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“I didn’t at the time. I do now.”
There was a gasp around the room like wind in piles of fallen leaves.
Wingfield half-rose in his seat, caught the judge’s eye, and changed his mind. He sank back without interrupting.
“Was it William Monk?” Rathbone asked.
“No. I never thought it was. But I did at one time believe that he might have been able to help me prove the truth.”
The judge leaned a little forward over his high, carved bench but he did not speak. None of the jurors appeared even to blink.
“But you discovered that in fact he knew nothing,” Rathbone asked.
Beata held her breath. Be careful! Be careful!
“Yes…”
Rathbone went on before Miriam could add anything.
“Did Mr. McNab approach you about the matter, or did you approach him?” Rathbone asked.
Miriam winced very slightly. “No. When I heard from my husband that there was a degree of ill feeling between Mr. McNab and Mr. Monk, I approached Mr. McNab, very discreetly.”
“To what end, Mrs. Clive?”
“To the end of persuading Mr. Monk to tell me what he knew about Piers’s death. If he had been willing to speak, he would have done so at the time. I thought if Mr. McNab knew something against Mr. Monk I could maybe use it as leverage to persuade him to help me prove who had killed Piers.”
“Let me understand clearly: You were prepared to use Mr. Monk to expose whoever killed your first husband? You already knew who it was, but you needed proof? Is that correct?”
“Yes.” She was breathing very deeply, trying to steady herself.
“Did you explain any of this to Mr. McNab?” Rathbone continued.
“As much as necessary. He did not need a great deal. Until Mr. Pettifer’s death, he was very keen indeed to convince Mr. Monk that there was a major conspiracy to rob my husband’s warehouses.”
“Until Mr. Pettifer’s death?” Rathbone repeated with increased interest. “And after that?”
“After a while he let the matter drop,” she replied. “I think that, unintentionally, Mr. Monk provided him with a far better means of revenge. He gave it to him as if it were a gift.”
“So Mr. McNab no longer needed your assistance?”
“That is correct. And I no longer needed his,” she added. “Mr. Monk had no idea who killed Piers.”
“But you know?”
“Yes. I have known ever since I was brought the bloody shirt he was wearing when he died. I knew it was his because I stitched it myself. Most women can tell their own stitching, especially on a large piece of work. They know how they turn a collar, or set a sleeve.”
Every eye in the room was on her.
“That was proof?” Rathbone said with surprise.
“No. The proof was in where it was found, and in whose possession.?
? She stopped. It was obviously extremely difficult for her to keep any composure at all. Her body was shivering as if she were standing in an icy wind.
Beata had to imagine what it must have been like holding her husband’s shirt, soaked in his blood. Even that thought made her head swim, and she felt sick.
“And that proved…?” Rathbone’s voice was hoarse.
