancaster called a lighterman who worked strings of barges frequently passing the places of main concern on the last voyage of the Princess Mary. His name was Spiller. He was grizzle-headed and strong, and he climbed the steps up to the witness box with some grace. He looked like a man who was used to keeping his balance on a moving deck.
Brancaster asked him about his job, the places it took him on the length of the river, and the sort of sights he was accustomed to pass every day. This time the jury was not bored, and Pryor paid attention to each question and answer.
Brancaster had to be more careful. Rathbone knew that all he expected was to show that Spiller was experienced, observant, and familiar with all the workings of the river and its people. He had noticed few of the things the witnesses against Beshara claimed to have seen. Those he had seen he said happened almost every day, and he attached no significance to them.
“Did you explain this to the police when they asked you?” Brancaster said curiously.
“They didn’t ask me,” Spiller replied. There was a gleam of both humor and contempt in his eyes.
Rathbone saw that this remark was not lost on the jury.
“But you were there?” Brancaster said, investing his tone with confusion.
“ ’Course I was,” Spiller answered. “I suppose the police had what they needed already.”
“But your answer would have changed their understanding of what they were told,” Brancaster pointed out.
Pryor rose to his feet, burning for the chance to attack.
“My lord, Mr. Brancaster cannot know why the police did not ask Mr. Spiller, or what difference his answer might have made, if any at all. He is deliberately misleading the court.”
“Ah, Mr. Pryor,” Antrobus said with no inflexion in his voice, “I am glad you are awake.” He turned to Brancaster. “You know better than that. You may give us facts, sir, and allow the jury to draw their own conclusion as to their importance or their meaning. Please do not oblige me to tell you that again.”
“No, my lord,” Brancaster apologized. “I’m sorry.” Then he turned back to the witness stand. “Mr. Spiller, when the case was handed back to the Thames River Police, did anyone approach you then?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hooper. I told him what I told you.”
“Thank you.” Brancaster turned to Pryor.
Pryor rose and immediately attacked Spiller, even as he was walking across the open area toward the witness stand.
“You are known to the River Police?” he asked, his voice derisive.
“ ’Course I am,” Spiller replied, but his body stiffened. “I work the river. It’s their job to know everyone on it.”
“This is not a time for humor, Mr. Spiller,” Pryor snapped. “ ‘Known to the police’ is not a phrase meaning ‘acquainted with them socially.’ You have been a police informer on criminal matters, haven’t you?” He did not wait for Spiller to answer. “And one wonders how many criminal matters you did not inform them of!”
“No, I haven’t!” Spiller said vehemently.
