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“I imagine you would have no way of knowing, unless he told you,” Rathbone agreed. “And it is not the sort of thing that slips into polite conversation with a man you wish to impress. ‘By the way, my half brother was hanged for murder, and Monk could have asked for clemency, but he didn’t. I hate him for that and wish to engineer his destruction if I can! I intend to use you to that end.’ Not the sort of thing you say at the dinner table.”
Wingfield was on his feet, his face darkened by outrage.
“Yes, yes,” Lyndon said with a wave of his hand. “Sir Oliver, I am inclined to grant you certain leeway, considering the desperate state of your case, but you stray too far. This observation of yours sounds close to irrelevant.”
“My lord, it is most relevant,” Rathbone said humbly. “I believe Mr. Clive, unaware of Mr. McNab’s emotional investment in Mr. Monk’s downfall, may inadvertently have given him information that prompted Mr. McNab’s further action.”
“Then you must demonstrate that, Sir Oliver,” Lyndon warned.
“Yes, my lord. I shall.” He turned again to Clive. “Sir, might you have mentioned your suspicions that Commander Monk, or someone very like him, could have been involved in the murder of Piers Astley, your right-hand man in the early days of the gold rush in California?”
Clive stood absolutely motionless. He stared down at Rathbone.
Wingfield fidgeted as if waiting to object but unable to think of any cause. He would look ineffectual if he were overruled.
“Mr. Clive?” Rathbone repeated.
“I doubt it,” Clive responded. “But it is possible. Mr. Monk was there. And unfortunately Mr. Astley’s killer was never found.”
“So I understand,” Rathbone agreed. “That must be very hard for you, and especially so for Mrs. Clive.”
“Is that a question?” Wingfield demanded from his seat.
“I will put that another way,” Rathbone said smoothly, and without turning to acknowledge Wingfield. “Did you ever give up hope of one day finding out who killed Mr. Astley, even if you could not prosecute him, because perhaps he is in a different country?”
“I did not keep up the pursuit,” Clive answered. “I imagined that whoever it was would be in California, but quite definitely not in London. It is a painful subject I prefer, for my wife’s sake, not to follow when there is little realistic hope of solving it. And, as you point out, even with proof, you would have no jurisdiction over it.”
“Exactly,” Rathbone agreed. “But it would be indicative of a man’s character, wouldn’t it?”
“Of course.” Clive attempted to look puzzled again, and he must have been aware of what Rathbone was leading to.
&n
bsp; “Therefore something Mr. McNab would be happy to have said of Mr. Monk?” Rathbone continued.
“You will have to ask Mr. McNab that.”
“I shall. But you have no idea who killed Piers Astley, Mr. Clive?”
“None at all.” Clive shook his head. “I was at the assay office forty miles away from the saloon where he was shot.”
“Yes, with a Mr. Belknap, I believe.”
“Exactly.”
“You were able to swear to his presence at the assay office when he was accused of a totally unrelated crime some distance away. Which meant, of course, that he was able to swear to your presence also.”
Again Wingfield stirred, and then decided to keep silent.
Beata was watching so intently that it was several moments before she noticed the small boy beside her, in ill-fitting clothes scrubbed clean too many times. He pulled at her elbow again.
“Missus,” he said urgently. “Yer gotta listen, Missus.” His blue eyes were wide and frightened, and he was missing a front tooth. He looked perhaps six or seven years old.
“Worm?” she said tentatively. She had seen him a couple of times at the clinic in Portpool Lane, and Oliver had told her how bravely he had conducted himself in the rescue of Hester from the farm at which she had been held captive only a short while ago.
“Yes.” His face relaxed at her recognition of who he was. “Dr. Crow said as yer gotta ask Mr. Sir Oliver to keep it going as long as he can, ’cos we’re finding proof as Mr. wot got drownded din’t set up the fight on the ship. It were McNab ’isself, an’ all, wi’ Mad Lammond, but we got someone as’ll swear to it.”
She hesitated. How could she explain to the child that the truth didn’t matter, it was what Monk had believed that would hang him?
