Blood on the Water (21 page)

Suddenly Ossett lost the control he had been guarding since Monk had come in. The veneer over his pain was as thin as a coat of varnish.

“Don’t be a damn fool, man!” His voice creaked with emotion. “If you can’t act in the best interests of your country without some idiotic and totally impossible written permission, which would excuse anything you choose to do, even murder and treason, then you are not fit for a reasonable position of any kind, let alone the one you hold—at Her Majesty’s pleasure, I might add! In fact you are not even fit to be called a loyal subject.”

It looked like rage in his face, close to hysteria, but Monk knew now that it was fear. What could a man of Lord Ossett’s power and influence be so deeply afraid of?

“I am loyal to Her Majesty,” Monk said quietly. “My only higher loyalty is to the honor of justice and the law. At least I believe it is. I have never before been in a position where I perceived them not to be the same.”

The color bled from Ossett’s face. For several seconds he said nothing, and then he spoke slowly, choosing each word.

“You misunderstand me. Perhaps I was not clear.” He swallowed. “There are aspects of this case that you are unaware of, and will remain so, for reasons that should not need explaining to you.” He pushed a lock of hair back off his brow. “It is distressing, profoundly so, and I apologize for my loss of temper. This whole matter is abnormal to me. The crime was horrific, and therefore acutely sensitive in public opinion. I made an error in giving it to the Metropolitan Police. I appreciate that now, and you have my apologies. You are now handed back a case that is far more difficult to solve than it would have been in the beginning. The waters have been muddied, perhaps hopelessly. It is a matter not only for detection but for delicacy and discretion.”

Ossett hesitated, still finding his thoughts slowly, as if treading on ice already cracking beneath his feet.

“It may be necessary to admit defeat, but it will leave a highly dissatisfied public, no longer believing in the power or the skill of their
police force. That is a result I profoundly desire to avoid. Lies are difficult, dangerous, and usually immoral. But the truth is not always the answer either. There may be a fire in a theater, but to shout it out is still dangerous, even fatal. I’m sure you take my point without the necessity of elaboration.”

Monk was startled by the wave of pity he felt for the man. “Yes, sir. I understand, and I will make certain that my men do also. It is not yet impossible that we will find whoever is guilty, and it may include Habib Beshara as an accessory.”

Ossett smiled bleakly, the anger had melted away.

“That would be the best answer imaginable,” he said with a faint smile. “If I can be of assistance in any way at all, ask me. Regardless, keep me informed. That is an order.” He kept his eyes, tense and dark with misgiving, on Monk’s to assure himself that Monk had understood.

“Yes, sir.” Monk rose to his feet and excused himself.

Outside in the sun he walked slowly, his mind still turning over what he had heard, and even more the intense depth of emotion that he had seen in Ossett.

He claimed that appointing Lydiate and the regular police instead of the Thames River Police was a misjudgment, clumsy but understandable. Under normal circumstances, Monk would not have questioned that explanation. But after talking to Lydiate, Monk had felt that the man been put in charge because he was impressionable, and perhaps more easily manipulated. What was the truth?

Why was Beshara’s motive, or anyone’s, so difficult to find? Why had Lydiate and his men not pushed harder to find it, clarify it, and prove it so the jury understood? Was it a motive that, if revealed, would be acutely embarrassing to the government? Or to some major supporter of the government? A financial giant? Heaven knew there were enough of them in the shipping world. Some of the finest and richest port cities in Britain had been built on the wealth of those who shipped slaves across the Atlantic.

What else? The Opium Wars were as ugly as anything committed by any nation, but they were old history now.

Did it have anything at all to do with Egypt and the canal through Suez, or was that a convenient diversion? That was where there might be a possible current diplomatic clash that would matter—with the French. Or was it Egypt, and the Turkish Empire to whom Egypt was subject?

He crossed the street to the shady side of the pavement, still deep in thought.

CHAPTER
 

M
ONK HAD
O
RME AND
Hooper continue to pursue the witnesses along the river, and look for any who had not testified in court.

Monk himself considered Habib Beshara and the mounting number of times his attempts to speak with the man personally had been denied for one reason or another. He was ill and too weak to talk, or there was restlessness in the prison and it was not convenient, not safe, or the governor, Fortridge-Smith, was occupied with other matters and unavailable. Each reason alone was understandable. Collectively they amounted to obstruction. He read through all the reports on Beshara twice, shuffling papers in his office in the Wapping Police Station, looking in the backs of drawers, among the records of other cases to see if pages had been mislaid. There seemed to be so much that was missing: details of Beshara’s life, friends, enemies, debts, and weaknesses, anything that could be followed through to learn more of him.

It was all facts, no flavor of the man. There was no history to him,
nothing at all about who he was before he appeared in the London docks, already speaking English and with a considerable art in making money across the line of the law.

He had said his family was prominent in one of the small villages very close to the Suez Canal, which had profited them greatly, but he had said little as to in what way.

Camborne had not raised the subject at all at the trial, and Juniver had not challenged him, nor given any account of his own, and Beshara had very wisely not insisted on taking the stand himself. But if the truth was damning, why had Camborne not disclosed it?

The obvious answer to that was that it involved other people whom Camborne did not wish to call, either because of their own dubious reputations, or because they would implicate others of great influence, and possibly high office. And as it had transpired, none of it was necessary for a conviction.

Regarding the present case, several people had testified to seeing Beshara in the neighborhood of the
Princess Mary
’s sinking. Unfortunately their descriptions did not agree. One said he wore a high-collared shirt and a jacket similar to those worn by waiters on the ship. Another made him appear much more like a river man. A third and fourth were too emotional to have more than impressions, but these grew firmer with each retelling.

It all added up to no more than impressions, beliefs: nothing that should have carried a verdict in a court of law, but emotions were too high and York had overruled Juniver’s few objections.

Then there was also the question as to who had attacked him in prison, and came so close to actually killing him that he was still kept segregated in the prison infirmary. Had Lydiate looked into that? No report had been made public, and there was nothing regarding it in the notes that had been given to Monk. Monk decided he must press that with Lydiate, to find out whether it was an oversight or a deliberate omission.

W
HEN
M
ONK FACED
L
YDIATE
in his tidy, comfortable office, which was at least three times the size of Monk’s own, it was an awkward interview. Monk disliked having to force the issue, so he did it directly and without misleading pleasantries.

“I was told it was simply a prison fight,” Lydiate said grimly. “I accepted that. I thought it was possible someone had taken their own revenge, and frankly I didn’t blame them.” He bit his lip, but there was defiance in his eyes. “Or it may have been some prison quarrel. He is not a pleasant man.”

“Did you speak to him?” Monk could not let it go so easily. It was one of the few threads he had to follow that might lead somewhere.

“No. I asked to, but was refused,” Lydiate replied as if the answer were both expected and adequate.

“You accepted that?” Monk could not keep the incredulity from his voice.

“No,” Lydiate replied with a touch of coldness. “I took the matter higher; the best I could achieve was to see Fortridge-Smith, which was unsatisfactory, but it was better than nothing.”

“What did Fortridge-Smith say?” Monk asked.

“That Beshara was an unpleasant man, guilty of this particular crime and many others, and fully deserved to be hanged, which he gave me credit for proving,” Lydiate replied with a flush of embarrassment. “The government had seen fit to commute his sentence, for reasons he did not understand and had not been told, but if the man was killed in prison then it was no more than his due.” Clearly Lydiate did not admire Fortridge-Smith.

Monk changed tack slightly. “I see from your notes that you and your men tried to get any information you could from Beshara when you arrested him, and he said nothing at all about any coconspirators?”

“Yes. You can try talking to him if you want to,” Lydiate acknowledged. “But I think it’s a waste of time. Looking at it with hindsight, it is even possible that he may not actually know anything.”

“I’ve been trying. I think I will try again.” Monk stood up. “Thank you.”

M
ONK DULY ASKED FOR
official permission to speak to Habib Beshara again, in order to question him about certain times and places he had been near the river on the night of the explosion, and what he might have seen or heard. He did not expect to learn anything useful, at least not intentionally from Beshara, but sometimes a creative lie revealed other truths.

Beyond that, he was very interested indeed as to what Beshara would say about the attack on him. Was it a prison quarrel, as Fortridge-Smith had claimed, or was it revenge by someone who believed him responsible for the atrocity? Or—far more interestingly—was it to keep him silent about whatever he knew: either a warning, or a failed attempt to kill him?

Permission was again refused. Monk asked for an explanation and was denied one. It made him more determined than ever.

Hooper was less known to the authorities than Orme. Monk had Hooper find out the news and backgrounds of those currently in the same prison block as Beshara. When Hooper returned with a list of names Monk chose one that the Thames River Police could justifiably wish to question. It had to be regarding a crime currently under investigation.

Giles Witherspoon had been found guilty of receiving stolen goods of considerable value. Orme had already tried to elicit information from him as to who had stolen them in the first place, and gained nothing. He had not really expected to. Giles was an opulent receiver, and a man did not succeed in that calling if he betrayed his clients, either buyers or sellers.

Monk went to the prison armed with the permission he needed.

Fortridge-Smith was a tall, lean man with sandy hair and a closely clipped mustache. His military bearing made him seem to be in uniform, even though he was not. He stood very straight, almost to attention, when he spoke to Monk as he arrived at the prison and reported to the governor’s office.