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“Would it be fair to say further that you had a higher regard for Mr. McNab’s professional judgment?”
“Yes, it would.”
“Thank you, sir. That is all I have to ask you.”
Beata stood up and started to move along the row toward the end so she could reach Rathbone and at last deliver the message.
“That’s my foot you’ve stood on!” a large women said accusingly.
“I’m so sorry,” Beata tried to adjust her weight and step aside.
“You’ll wait your turn!” her husband said angrily. “We’re all hungry, you know.”
“I need to deliver—” Beata tried.
The husband stood up, completely blocking the way.
Beata drew in her breath to protest again, and knew it was pointless. By the time she finally reached the aisle all she was able to do was catch an usher’s attention.
“Yes, ma’am?” he said politely.
“I’m the widow of the late Mr. Justice York. Will you please tell Sir Oliver Rathbone that I have received a message that further evidence is on its way. This is of extreme importance.”
He looked at her blankly.
She was desperate. She hated to remind the man of her position as Ingram’s wife, but she saw no alternative.
“I am sure you remember Mr. Justice York,” she said sharply. “He presided in this courtroom often enough.”
“Oh! Yes, yes, of course, ma’am. I’m sorry…I didn’t recognize you. Of course. I’ll do it right away.” And he retreated from his embarrassment without further comment.
“Thank you,” she murmured with relief.
—
THE AFTERNOON BEGAN WITH Rathbone recalling Fin Gillander.
“Mr. Gillander,” he began. “You have already sworn to tell the exact truth, without fear or favor. Will you please now tell the court about the occasion on which you saw Mr. Monk after Mr. Pettifer’s death and the escape of Mr. Owen?”
“Yes, sir,” Gillander replied meekly. He recounted in exact detail Monk’s coming to the Summer Wind and asking about Owen, who had claimed to be Pettifer, and exactly what Gillander had said and done as a result.
It was more inclusive than necessary, and Wingfield rose several times to complain that Rathbone was wasting time with issues that did not matter. They made not the slightest difference to Monk’s guilt or innocence. Rathbone argued every point, which all took up more time than if Wingfield had simply ignored the time-wasting. He must surely have been aware of that? Was he trying to disturb Rathbone’s concentration, or simply to make him look desperate?
If that were so, Beata felt as if Wingfield were succeeding, and she hurt inside, with a deep, painful knot in her stomach, for the humiliation Rathbone was suffering, and must know it, but at least it proved that he had received the message.
“Did you find Mr. Monk to be a good seaman when you went down the river on the Summer Wind, looking for…what was it you said? Some information as to where Mr. Owen had gone, and who might have helped him?”
“Yes, he was very good,” Gillander replied with slight surprise.
“You had not expected him to be?” Rathbone’s eyeb
rows rose.
“I knew he was,” Gillander answered. “My surprise was that you should ask. Of course he’s good. We’ve hit some pretty rough seas together.” He smiled, his handsome face lighting up like a child’s with joy at the ultimate adventure, the risk of pitting all against the raw forces of nature.
Wingfield rolled his eyes. “All very dramatic, I’m sure, and possibly a reason to take with a pinch of skepticism anything Mr. Gillander might say in defense of the accused. Sir Oliver has rather made my point for me.”
To Beata, his voice was ineffably smug. Where was Crow? Why was he taking so long to arrive? There was nothing she could say or do, and her helplessness ached inside her like a wound.
