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“Did these ‘other people’ that you say you consulted include members of the Thames River Police?”
“Of course. The Princess Mary was sunk in the river,” Lydiate responded.
There was a ripple of nervous laughter around the room but it died almost immediately.
Antrobus leaned forward. “Mr. Pryor, if you have a purpose in all this, perhaps you would be good enough to reach it? Entertaining as it is, I do not feel this is the right setting for verbal wit, or the scoring of irrelevant points. We are all perfectly aware that the case was taken from the River Police and given to the Metropolitan Police. Then, after the trial and conviction of Mr. Habib Beshara, Commander Monk found evidence that threw another light on the subject, and was given the case back again. I imagine Mr. Brancaster will raise no objection to us all accepting that to be true?”
Brancaster rose to his feet.
“Thank you, my lord. That is indeed so.”
Pryor flushed red, but he had no grounds to object, other than that he had been made to look as if he were using the trial as a grandstand for his own skills, rather than a solemn search for justice.
He returned to questioning John Lydiate, but Hester knew that he would neither forgive nor forget the incident. He was calling Monk to the stand after Lydiate, and she found herself knotted up in tension in anticipation of it.
“Sir John,” Pryor began, walking a little farther out into the open space of the courtroom, as if it were an arena, and he a gladiator facing barbarians, “many of us attended the trial of Habib Beshara, and we are aware of the evidence against him. Much of it rested on eyewitness accounts. Did you consider it valid at the time?”
There was only one possible answer. To deny it would condemn his own skills and even his honesty.
“I did. I know since—”
“Thank you,” Pryor cut him off, holding up his hand as if to stop traffic. “Did you believe the lawyers and the judge in the court that tried Beshara to be honest men, and skilled in the law?”
“Of course—” Lydiate made as if to continue.
“Of course,” Pryor interrupted him. “If not, you would have said so at the time. Did you yourself believe Beshara to be guilty?”
“Yes.” Lydiate’s face was also flushed. “If not, then I would not have charged him.”
Pryor bit his lip. “Regardless of the newspapers crying out for action, and the pressure from the government, particularly the ministers most closely involved?”
“Of course!” Lydiate’s answer was stiff, even angry.
“Of course,” Pryor repeated in a tone so clear as to be almost mimicking. “I can take you through your evidence point by point, if the court believes it necessary—”
“No, thank you, my lord,” Brancaster interrupted.
“Just so,” Pryor nodded, and then turned back to Lydiate. “It was eyewitness testimony, you said, and less reliable than you had previously believed?”
; “Yes.”
“And what kind of evidence was it that Mr. Monk found, and upon which we are now prosecuting Gamal Sabri?” Pryor asked gently.
Lydiate’s face flushed so red it was hot even to look at.
Hester felt for him. He had been maneuvered into an impossible situation. Even had he seen it coming, he had no room to evade it.
“Eyewitness,” he said, his voice grating. “But of many people …”
Pryor’s eyebrows rose. “Was not Habib Beshara also seen by many people? Did I misunderstand?”
Lydiate must see his way was blocked in all directions. If he claimed they were expert, unbiased, not personally involved, not bereaved, then he implied that the victims were somehow less worthy or less honest. If he mentioned the physical evidence of the seahorse on the stern of the boat that both rescued the jumper from the Princess Mary, and tried to plow down, and thus kill, Monk and the ferryman, he seemed to be making excuses, and perhaps sabotaging Brancaster’s return cross-examination. He stood silent and miserable.
Up in the dock, Sabri leaned forward a fraction, just a tiny movement, but to Hester it betrayed eagerness, even satisfaction.
“Did I misunderstand, sir?” Pryor repeated insistently.
