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“Her husband then, Piers Astley.”
“The man who was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you mention them, Lady York? Are you somehow suggesting that Fin Gillander had something to do with his death?”
“No. I’m sure he had not. Nor had Mr. Monk. Miriam knows now who killed him, and she has evidence that is proof to her, beyond question.” She took a deep breath and heard the gasps of a hundred people around the room.
Rathbone’s voice brought her back to the moment.
“Lady York, if she has proof of someone’s guilt, why does she not accuse him and have him charged?”
“Because it is proof only to her. You do not shoot at a bear unless you are sure you are going to kill it. If you only wound it, then it will kill you.”
There was a ripple of nervous laughter around the room, then a wash of silence, like a returning wave.
“Do I take it that the person who killed Piers Astley has great power?” Rathbone asked. “And they would destroy Mrs. Clive were she to accuse them, and fail to get them convicted?”
“Yes.” She had no hesitation now. “That is why she wanted to involve Mr. Monk in the case. She believed he had the power to win a conviction. Of course she did not at that time know that Mr. McNab was exercising his passion for revenge against Mr. Monk, for the hanging of his half brother for a crime which he unquestionably did commit.” She took another deep breath. She must make a good job of this: no half measures. “I was married to a lawyer and judge for years. It was not difficult to look up the records of the case. I knew where to look and what to ask. There was no question of Rob Nairn’s guilt. Mr. Monk might have asked for leniency, but it would not have been granted.”
“Le
t me understand this, Lady York. Mrs. Clive was seeking justice, or if you prefer, revenge, for the murder of her first husband. At the same time Mr. McNab was seeking revenge against Mr. Monk for not having requested clemency for his half brother. And to this end they were each using the other?”
“Yes. Briefly.”
“Taking these issues one at a time, how was Mr. McNab hoping to be revenged on Mr. Monk?” Rathbone asked her.
She drew in her breath, hesitating as long as she could. She glanced around the room. Please heaven Crow would turn up soon. She could not string this out much further.
“By setting up what appeared to be a monstrous conspiracy to rob Aaron Clive, and when Mr. Monk had warned Mr. Clive of it, it would turn out to be a hoax, and Mr. Monk would look like a fool,” she replied. She could feel the jurors’ eyes upon her and hear the whisper of slight movement from their seats.
“Do you have some evidence of this?” Rathbone looked dubious.
“No, but you do,” she told him. “It has already been given in court. It concerns the escapes of both Mr. Blount and Mr. Owen from McNab’s custody, which is not the coincidence it appears. And then Mr. Blount’s death, and Mr. Owen’s escape from London altogether.”
“But where is this conspiracy then?” Rathbone looked puzzled. Surely he was pretending that for effect?
“Then Mr. Pettifer drowned in the river, while Mr. Monk was trying to rescue him,” she answered to fill the yawning silence. “Mr. McNab could not have foreseen that, but it was a far simpler and more powerful revenge than he could have created. He abandoned the conspiracy and accused Mr. Monk of having killed Mr. Pettifer on purpose.”
Rathbone made a gesture of confusion with his hands.
“But all the evidence of Mr. Monk’s hatred for Mr. Pettifer because of the gunrunning ship fiasco, and Mr. Orme’s death!” he protested. “What about that?”
“We have only Mr. McNab’s word that it was Mr. Pettifer behind the events that led to Mr. Orme’s death,” she replied. She was desperate now, arguing with Rathbone. How long would the judge let her do that? “What if Mr. Pettifer were no more than a lieutenant, carrying out Mr. McNab’s orders…just as he appears to be?” she went on.
“It makes sense, Lady York, but that is very far from proof! What proof have you of any of this?”
She felt as vulnerable as a black fly on the middle of a huge, white plate. When she spoke her voice was hoarse, almost whispering. “You will have to ask Dr. Crow’s witness for that. Or Miriam Clive herself.”
“Thank you, Lady York. I shall do both.”
At last Wingfield stood up. She had temporarily forgotten that of course he would have the opportunity to cross-question her as well. Rathbone could not protect her from that.
She faced him as if he had been a spider, of the sort that eats flies. She found herself gulping for breath, and he had not even spoken.
“I am sorry you are placed in this predicament, Lady York,” Wingfield said gently. “First of all, may I offer you my condolences on the death of your late husband. He was a very fine man. I knew him well, and he will be deeply missed.”
