Revenge in a Cold River (33 page)

“Unlikely, but not impossible,” Clive conceded. “It was probably no more than courtesy, if I were temporarily unavailable. One does not leave people in solitude.” He spoke as if perhaps Rathbone did not grasp such a matter of courtesy.

“Did Mr. McNab ever discuss Commander Monk with you, Mr. Clive?”

Clive should have expected such a question, but he managed to look surprised. Or perhaps he was giving himself time to think of the best answer.

Beata stared at him, as did everyone else in the court. But her thoughts were not on his charm, or his extraordinarily handsome face, or even the skill and courage with which he had built up an empire. She was thinking of the passion she had seen in Miriam's face when she spoke of the death of Piers Astley. Oddly enough, Beata had never considered the possibility that he, not Clive, had been the man Miriam had truly loved. She thought back now, with a different perception, searching for different moments of emotions, mourning and grief. Miriam's voice changed when she spoke of Piers Astley. Beata had thought it a kind of guilt for forgetting him and marrying Clive.

But she had seen what she expected to, what Miriam had asked everyone to see. Perhaps her illness, her fragile bewilderment had been not only from the loss of the child, but from the loss of the man she would always love.

Had Clive the faintest idea of the truth? Or even that Miriam knew what he had done?

How much was her passion for revenge also guilt?

Beata brought her mind back to the present. Clive was testifying. He looked sad, as was appropriate, but totally composed. Would Oliver really have the skill to break him, even to make any mark at all on the perfect surface of his manner? He would be a bad enemy to make. Did Oliver know that? Did he appreciate his extraordinary power? Was he brave, or merely ignorant? She had tried to explain to him.

Clive was talking about the few times McNab had mentioned Monk, not actually to malign him, but certainly to warn of his unreliability.

“Did that surprise you, sir?” Rathbone inquired blandly.

Clive was prepared for that.

“No. It appeared that Mr. Monk had not changed much from the adventurer he used to be when I knew him in San Francisco, twenty years ago,” Clive replied with a slight smile. “A man, like many others at that time, always with an eye to his own advantage.”

“Oh, yes. You knew Mr. Monk then.” Rathbone smiled. “And I believe Mr. Gillander also?”

“Slightly. He ran certain shipping errands for me,” Clive said. For a moment he sounded overwhelmingly condescending, and then the tone was gone again, like a shadow over water.

“Did you tell Mr. McNab that Gillander had worked for you?” Rathbone asked.

Clive seemed unconcerned. “Probably. It was of no importance.”

“To you, perhaps not. But to Mr. McNab, with his hatred of Mr. Monk, surely it was of great value?” Rathbone asked.

Clive let out his breath. He had made a slight error, very slight, but the fact that he had made it at all was indicative that he was being very careful. There were pitfalls for him that did not wait for an innocent man. Beata saw it, and she knew that Rathbone had.

Wingfield looked impatient. Either he was a very good actor, or he had not seen the shadow. Beata thought it was the latter. There was hope! Frail as early April sunshine, but it was there.

“I did not know of his…enmity for Commander Monk,” Clive answered slowly.

“I imagine you would have no way of knowing, unless he told you,” Rathbone agreed. “And it is not the sort of thing that slips into polite conversation with a man you wish to impress. ‘By the way, my half brother was hanged for murder, and Monk could have asked for clemency, but he didn't. I hate him for that and wish to engineer his destruction if I can! I intend to use you to that end.' Not the sort of thing you say at the dinner table.”

Wingfield was on his feet, his face darkened by outrage.

“Yes, yes,” Lyndon said with a wave of his hand. “Sir Oliver, I am inclined to grant you certain leeway, considering the desperate state of your case, but you stray too far. This observation of yours sounds close to irrelevant.”

“My lord, it is most relevant,” Rathbone said humbly. “I believe Mr. Clive, unaware of Mr. McNab's emotional investment in Mr. Monk's downfall, may inadvertently have given him information that prompted Mr. McNab's further action.”

“Then you must demonstrate that, Sir Oliver,” Lyndon warned.

“Yes, my lord. I shall.” He turned again to Clive. “Sir, might you have mentioned your suspicions that Commander Monk, or someone very like him, could have been involved in the murder of Piers Astley, your right-hand man in the early days of the gold rush in California?”

Clive stood absolutely motionless. He stared down at Rathbone.

Wingfield fidgeted as if waiting to object but unable to think of any cause. He would look ineffectual if he were overruled.

“Mr. Clive?” Rathbone repeated.

“I doubt it,” Clive responded. “But it is possible. Mr. Monk was there. And unfortunately Mr. Astley's killer was never found.”

“So I understand,” Rathbone agreed. “That must be very hard for you, and especially so for Mrs. Clive.”

“Is that a question?” Wingfield demanded from his seat.

“I will put that another way,” Rathbone said smoothly, and without turning to acknowledge Wingfield. “Did you ever give up hope of one day finding out who killed Mr. Astley, even if you could not prosecute him, because perhaps he is in a different country?”

“I did not keep up the pursuit,” Clive answered. “I imagined that whoever it was would be in California, but quite definitely not in London. It is a painful subject I prefer, for my wife's sake, not to follow when there is little realistic hope of solving it. And, as you point out, even with proof, you would have no jurisdiction over it.”

“Exactly,” Rathbone agreed. “But it would be indicative of a man's character, wouldn't it?”

“Of course.” Clive attempted to look puzzled again, and he must have been aware of what Rathbone was leading to.

“Therefore something Mr. McNab would be happy to have said of Mr. Monk?” Rathbone continued.

“You will have to ask Mr. McNab that.”

“I shall. But you have no idea who killed Piers Astley, Mr. Clive?”

“None at all.” Clive shook his head. “I was at the assay office forty miles away from the saloon where he was shot.”

“Yes, with a Mr. Belknap, I believe.”

“Exactly.”

“You were able to swear to his presence at the assay office when he was accused of a totally unrelated crime some distance away. Which meant, of course, that he was able to swear to your presence also.”

Again Wingfield stirred, and then decided to keep silent.

Beata was watching so intently that it was several moments before she noticed the small boy beside her, in ill-fitting clothes scrubbed clean too many times. He pulled at her elbow again.

“Missus,” he said urgently. “Yer gotta listen, Missus.” His blue eyes were wide and frightened, and he was missing a front tooth. He looked perhaps six or seven years old.

“Worm?” she said tentatively. She had seen him a couple of times at the clinic in Portpool Lane, and Oliver had told her how bravely he had conducted himself in the rescue of Hester from the farm at which she had been held captive only a short while ago.

“Yes.” His face relaxed at her recognition of who he was. “Dr. Crow said as yer gotta ask Mr. Sir Oliver to keep it going as long as he can, 'cos we're finding proof as Mr. wot got drownded din't set up the fight on the ship. It were McNab 'isself, an' all, wi' Mad Lammond, but we got someone as'll swear to it.”

She hesitated. How could she explain to the child that the truth didn't matter, it was what Monk had believed that would hang him?

“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.

“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.