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AARON CLIVE WAS CALLED in the morning. He was treated with the utmost respect. Even Mr. Justice Lyndon spoke to him with grave politeness.
Monk knew why he was called, even though he could add nothing to the sum of knowledge. Clive impressed the jury. They would believe every word he said, and Rathbone would be a fool to try to trick him or interrogate him in any way. He had warned Monk of that, speaking quietly, levelly, and as if he had some plan, although he did not say what it was.
Monk had seen Rathbone comfort accused men before, trying to give them more hope than there was, but out of compassion, and because a man without hope looks to the jury like a man who knows his own guilt. Would not an innocent man believe in the ultimate justice of his cause, and have faith in it?
Not if he had as much experience of the law as Monk had! Hester was not here today. He had searched for her along every row that he could see and then forced himself to believe she was following some hopeful trail, some clues that would condemn McNab. Any other thought was unbearable. He must not look as if he had lost belief. He must not look guilty!
Clive was handsome, calm, and almost heroic, not reckless like Gillander. He had the kind of charm that both men and women warm to. He spoke with authority, as if he had never in his life wanted or needed to lie.
He recounted accurately exactly what his men had reported to him of the events on Skelmer’s Wharf. Even Monk, listening to every word, could see no evasion or addition of unnecessary detail. The account was limited to facts, largely already known, but it gave them the imprimatur of truth.
Rathbone asked him nothing, but reserved the right to recall him, if it should prove necessary. It sounded like an empty, formulaic thing to say, and that knowledge was plain in the faces of the jury.
Then the main prosecution witness was called: McNab. He strode across the open space from the entrance to the witness stand, and climbed up the winding steps to face Wingfield. He swore to his name, official status, and his occupation.
Wingfield was now getting well into his stride. He stood easily, almost gracefully, his dark face calm, oozing confidence.
“Mr. McNab, so far we have heard a great deal about the actual circumstances of Mr. Pettifer’s death, but no real reason why the accused so passionately wished for the destruction of a man with whom he had no personal relationship. Why when
chance offered itself, even in front of witnesses, could he not control his passion to kill?”
McNab stood silently on the stand and smiled. He reminded Monk of a hungry man at last sitting at the table with knife and fork in hand, and his favorite meal in front of him.
Rathbone sat rigidly, the light catching the silver in his fair hair, his shoulders locked. Did he have any weapons at all with which to fight back?
Wingfield cleared his throat. “Mr. McNab, how long have you known William Monk?”
“On and off, for about sixteen years,” McNab answered. He looked comfortable, his hair brushed back hard off his blunt face. He was dressed neatly, but his suit was very plain, that of an ordinary man who worked hard.
“Professionally or personally?” Wingfield asked.
“Professionally.”
“And do you know, to your own knowledge, whether Monk was also acquainted with Mr. Pettifer, the dead man?”
“Not as far as I am aware, sir,” McNab said politely. “Mr. Pettifer quite recently told me that he knew Mr. Monk only by repute, as a hard and clever man who was exceptionally good at his job, but prone to take it all a little personally.”
Rathbone stood up. “My lord, that is hearsay.”
“Indeed it is,” Mr. Justice Lyndon agreed. “You know better than to ask your question in that way, Mr. Wingfield. Find some other way to establish the relationship, or lack of it, between the accused and the victim.”
“I apologize, my lord. Of course you are right.”
In that instant Monk knew that Wingfield had done this on purpose. He now had all the latitude he wished to bring in the supposed acquaintance a great deal more obliquely. It was Rathbone’s first slip.
“I believe that in the course of your professional duties, you would work with Thames River Police?” Wingfield continued. “As, for example, on the apprehension of dangerous smugglers, such as gunrunners, perhaps?”
“Yes, sir,” McNab said, nodding slightly.
“Did Mr. Pettifer ever work with Mr. Monk on such a case, to your certain knowledge?”
“Yes, sir, he did.” McNab’s face was almost shining with his anticipation.
“Will you tell the court about it, please?” Wingfield directed him.
Rathbone sat still. There was nothing for him to object to. If he tried, he would only draw even more attention to it.
Monk felt as if they were making a certainty of the verdict against him.
