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“He doesn’t need to. In the attempt to rescue Pettifer, and his panicking and accidental drowning, McNab has all he needs to convict Monk. All other plans could be abandoned.”
“But why would McNab claim Monk had killed Pettifer on purpose?” She knew from his face, even before she finished speaking, that there was a terrible answer to that.
“Because Monk blamed him for Orme’s death,” he said. “And from what Monk has now told me, he was right to.”
“Was Pettifer to blame for that? Did McNab set it up, but use Pettifer to do it?”
“It looks like it,” he said. “I need to know a great deal more before I can present any defense at all, and have proof of it. Monk himself thinks that the key to the whole thing is the death of Astley. He’s afraid that somehow they’ll make it look as if he killed him. He can’t defend himself because he can’t remember.”
“It’s thousands of miles out of the court’s jurisdiction,” Beata pointed out.
“Of course it is,” he said. “But if the evidence can be made to indicate that Monk was responsible, jurisdiction won’t matter. They’ll introduce it as motive, and it will have marked him as a man who would kill if provoked. All the objections and ruling it out of evidence won’t make the jury forget it, or put it out of their consideration. There are words and acts that you cannot take from your mind.”
“Then we need to find out whatever anyone knows about who really did kill Astley,” she said with absolute certainty. “I will speak to Miriam.”
“Beata…” He leaned forward as if to take her hands, and stopped.
“Don’t try to dissuade me, Oliver,” she said quietly. “We don’t have any time to waste on pointless arguments. And it is pointless. I can speak to her in ways that you cannot. And don’t try to close me out for my sake. It would not be a favor, and I don’t need protecting. Close me out only if you think I will do more harm than good.” She looked at him steadily, meeting his eyes.
She had not intended to challenge him to anything today, or even in a future close enough to consider, yet here she was doing exactly that. In her own way she was asking him if she was to be part of his future, or not. Now it was too late to be discreet, or take a step back.
This time, almost without thinking about it, he put his hand over hers. “It may be unpleasant,” he said. “You may learn things about her you would prefer not to have known.”
“Oliver, would you caution Hester Monk in such a way?”
He looked completely taken aback, and for a moment could find no words.
“Then let me answer the question for you,” she responded. “No, you would not. You would expect her to fight side by side with you—from what I have heard, maybe even a step in front of you, of all of us. And I believe you once loved her….” That was difficult to say. She had never truly and completely loved anyone but Oliver. She realized that as she spoke now.
“Did I say that?” He looked puzz
led and embarrassed.
“You didn’t need to, my dear,” she replied. “It is in your face when you speak of her.”
“We could not have made each other happy,” he said frankly. “It is a very good thing we did not try. I think she would always have loved Monk…and I will always love you.”
She felt the hot tears of relief fill her eyes. But this was no time for more questions and answers. She was ready—fully, heart-deep ready—but saving Monk came first. Afterward there would be time for everything else.
“Then I have all I want,” she whispered. “But we must see that Monk does also. I shall call on Miriam and see if I can oblige her to tell me the truth about Piers Astley, and anything she knows about Monk in California.”
“Please, be careful!”
“I have weathered and survived a great deal worse than an uncomfortable conversation over the tea cakes, I assure you.”
“But—”
“I have cultivated a serene and perhaps fragile look because it has served me well, but it is only skin deep.” Then she wondered if she had said too much. She had meant it to be light, but some of the old pain must be visible. He was too clever to have missed it.
He was also too sensitive to acknowledge his understanding now. But the time would come, and perhaps soon.
“I will call on Miriam Clive today,” she said decisively. “The hour is a little late, but needs must, and it is certainly the devil who is driving!”
Rathbone did not answer but all the unspoken words were in his look.
—
WHEN RATHBONE HAD GONE, Beata called her footman and asked for the coach to be made ready to take her immediately to visit Mrs. Clive. She did consider going to see Hester, so that they might compare notes with each other and so work more effectively. But she knew that Hester would be distracted with anxiety, or perhaps think Beata was taking too much upon herself. Maybe she was, but she was beyond worrying about who approved of her, or who did not. She had been in San Francisco and she knew Miriam. It had been a world different from anything a London woman could imagine, even one who had nursed in the Crimea. Better to do this first, and ask forgiveness afterward if she had committed any social gaffes.
