Revenge in a Cold River (30 page)

“Two men appeared, one from each side of the row of buildings,” Hooper answered. “They saw each other and began to fight. No use asking me which one attacked first 'cos I don't know. They went at each other, hammer an' tongs. All the time they were moving closer to the water's edge—”

“A moment, Mr. Hooper,” Wingfield interrupted. “Do I understand it that you and the accused did nothing to stop this battle? Nothing to intervene and apprehend your escaped prisoner? Who did you imagine the other man was?”

“Regular police, or customs man,” Hooper replied. “Both Commander Monk and I intervened, but then each man started fighting us. I took on the smaller man and we fell into the water. While I was occupied with that, the big man fell in and started thrashing around. He wasn't much of a fighter, and we thought he was the prisoner.”

“Indeed?” Wingfield raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “So you had no idea as to the identity of the prisoner, or his description? A bit lax of you, wasn't it? Might you not very easily have apprehended completely the wrong man?” He smiled. “Oh…that is what you are claiming you did—isn't it? Completely the wrong man? Didn't you, in fact, drown the customs officer and allow the prisoner to swim right across the river and escape to…God knows where? France, for all any of us can say?”

Hooper's lips closed into a thin line and he swallowed his temper with difficulty.

“The smaller man fought like a polecat, and he swam away from me. Mr. Monk tried to help the big fellow with the beard, but he panicked, thrashing around like a madman. Nearly took Mr. Monk down with him. You have to stop someone like that, or they'll drown the both of you. You can't swim, and save a man that's swinging his arms. But maybe you've never tried that. Doesn't go with your horsehair wig an' the fancy robes. You'd drown in minutes in all o' that.”

Again there was a gust of laughter from the gallery, but it was nervous, and then the jury twisted in their seats uncomfortably.

Wingfield kept his temper this time. “I seldom wear this attire when I go swimming, Mr. Hooper. And I have never jumped into the Thames to save a customs officer, or to drown one. Tell me, after the smaller man had struck out to swim across the river, what did you do?”

“I helped Mr. Monk pull the big man out of the water and up onto the wharf. We tried to get the water out of his lungs and bring him round but he was too far gone.”

“A sufficiently hard blow to the side of the head will do that, don't you agree?”

“If he hadn't panicked an' tried to drown Mr. Monk, he'd have been all right.”

“Maybe he was frightened because he couldn't swim, and he knew Mr. Monk wanted to drown him?” Wingfield suggested mildly.

“If he was as deep into letting the prisoner go, and trying to blame us for it, then he'd be more use to us alive,” Hooper pointed out.

“Your loyalty is to be commended,” Wingfield responded. “Unless, of course, it amounts to complicity? Could that be the case, Mr. Hooper?”

Rathbone stood up again. “My lord, since that is not the case, the question is hypothetical. Mr. Hooper has not been charged with anything, and the jury should not be misled into thinking he has. My learned friend is accusing him at once of loyalty…and of disloyalty.”

“Misplaced loyalty,” Wingfield corrected him a trifle condescendingly.

“Loyalty to the truth,” Rathbone replied.

“That remains to be seen,” Wingfield snapped, but he dismissed Hooper, passing him over to Rathbone.

Rathbone hesitated only slightly. Probably Monk, sitting high up in the dock, was the only one who knew him well enough to notice it.

“I reserve the right to call this witness at a later stage, my lord,” he said.

Monk felt the sweat break out on his skin. Was it relief, or only a matter of delaying the inevitable? Hooper would have to testify at some time, and be subjected to Wingfield's cross-examination. Monk needed someone to rescue him. He understood exactly the panic Pettifer must have felt when he was drowning. He could not breathe. The water was sucking him down, closing over his head.

And yet Monk did not want to take Hooper down with him. He liked Hooper, and the guilt would be crippling.

Wingfield called Dr. Hyde, the police surgeon. He went through the usual formalities of establishing his qualifications, then played straight into the core of the case.

“Were you called to Skelmer's Wharf to examine the body of the dead man, Pettifer?”

“No,” Hyde said with asperity. “They brought him to me. Get your facts straight, man!”

Wingfield flushed. He had left the details to a junior, certain that the evidence was what he wanted. The expression on his face now suggested dire trouble for someone later.

“But you did receive the body of Pettifer, to determine the exact cause of his death, and anything else that might be relevant to it?”

“Yes.”

“Then is there some reason why you are so reluctant to tell the court what you found?”

“When you ask me.” Hyde stared straight back at him. “Ex-army doctor. You learn—never volunteer.”

“What did you think you were here for? I'm asking you, Dr. Hyde.”

Hyde smiled, but it was from amusement, not good humor. “The man's lungs were full of water, and there were tiny dots of blood on the whites of his eyes, as one gets with suffocation of any kind. He drowned.”

“Had he any other injuries that would account for why he drowned to death?”

“You don't drown except to death!” Hyde rolled his eyes. “And yes, he had a very slight bruise on his skull, and another on his neck.”

“Very slight?” Wingfield's sarcasm was back. “How hard does it have to be to command your attention, Dr. Hyde? It knocked the man senseless!”

“Damned senseless to begin with to jump into the river when he can't swim,” Hyde retorted. “Perhaps he wanted to take Mr. Monk's attention in order to give Mr. Owen the chance to escape? Had you thought of that?”

“It's irrelevant,” Wingfield pointed out with an equally tight smile in reply. “I doubt he intended to give his own life for it!”

“Which would indicate that he trusted Commander Monk to save him,” Hyde said. “He obviously didn't think they were enemies.”

“Then his drowned corpse, with the bruises on his skull, would indicate the depth of his mistake in that,” Wingfield said triumphantly. “Thank you, Dr. Hyde. That is all.”

Rathbone rose to his feet.

The court was silent. Every juror was staring at him, waiting.

Monk felt his heart race.

“Dr. Hyde, you said the bruises on Mr. Pettifer's neck and skull were slight. Does that mean he was not struck very hard?”

“No, sir, it means it was very shortly before his death. The bruises had not time to form.”

“I see. Whereabouts on his neck was the bruise? Would you indicate on your own neck, so the jury can see?”

Hyde put his hand to the left side of his neck, just a little forward of the ear.

“Not his throat?” Rathbone asked.

“No. Such a blow to his throat might have killed him. Here was where a man trying to rescue him might have intended to stop him long enough to save them both.”

Wingfield stood up sharply.

“Yes, yes,” the judge agreed. “Dr. Hyde, you know better than that. We must go through the correct…rigmarole!”

Rathbone half hid a smile. “Dr. Hyde, what would be the result of the blow you describe, please?”

“To render him dizzy, perhaps cause a momentary lapse of consciousness lasting a minute or so.”

“Long enough to get him out of the water, for example?” Rathbone asked with exaggerated innocence.

“Precisely,” Hyde agreed.

“Thank you. Oh…Dr. Hyde, the defendant was concerned with another prisoner that the Customs service inadvertently lost, a man named Blount. Did you also examine his corpse?”

“Yes,” Hyde agreed.

“He also was drowned?”

“Yes.”

“Were there any other marks, bruises, et cetera on his body?”

“Gunshot wound on his back,” Hyde replied totally without expression.

“I presume Mr. Monk had nothing to do with that?” Rathbone went on.

“Not so far as I know,” Hyde agreed.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Wingfield seemed to consider coming back to Hyde, and then decided against it. After the luncheon adjournment he called Fin Gillander to the stand.

Gillander came in with a slight swagger, one perhaps so natural to him he was not even aware of it. He was a handsome man, approaching his prime, and there was a sigh and a rustle of people straightening up, nudging each other and a few whispers as he took the oath.

Wingfield intended to make the most of it. He established Gillander's occupation, his ownership of the
Summer Wind,
what manner of ship she was, and that Gillander had sailed in her all the way from the coast of California, coming around the wild and treacherous Cape Horn. Every man and woman in the court was listening with total attention, although possibly for different reasons. A jury of women might have believed him whatever he said. But of course there were no women on juries. They were not eligible.

“And you were moored by the opposite shore from Skelmer's Wharf?” Wingfield asked.

“Yes,” Gillander agreed.

“And you were on deck, in spite of the inclement weather?”

“It wasn't bad.”

“Did you observe Mr. Monk and Mr. Hooper waiting on the wharf?”

“I didn't know their names at the time, but I saw two men waiting, and I heard later who they were.”

“Just so. And you saw the other two, Mr. Pettifer and Mr. Owen, arrive?”

“Yes. From opposite sides of the buildings. Couldn't say who was chasing whom. They collided and started to fight. I saw Mr. Monk and Mr. Hooper intervene.”

“You could see that, right from the other side of the river?” Wingfield was openly skeptical.

Two of the jurors leaned forward.

“Telescope,” Gillander exclaimed with a smile.

Wingfield's face lit with understanding. “Of course. What happened next?”

“The smaller man and Mr. Hooper fell into the water, then the big man leaped into the water and started thrashing around,” Gillander answered. “Panicked, by the look of it. Damn stupid, but it happens quite often.”

“But the smaller man could survive, and instead of rescuing the drowning man, he struck out across the river toward you?”

“That's right.”

“And when he reached you, you helped him out of the water into your boat?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do that, Mr. Gillander?”

Gillander's eyes widened. “What did you expect me to do? Leave him there to drown? I wouldn't do that, whoever he'd been.”

Wingfield shrugged. “But you didn't take him prisoner and hold him for the police? Why not?”

“He told me his name was Pettifer, and he was from Customs. He'd been after an escaped prisoner, very violent man. Tried to kill him. But it looked like the River Police had him by then, so he asked me if I'd put him off at the next steps down, and he'd get help.”

“And you believed him?”

“No reason not to. The other fellow was the one who fought against the River Police. I thought he was going to kill the man who pulled him out. Lashing out at him like he meant to.”

Wingfield suppressed his irritation with difficulty. “He was drowning, Mr. Gillander. He panicked. The man you helped out and took down the river, and so obligingly let off at the next steps, was the escaped prisoner—whom no one has ever seen again!”

Gillander struggled to conceal a smile, and almost succeeded. “Yes…I learned that afterward.”

“Did you see anyone strike the man who drowned, Mr. Gillander?”

“Saw a lot of arms flailing around. No idea who struck whom. Sorry.”

Wingfield moved a step forward.

“Did you subsequently become acquainted with Commander Monk?” he asked with an edge to his voice. “In fact, did you become friends with him, after the incident, and before you were called to testify here as to what you saw?”

Gillander hesitated.

Monk knew exactly the trap he was in. They had known each other on the Californian coast, twenty years ago. Was that what Wingfield was trying to force him into saying? His only way to be honest about it was to admit the earlier knowledge openly. Wingfield was clever. One would be a fool to forget that.

“Mr. Gillander?” Wingfield prompted. “It does not seem a very difficult question. Did you become friends with Commander Monk, only after you pulled the escaped prisoner out of the water? Yes or no?”

Gillander gave a slight shrug. “I renewed an acquaintance.”

Wingfield's eyes opened wide. He made the most of the dramatic moment.

There was total silence in the room.

“Did you say you ‘renewed' it?” Wingfield asked, emphasizing every word.

Now the gallery was so quiet that when one woman moved position slightly, the creak of whalebone could be heard even by the jury. One man gave a nervous cough.

“Yes,” Gillander agreed. “I had known him some twenty years earlier.”

“Indeed? And where was that?” Wingfield asked.

“On the Barbary Coast,” Gillander answered. “California, not North Africa. Gold rush days.”

“And yet William Monk is part of the Thames River Police. Their reach hardly extends so far!” Wingfield now had the smile.

Gillander's eyebrows shot up. “Is that a question?”

“No, of course not,” Wingfield snapped. “Did you know him well at that time, Mr. Gillander?”

“Moderately. As well as one knew anybody. We were rivals in the same business. Occasionally allies.”

“And what business would that be? Not police, I presume?”

“Hardly. There was no law there, except what was easy to keep. In the very early days, California was still not part of the United States.”