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erious view of statements given purely for dramatic effect.
“Yes, my lord,” Rathbone said with apparent humility. “Perhaps your lordship would allow me to re-call Mr. Aaron Clive directly?”
Wingfield made no objection, although Beata, looking at him, saw him hesitate for a moment. She was certain he was searching for a reason to disturb Rathbone’s plan, his sense of timing, but he could not think of anything that would not be transparent. He knew well enough not to show any vulnerability, any doubt whatever in front of the jury. She had sat through many trials, particularly in the early days of her marriage to Ingram. She had watched him when he was a large presence in front of some of the lesser men who had since succeeded him. That may have been part of the reason he had so disliked Oliver—and he had! She recognized that now.
Aaron Clive crossed the open space around the witness stand. He looked grave and sad as he was reminded of his oath. As always, his manners were perfect, his voice filled with charm.
Rathbone walked out into the open space before the witness box as if totally confident. Perhaps Beata was the only one in the room who knew how very far that was from the truth.
“Good morning, Mr. Clive,” he began. “You stated previously in your testimony for Mr. Wingfield that you had occasion to be acquainted with Mr. McNab, of the Customs service. Was this a personal acquaintance, or purely professional?”
Clive smiled. “It was professional, but I did not draw a rigid line between the two.”
“Do you mean, sir, that you permitted Mr. McNab to visit you at your home, not only at your place of business? Possibly to discuss certain larger or now more valuable shipments, for example?”
“On occasions, yes.” Clive looked puzzled.
“So if I tell you that a witness overheard Mr. McNab in a private conversation with your wife, in your home, you would not find that impossible to believe?”
“Unlikely, but not impossible,” Clive conceded. “It was probably no more than courtesy, if I were temporarily unavailable. One does not leave people in solitude.” He spoke as if perhaps Rathbone did not grasp such a matter of courtesy.
“Did Mr. McNab ever discuss Commander Monk with you, Mr. Clive?”
Clive should have expected such a question, but he managed to look surprised. Or perhaps he was giving himself time to think of the best answer.
Beata stared at him, as did everyone else in the court. But her thoughts were not on his charm, or his extraordinarily handsome face, or even the skill and courage with which he had built up an empire. She was thinking of the passion she had seen in Miriam’s face when she spoke of the death of Piers Astley. Oddly enough, Beata had never considered the possibility that he, not Clive, had been the man Miriam had truly loved. She thought back now, with a different perception, searching for different moments of emotions, mourning and grief. Miriam’s voice changed when she spoke of Piers Astley. Beata had thought it a kind of guilt for forgetting him and marrying Clive.
But she had seen what she expected to, what Miriam had asked everyone to see. Perhaps her illness, her fragile bewilderment had been not only from the loss of the child, but from the loss of the man she would always love.
Had Clive the faintest idea of the truth? Or even that Miriam knew what he had done?
How much was her passion for revenge also guilt?
Beata brought her mind back to the present. Clive was testifying. He looked sad, as was appropriate, but totally composed. Would Oliver really have the skill to break him, even to make any mark at all on the perfect surface of his manner? He would be a bad enemy to make. Did Oliver know that? Did he appreciate his extraordinary power? Was he brave, or merely ignorant? She had tried to explain to him.
Clive was talking about the few times McNab had mentioned Monk, not actually to malign him, but certainly to warn of his unreliability.
“Did that surprise you, sir?” Rathbone inquired blandly.
Clive was prepared for that.
“No. It appeared that Mr. Monk had not changed much from the adventurer he used to be when I knew him in San Francisco, twenty years ago,” Clive replied with a slight smile. “A man, like many others at that time, always with an eye to his own advantage.”
“Oh, yes. You knew Mr. Monk then.” Rathbone smiled. “And I believe Mr. Gillander also?”
“Slightly. He ran certain shipping errands for me,” Clive said. For a moment he sounded overwhelmingly condescending, and then the tone was gone again, like a shadow over water.
“Did you tell Mr. McNab that Gillander had worked for you?” Rathbone asked.
Clive seemed unconcerned. “Probably. It was of no importance.”
“To you, perhaps not. But to Mr. McNab, with his hatred of Mr. Monk, surely it was of great value?” Rathbone asked.
Clive let out his breath. He had made a slight error, very slight, but the fact that he had made it at all was indicative that he was being very careful. There were pitfalls for him that did not wait for an innocent man. Beata saw it, and she knew that Rathbone had.
Wingfield looked impatient. Either he was a very good actor, or he had not seen the shadow. Beata thought it was the latter. There was hope! Frail as early April sunshine, but it was there.
“I did not know of his…enmity for Commander Monk,” Clive answered slowly.
