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“What is important is that Sabri is unquestionably guilty of sinking the Princess Mary, and therefore of the deaths of all on board her. Mr. Pryor seems to have had some personal stake in fighting so hard to defend him. From what was said, it was not pressure from anyone in high office, rather more a personal rivalry with Sir Oliver Rathbone that got out of hand. I dare say it will damage his reputation somewhat, but it is not an injury to the law.”
Ossett was staring at her, fighting to find words.
Hester’s smile faded a little.
“Mr. Justice York has been taken seriously ill, so his rather eccentric rulings can be easily understood. Sir John Lydiate may have lost something of the confidence of his superiors, but no doubt they will act as they see fit. Altogether, it is a better ending than one might have received.” She turned to Monk. “I’m sure you will be sending a written report in due course. That is all we need to tell his lordship in the meantime.” Again her fingers dug into his arm.
“Thank you,” Ossett said. His voice cracked as he rose to his feet, leaning a little forward on the desk as if to steady himself. “I am most grateful that you took the time to let me know so quickly of the result. Now, I—I have certain other people I would like to inform. Thank you again, thank you, Mrs. Monk.”
As soon as they were outside on the street Monk stopped and caught hold of Hester’s shoulder, swinging her around to face him.
“What the devil was that about?”
“The portrait,” she said almost under her breath. “Above the fireplace.”
“Yes. It’s him as a young man. What about it?”
“No, William. It’s not!”
“Yes it is. He hasn’t even changed all that much! Anyway, what does it matter?”
“It’s not him,” she insisted. “It’s current, not more than a couple of years old.”
“Hester, he’s in his mid-fifties!”
“The campaign medals, William. They’re from three years ago.”
“They can’t be! Are you sure?” He began to have an awful glimpse of what she meant.
“Yes. I still have military friends. They’re Egyptian, like the group in the background of the painting. And his eyes are not really the same color.”
“Artist’s mistake …” But he knew he was wrong. “You are sure about the campaign medals?”
“Yes. It has to be his son …” She took a deep, shaky breath. “What is his family name?”
“Family name?” He started to walk along the pavement, to be away from Ossett’s doorstep. “I don’t know …”
“He has a monogram on his cigar box on the table. RW. Are you certain he doesn’t look like a man who has looked into hell because Robert Wilbraham, who led the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh, and then paid Sabri to sink the Princess Mary and get rid of the only witness, is his son?”
Monk closed his eyes, as if refusing to look at the busy London street could somehow wipe away the knowledge, finally, of the truth.
It all made sense. The pieces fitted together.
Now the touch of her hand on his arm was gentle.
“We believe of people what we need to,” she said. “As long as we possibly can.”
“You believed I didn’t kill Joscelyn Grey,” he said, remembering back to when they had first met, soon after she had returned from the Crimea and the horror of that appalling war. “You didn’t even know me!”
“And I would believe you now,” she said firmly. “Perhaps I know you better than he knows his son. Sometimes sin is the hardest to accept when it is in someone we have known always, for whose birth and life we are responsible. Everyone is somebody’s child.”
“I know.” He put his hand over hers. “I know.”
She did not answer him. She was staring over his shoulder at something beyond, something on the pavement behind him.
“What is it?”
“No!” she said urgently. “Don’t turn yet. It’s Lord Ossett. He’s left his office and he’s going toward the main road. Do you suppose he knows where Wilbraham is?”
