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There was a murmur of approval around the gallery. Several of the jurors nodded and turned to one another.
Pryor leaped on the answer. “Far from it! You have a history of very personal involvement with some of your cases in the past. So much so that you have been dismissed from the Metropolitan Police force, is that not true?”
Brancaster was instantly on his feet. “My lord! That is totally improper and Mr. Pryor knows it! Mr. Monk left the Metropolitan Police of his own accord, many years ago, and the matter should be either addressed properly, or omitted altogether. This is innuendo and an attempt at slander. If that is the best that the defense can do, it is as good as an admission of guilt!”
Rathbone leaned forward, but he could
not attract Brancaster’s attention.
Pryor faced Antrobus. “My lord, Sir John Lydiate came to his conclusion regarding this case, Commander Monk to another, quite different conclusion. Surely the jury is entitled to question the reputations of each of these men so as to judge which one they will believe.”
“Have you considered questioning the evidence?” Brancaster shot back. “The case was given back to Commander Monk once it was thoroughly compromised. We all know that! The only way to find the truth is to look at it issue by issue. If my learned friend would like to tear apart the reputation of everyone involved in it, he may find himself in very much deeper water than he can manage!”
“We have more than enough people drowned in this already,” Antrobus said with distaste. “Mr. Pryor, is it really your intention to open the door to questioning the characters and the motives of all the men concerned in this unhappy business?”
That was the last thing Pryor wished, and he was obliged to withdraw, angry and longing to have his revenge.
Hester wondered more urgently why Pryor seemed to care so much about this case. Watching him, hearing the emotion in his voice, she was convinced he fully intended to win. Even looking up at Sabri now and then, she had the same powerful feeling that he also expected Pryor to win. There was anger in his expression, contempt, jubilation when Pryor won a point, but very little fear.
The question and answer, attack and evasion continued all afternoon and into the next day, first with Monk, and then with other witnesses.
Pryor was willing, reluctantly, to grant that there had been errors of identification, but insisted they were honestly made. Ordinary, decent people were shattered and eager to identify those guilty.
“Of course they are not infallible,” he said passionately. “Which of us would be, in such circumstances? Please God, we will never have to find out. Do I have to paint the scene for you again?” He swung round from the jury to the gallery, imploring their comprehension, doing all he could to force them back into remembering all they had heard and imagined. He knew he dared not tell the story another time. He would lose them.
“They are good men,” he insisted. “Seeking not only some form of justice, but—perhaps even more importantly—to catch those who were responsible for this monstrous evil, and see that they can never do such a thing again.” Now he spoke specifically to the jury. “Would you not do the same? And could you swear that you would make no errors?”
Hester watched the jurors’ faces, and was overtaken with the cold fear that Pryor would win.
They needed more time. Could Rathbone think of some way in which Brancaster could drag out his cross-questioning of Pryor’s witnesses? At the very worst, if Pryor saw what he was doing, he would simply declare his case closed, and then there would be nothing anyone could do. The jury would deliberate, and that would be the end.
What would they conclude, as it stood now? Just what Pryor had implied: Good men had been fallible, overzealous, but not corrupt at heart. They had used desperate means, at times incorrect, but in order to convict the right man of a hideous crime. If Sabri were guilty as well, then they should punish him too. Mistakes have been made, but the right and just end had been achieved.
The law was safe after all.
And Pryor would be rewarded for that for the rest of his life. The sheen of victory was already in his face.
Brancaster had still established no motive for Sabri, just as Camborne had not for Beshara. The suggestion of revenge—nonspecific, unsubstantiated—was not enough this time around.
In defending Sabri, Pryor was also defending England, and the justice they believed had already been dispensed. How did you tell people something they did not want to know? What did you need to say to have them question the bedrock on which their beliefs of themselves were built?
Why the Princess Mary? And—possibly even more importantly—why that night?
The next time there was a pause, Hester stood up and inched her way out of the row of seats where she had been. There was a sigh of relief as people eased a little, each taking a fraction more room, straightening a skirt.
As soon as she was in the hallway, she walked toward the entrance and out into the street. Her mind was already busy with the idea Monk had mentioned briefly the night the ferry was rammed and he so nearly drowned: the possibility that the whole ship had been sunk to be certain of killing one specific person.
Why would anyone do that? It was dangerous and terrible. There would be no excusing it. The reason must have been equally powerful. Especially if no one knew who had done it or why.
Where was the passenger list that Monk had obtained? He must have looked at it, stretched all the possible connections. But what had he been looking for? There had been plenty of wealthy people celebrating some private event, or simply having a highly enjoyable evening with friends, good food, and good wine.
Who should she ask?
She stepped to the curb and hailed the next hansom. She gave the driver the address of the Wapping Police Station. Orme would have the list, and he knew the situation was desperate.
CHAPTER
19
