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“?’Cos they bin asking after ’im. I seen ’im before, anyway. ’Anging around the waterfront, like, where ’e practiced ’is business.”
“And when you pulled him out of the water, he was dead?”
“Yeah. Drownded.”
“Not shot?” Rathbone affected surprise.
“No, sir, just drownded.”
“Are you quite certain of that, Mr. Tucker? Because when Mr. McNab called in the River Police, specifically Mr. Monk, Mr. Blount was quite definitely shot in the back.”
“Yes, sir. But Mr. Blount weren’t shot when Mr. Willis an’ me pulled ’im out o’ the water an’ gave ’im ter Mr. McNab.”
Rathbone looked astonished.
“How can you be sure? Did you examine him? Did he have a coat on? Might you not have missed a bullet hole, particularly if the water had washed away any blood, as it might?”
“No, sir.” Tucker looked a little uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Rathbone looked totally unperturbed. Did he really feel it, or was it a desperate mask? “How can you be?” he asked.
“Can I turn around, me lord?” Tucker asked the judge. He, too, looked unhappy now.
“If it serves some purpose,” Lyndon said.
Tucker turned around slowly in a full circle until he was facing Rathbone again. In the gallery one could have heard a pin drop.
Tucker swallowed. “This is the coat,” he said quietly. “It were a very good coat, an’ Blount didn’t need it ter get buried in! Willis and I tossed a coin for it! I won. It fits me better anyway. ’E’ll get the next one.”
“It certainly has no holes in it,” Rathbone agreed. “It was…brave of you to wear it here, in the circumstances. Did it not worry you that his lordship might take a dim view of your stealing the coat off a dead man?”
Tucker gulped hard and shivered. “Yeah…it did. Reason I din’t come forward before. But now I know as Mr. Monk’s in trouble, an’ it were Mr. McNab as had’ve shot Blount, even though ’e were as dead as a fish anyway. Dr. Crow told me as I must say wot I know.”
“Did he offer you any reward for doing this?” Rathbone inquired.
“No, sir.”
“Or punishment if you did not?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tucker. Will you please remain there so my learned friend Mr. Wingfield may question you also.”
Tucker looked extremely unhappy, but he had no choice.
Wingfield rose to his feet and walked over toward the stand. He looked up at Tucker as if regarding some piece of refuse that had been left by the tide.
“Do you often steal from the dead, Mr. Tucker?” he asked.
There was a gasp around the gallery.
“You never bin poor an’ cold, or yer wouldn’t ask like that,” Tucker replied, his chin raised a little. “It were flotsam, washed up on the tide, like. ’E didn’t need it ter be buried in. ’E were perfectly decent as ’e
were. Didn’t take ’is shirt nor ’is trousers.”
“His boots, perhaps?” Wingfield asked sarcastically.
Tucker glared at him. “As if I’d take a man’s boots!” he said outraged.
