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“Please, Missus! Yer gotta tell ’im. Dr. Crow says!”
“I will,” she promised. “Will Dr. Crow come with the proof?”
“Yeah. ’E says it in’t no good Miss Hester doin’ it, ’cos they won’t listen to ’er.”
The man in the next seat was glaring at them.
“I’ll tell him,” she promised, and with a quick flashing smile the urchin was gone.
Rathbone was still questioning Aaron Clive. “Piers Astley’s killer was never caught?” he asked.
Clive shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”
“Could pursuing the truth about Mr. Astley’s death be why your wife spoke alone and urgently with Mr. McNab?”
Wingfield stood up. “My lord, this is all repetitive and entirely irrelevant to the charge of murder against the accused. Mr. Monk was seen to strike Mr. Pettifer when he was in the water, as a result of which Mr. Pettifer was unable to save himself, and he drowned. Whether Mr. Clive knew who killed Mr. Astley is of no importance whatever. Sir Oliver is wasting the court’s time in an effort to direct our attention away from the facts. It is a very simple case, my lord. And the accused is very clearly guilty.”
Mr. Justice Lyndon looked at Rathbone.
Rathbone was very pale. Beata knew what it cost him to keep his composure. She felt for the first time the crushing weight of isolation for a man fighting a battle with every eye upon him, another man’s life the prize to be won or lost, and no weapons in his hands. With Ingram she had never appreciated that. It had been more like a game, win or lose. If he had exulted over a win, she saw it; if he had ever grieved over a loss, even wept over it, and felt a wave of guilt or self-doubt, she had no idea.
She must get Worm’s message to Rathbone but she could think of no way to do so. He was standing in the center of the floor alone.
“My lord,” Rathbone began, “there is no question that Mr. Monk and Mr. Pettifer struggled with each other in the water. Mr. Pettifer panicked and lashed out at the very man who was trying to save his life. He was insane with fear. It is not an uncommon thing to happen. Mr. Monk struck him to keep him from drowning them both. His intent was to render him temporarily unable to strike back, until he could pull him ashore, and save him from drowning in the river. If he had wished him dead, he would simply have stood on the wharf and left him to drown by himself.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the gallery, and a couple of the jurors nodded.
“The whole question of guilt rather than misfortune rests upon Mr. McNab’s accusation that Mr. Monk hated Mr. Pettifer over incidents that happened in the past,” he continued. “To prove that charge untrue, we must examine the past. The very recent past includes Mr. McNab’s curious visits to Mrs. Clive. It also includes this idea of a conspiracy to rob Mr. Clive, which Mr. McNab insists that Mr. Monk believed, or pretended to believe. And of course, the escape of two prisoners held by Customs…Mr. McNab’s men…one of whom, Mr. Blount, ended up both drowned and shot! The second, Mr. Owen, was closely involved in Mr. Pettifer’s death.”
Wingfield rose again. “My lord, Mr. Owen was a considerable distance from Mr. Pettifer when he drowned. If you believe the evidence of Mr. Monk’s own man, Mr. Hooper, and of Mr. Gillander, who observed the incident from the deck of his ship, then Mr. Owen was swimming strongly away from Mr. Pettifer when he drowned.”
Rathbone smiled. “I was referring to the fight on the wharf, my lord. If Mr. Owen had not escaped and led the chase to the wharf, then jumped into the river, taking the fight into the water, then no one would have drowned.”
“Just so,” Lyndon agreed.
Beata was aching for Rathbone to question Clive further, and she saw the chance slipping out of his hands. He had killed Piers Astley! That was Miriam’s whole purpose for having colluded with McNab in the first place.
Who else could he call? What was it that Crow could tell anyone? If he did not arrive soon then it would all be in vain.
“Thank you, Mr. Clive,” Rathbone said firmly. “Please could you wait there in case my learned friend has anything to ask you?”
Beata was desperate. How could she get a message to Rathbone? She did not carry a pencil or paper to make notes, even if she could have stood up and walked over to give it to him.
Wingfield rose and walked out into the area before the witness stand.
“Mr. Clive, you have been very patient with us. May I ask you, did the accused inform you of this…conspiracy theory of his? Did he warn you in any way?”
“Yes,” Clive agreed. “But vaguely. He did not seem to have any details, except that it might involve specialist skills, such as forgery, and explosives.”
Wingfield’s eyebrows rose. “Forgery and explosives. It sounds very grand, and very violent. Did you believe him that you were in any danger?”
Clive sounded a little weary.
“Frankly, I thought it very unlikely. Anything as extreme as explosives would alert the whole neighborhood, and very probably damage the exact goods that a thief would value.”
“So a little far-fetched?” Wingfield smiled. “You must have wondered about his professional judgment?”
Clive shrugged ruefully. “I regret to say that I did,” he said.
