Revenge in a Cold River (34 page)

“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.

T
HE 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 eyebrows 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.

“Not yet, my lord,” Rathbone replied. “Mr. Gillander, did Mr. Monk speak to you about this conspiracy that, according to Mr. McNab, and Mr. Clive, he feared?”

“He told me about the possibility of a robbery, sir. But most pressingly he needed to find out who shot Mr. Blount, and if there was any connection between Mr. Blount and Mr. Owen, other than that both escaped from the custody of Mr. McNab's men. He thought maybe there wasn't.”

“There wasn't?” Rathbone said with surprise. “Then he didn't believe in the conspiracy?”

“No, I don't think so. But it's his job to be certain. He had to look into it, no matter how unlikely it was. After all, he'd look a fool if it were real and he hadn't bothered.”

“Indeed he would,” Rathbone agreed. “And did he find anything?”

“Yes. Found a fellow in the Deptford area, hiding out in a stinking old warehouse, oozing down into the mud. He said Mr. Owen had got out of it to France, as fast as he could, because he was scared stiff of Mr. McNab. He also told us that it was Mr. Pettifer himself who drowned Mr. Blount.”

“Told us?” Rathbone asked, with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, sir. Commander Monk, and me,” Gillander explained.

“Drowned him?” Rathbone said, as if with surprise. “Who shot him?”

“Not certain, sir. Customs man, but could have been another one.”

“How interesting,” Rathbone murmured, almost as if to himself. “I begin to see sense in all of this.”

“That's a great deal more than I do, my lord!” Wingfield protested. “What Sir Oliver tells us he sees, or thinks he begins to see, is neither here nor there. With respect, my lord, how long are we to endure this charade?”

“Until I say otherwise, Mr. Wingfield,” the judge snapped, but his patience was wearing thin also, and Rathbone had to be conscious of that.

“My lord,” Rathbone said meekly, “I will have a witness with crucial evidence on this tomorrow, but may I, in the meantime, call Lady York, widow of the late Mr. Justice Ingram York, to the stand? I regret that she has been in court throughout most of this case, and therefore already heard the evidence presented, but I have only just appreciated that she has evidence of her own knowledge that may clear up much.”

He had not wanted to call Beata but he was desperate for anything to play for time.

Wingfield threw his hand up in the air. “My lord, what on earth can the respectable widow of an eminent judge know of the stinking slums of Deptford, or what some drunken sot has to say on the drowning of an escaped forger? This is beyond preposterous.”

“Sir Oliver?” the judge asked skeptically.

Rathbone still looked a little pale, and he did not move with his usual grace. “I don't imagine Lady York knows anything of Deptford, my lord. I did not mean to suggest that she did. But she does know a great deal about San Francisco in the gold rush days, since she lived there herself. And she has been acquainted with Miriam Astley, as she was then, and with Piers Astley, whose death seems to haunt these proceedings, and with Aaron Clive, the king of that society. She may also have had some knowledge of both Mr. Gillander in his youth, and of William Monk. I think the court may find her information pertinent in several ways.”

“Does Lady York still have the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Clive, Sir Oliver? And is she well enough, after her recent bereavement, to take the witness stand?”

“She still has the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Clive,” Rathbone answered. “Indeed, since her bereavement they are the only close friends she has visited regularly, in connection with the endowment of a chair at a university in the name of the late Sir Ingram York. And she is quite well.”

“Then proceed, but I warn you that if you are wasting the court's time, I will not take an agreeable view of it. It may all be very dramatic, but this is not a theater, Sir Oliver, and a man's life is at stake.”

“Just so, my lord. Thank you.”

Beata was conducted across the floor by the same usher to whom she had given the message. She took the stand and was sworn. She felt a trifle giddy. She had not realized that the steps up to the witness box were so narrow, or so steep. She did not resist the impulse to hold on to the rail in front of her. She knew she must have looked nervous.

“Lady York,” Rathbone began gently. She must not smile at him as if she knew him. She must appear impartial. “I believe you lived in San Francisco for some time, including a year of the gold rush that we are all familiar with, of 1849. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“During that time, did you know some of the people now involved in this trial, specifically the accused, William Monk? Or Piers Astley, who was murdered in 1850? Or Fin Gillander, who owns the schooner
Summer Wind,
and the then Miriam Astley, and her present husband, Aaron Clive?”

“Yes, I knew all of them except William Monk. I knew him only by sight, and by reputation.”

“Indeed? And what was his reputation?”

“As a brave man, a good sailor, but not someone you wanted to cross. Though he was unusual in that he was looking for adventure, not gold. Rather like Fin Gillander.” Should she tell the whole truth? Rathbone had not asked her for it. But it was part of the story. She knew that now better than he did. “Except that Fin, like a lot of men, was in love with Miriam Astley. He was about twenty, and she was more than that, as was I. But it was quite hopeless, and he knew it, because she had never loved anyone else but her husband.”

“Her husband then, Piers Astley, or her husband now, Aaron Clive?”

“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.”

“Let 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.”

Was that a smirk on his face? She felt the blood burn up her cheeks at the thought that Ingram might have boasted to such a man of the things he had caused her to do! Would she ever live that down? Was he mentioning Ingram now on purpose? A warning to her of what he knew?

She stared at him with defiance, even hatred, as if he were Ingram. They even had the same color of eyes!

He was waiting for her to thank him.