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Brancaster looked around, then moved forward and offered his arm to Kittering.
“Thank you, sir. May I take you back to a more comfortable place, and perhaps fetch you a glass of water?”
Kittering rose with difficulty and accepted Brancaster’s arm.
Antrobus nodded slowly. He looked at Pryor, then at Brancaster’s back as he walked all the way to the doors with Kittering. He glanced at Rathbone and smiled very slightly before adjourning the court. They would check the military records Brancaster had given them, perhaps even check with the Egyptian embassy that the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh had been as reported, but no one doubted it.
Outside Monk joined Hester.
“God, what an awful crime,” he said with emotion all but choking him. He put his arm around her, drawing her closer to him. “I must tel
l Ossett that it’s over, at least the legal part. Whether Pryor loses anything, except the case, time will tell. York’s finished. The decision on Beshara will obviously be reversed, so Camborne will lose, maybe more than just that decision. I hope Lydiate won’t lose his job, but he might.” He did not add that possibly he deserved to. He was not sufficiently sure he could not have been manipulated, were his family’s lives at stake.
“Come with me,” he added. “You can tell Ossett about Kittering better than I can. And it was you who found him. He’ll be relieved that we’ve found the truth at last.”
She nodded silently, linking her arm in his as they went down the steps toward the busy street.
OSSETT RECEIVED THEM ALMOST immediately, putting all other business aside. They were shown into his gracious and comfortable office with its striking portrait above the mantelpiece.
“It is over, sir,” Monk said without preamble. Ossett looked drained of color, as if he had neither eaten nor slept well in days, possibly weeks, and Monk felt a surge of pity for him. Perhaps he was guilty of having pressured Lydiate into a fatal haste where Beshara was concerned, but if so he had done all he could since then to support Monk in his pursuit of the truth, and then the trial of Gamal Sabri.
“There is no question that Sabri is guilty,” Monk said with certainty. “Kittering’s evidence makes sense of it all.”
Ossett was very pale, but there was a tension within him as if he were unable to remain seated.
“How did you find him, Mrs. Monk?” he asked.
Was it politeness to make her feel included, or did he really wish to know? Monk himself was uncertain. But now that it was all but over, he felt the man deserved any information he asked for. He was the one who would have to deal with the political consequences, and advise on the legal ones, should there be any.
Briefly, Hester told him of her service in the Crimea, and that she still knew several men with military careers. As she did so, she glanced up at the portrait, and smiled.
“I see,” Ossett said hoarsely. “And what does this Major Kittering have to say about the sinking of the Princess Mary?”
Quietly and in the simplest of words, Monk told him of the atrocity in the village of Shaluf et Terrabeh, and how the raid had been a hideous error by an arrogant mercenary commander. One man had stood out against him, and all but lost his life for his temerity.
Ossett looked as if he himself had been struck. He was shaking, and as pale as the white paper on the desk in front of him.
“Are you … certain of this?” he said falteringly. “Does this man, Kittering, know beyond doubt?”
“I believe he does,” Monk answered. “His friend, Stanley, was there and all but lost his life trying to prevent it.”
“Stanley?” Ossett repeated the name as if it had some terrible meaning for him. “Captain John Stanley?”
Monk was puzzled. “Yes, sir. Do you know of him?”
“Could he not be guilty of leading this … abomination?”
“Kittering says not,” Monk answered, recalling Kittering’s vehement denial. “He said it was a man named Wilbraham, apparently known for his violent temper.”
Without warning Monk felt the pressure of Hester’s fingers digging into his arm with sudden extraordinary strength, as if she meant to hurt him.
He gasped, confused by the violence of it. She was smiling, but at Ossett, not at him.
“That is what Kittering said, sir,” she said to Ossett, ignoring Monk. “But he appeared to have a deep regard for Stanley. They had been personal friends for years, brothers-in-arms, as it were.”
“But …” Monk began. Then he felt her fingers dig into him again, as if she would puncture his flesh with her nails.
She was still smiling at Ossett, her eyes brilliant, her breath a little ragged.
