Blood on the Water (41 page)

“That is a door you would be very ill-advised to open, Mr. Pryor,” Antrobus said curtly. “It is wide enough to allow all through it, yourself included. The privilege of seeking for the defense does not allow you to slander officers of the law. Do I have to remind you that your evidence must be not only provable, but also relevant? Do you wish to call Mrs. Monk regarding her acquaintance with Major Kittering?”

“I have no knowledge of it,” Pryor said bitterly. “It could be anything at all!” He spread his hands wide in a hopeless gesture. “She was an army nurse, I am told. For God’s sake, that could mean anything! She is no doubt acquainted with scores of soldiers—even hundreds!”

Rathbone nearly shot to his feet, but Brancaster did so first.

“My lord, if Mr. Pryor wishes me to call Mrs. Monk then I will do so. But he would do well to take heed of your lordship’s warning. Slander is a very wide door indeed—but not wide enough to wreck the reputation and honor, indeed the nation’s gratitude, to the women who served with Miss Nightingale in the Crimea, sharing the desperate hardships of our men there and caring for the sick and the wounded …” Pryor made a choking sound in his throat, but swallowed back the protest as he gagged on it. The jurors were staring at him, eyes wide, and there was a sharp rustle in the gallery as people stiffened to attention.

“Very well. Call your witness now, Mr. Brancaster,” Antrobus ordered. “But if you abuse your privilege I shall rule against you.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Brancaster relaxed visibly, relief flooding up his face.

Pryor returned to his seat with an ill grace, biding his time.

There was a buzz of excitement as Brancaster called Major Richard Kittering. The doors opened and Kittering, lean, gaunt, walking slowly and with the aid of crutches, made his way to the witness stand.

Antrobus leaned forward. “Major Kittering, would you prefer to give your evidence from the floor, sir? There is no need for you to climb up to the witness stand. The steps are somewhat awkward. If you care to sit, a chair can be brought.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Kittering replied. “I shall stand as long as I am able.”

Antrobus nodded. “Mr. Brancaster, perhaps you will keep your examination as brief as you may, and still serve your purpose.”

“My lord.”

Kittering was sworn in and Brancaster came into the body of the floor, speaking respectfully as to a man who had earned the right to it. He established Kittering’s military record and the regiment in which he had served, that he had been wounded in Egypt and had returned to England earlier in the year.

“Are you acquainted with the accused, Gamal Sabri?” Brancaster asked.

“No, sir, not personally.”

“His family?” Brancaster enquired.

Kittering’s face was stiff, as if he were controlling his inner pain only with difficulty. “No, sir, only by repute.”

“Repute?”

There was not a sound in the courtroom except for a woman coughing and instantly stifling it.

“Yes, sir. My friend Captain John Stanley knew Sabri’s family …” Kittering’s voice faltered and he struggled to maintain his composure. His emotion was palpable in the room.

“You use the past tense, Major Kittering,” Brancaster said gently. “He does not know them anymore?”

Kittering lifted his chin and swallowed hard. “I regret to say that all Mr. Sabri’s family perished in the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh.”

“All of them?” Brancaster said incredulously.

“Yes, sir. There were two hundred people who died that night. Every man, woman, and child in the village.” His voice broke and his face was ashen.

Brancaster’s question was little more than a whisper, but the room was motionless; every word was audible.

“You used the word ‘massacre.’ Do I take it that they were murdered … two hundred of them?”

Kittering, standing ramrod stiff, swayed a little.

“Yes, sir. By marauding mercenaries who mistook where they were.”

Brancaster moved forward a step, as if he were afraid Kittering might fall.

“Were you there, Major?”

“No, sir, I was not. I heard of it from Captain Stanley.”

“He was there?”

“Yes, sir. He tried to prevent it, but the officer in command wouldn’t listen. Mercenaries, all nationalities …” His voice tailed off. His skin was ashen. “But the man in charge was British …”

“Captain Stanley told you this?”

“Yes, sir. The man in charge was arrogant, brave, a good soldier spoiled by a filthy temper.”

Kittering looked so fragile Brancaster began a sentence and changed his mind, afraid to draw the questioning out any further than he had to. “Stanley was there, and saw it all?”

“Yes, sir, almost all. In trying to stop the massacre, he was knocked senseless. That may have saved his life.”

“Then why are you here testifying, and not Stanley?” Brancaster asked, moving another step forward.

“He was injured and had only just returned to England, sir. He went down on the
Princess Mary
.”

There were sighs around the room. A woman sobbed.

On the bench Antrobus leaned forward and ordered the usher to fetch a chair for Kittering. Brancaster helped him onto it, propping the crutches beside him where he could reach them.

“Thank you, Major Kittering,” Brancaster said gravely. “We mourn the loss of Captain Stanley, and all the other nearly two hundred men and women who drowned in the Thames that night. We also mourn those innocent people who lost their lives in Egypt, due to the arrogance and ill-temper of a British renegade officer who would not be counseled.” He turned to Pryor. “Your witness, sir.”

Pryor stood up. Perhaps he was at last aware that the entire room was against him. They were numb with horror at the tragedy, and the mindless evil of it all. They looked at Kittering, his pain and his shame for his brother officers written indelibly in his face. They waited for Pryor to attack him.

Pryor was too wise and, Rathbone thought, also too self-serving, to make such an error.

“I will not keep you long, Major Kittering. I regret having to trouble you at all.”

Kittering nodded.

“When and where did Captain Stanley tell you about this appalling event?”

“When he came to see me, on returning home,” Kittering answered. “It was at the beginning of May. Two days before the sailing of the
Princess Mary
.”

“And you believed his account, word for word?” Pryor did not invest his voice with doubt; he knew better than that.

“Yes. I knew Stanley, and I know of the officer in command, a man called Wilbraham, by repute. I knew the massacre had occurred because I knew men who saw the place two or three days after. Many bodies were unburned and the stench of blood was still in the air.”

“Perhaps you are fortunate you were not able to be on the
Princess Mary
?” Pryor left only a suggestion of disbelief in the air.

“Why?” Kittering said, twisting his mouth in a grimace of misery. “I wasn’t actually there, after all.”

“Indeed you were not,” Pryor agreed. “It seems you have a very partial knowledge of a horrific incident, and a great deal of loyalty to a dead friend who may well have been to blame for it.”

Kittering was so white that Brancaster rose to his feet, not to object but to help him physically if he should faint in the chair and fall sideways onto the floor. Even Rathbone was poised to rush forward if that should happen.

Everyone else in the room was motionless.

Pryor broke the spell.

“It seems from your story, Major Kittering, that you believe Gamal Sabri took a fearful vengeance on the man who destroyed his village, and some two hundred of his fellow countrymen. An appalling act, but one I dare say many of us here would at least understand. If someone hacked to death every man, woman, and child in the village where I grew up, I cannot swear that I would forgive, or trust in a powerless law to avenge such an act. What I do not understand is why you appear to defend Stanley. If your story is true, perhaps you will explain that to us?” He stood with a helpless, confused expression, waiting for Kittering to answer.

Kittering took several long, deep breaths. Clearly he was exhausted and in some considerable physical pain.

Brancaster remained standing.

Antrobus looked at Kittering with some concern, but he did not intervene.

Rathbone felt as if each second dragged by, but there was nothing he could do to help.

“You have misunderstood, sir,” Kittering said at last. “Perhaps that is your job. It appears to be. Stanley did not commit the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh. He tried to stop it and was nearly killed for his efforts.” He stopped, struggling to keep his composure.

Pryor seized the chance to interrupt. “That makes no sense, sir. If Stanley was not guilty, why on earth would Gamal Sabri sink an entire ship of people just to be sure of killing him? It is absurd! You cannot expect this court to believe that. Perhaps your own injury has … affected
your memory.” He said it in a conciliatory tone, but it did not disguise his contempt. “May I put it to you, Major Kittering, that it was Stanley who led the atrocity against the village, and you yourself who were severely injured in trying to prevent it?”

There was a stirring in the gallery; whether out of pity, disgust, or fear, it was hard to tell.

“They were mercenaries,” Kittering said with weary patience, as if speaking to someone slow of wits. “There will be no military record of them. But I am a regular soldier. It would be perfectly simple to check that I was nowhere near Shaluf et Terrabeh at this time, if you were interested in the truth. And I did not say that Sabri sank the
Princess Mary
to kill anyone in revenge, although I dare say he was willing enough. God knows what we have done to his people. Of course it makes no sense to kill Stanley. I don’t suppose he knew Stanley was on board …”

Pryor rolled his eyes.

Kittering kept his patience with an effort. “He was paid to sink the ship,” he said quietly, his voice fading as his strength drained away. “Stanley was the one man who could have testified against Wilbraham, and would have if he could be brought to trial.”

The court was silent. No one moved in the jury box, or in the body of the gallery. Even Antrobus was momentarily lost for words.

Pryor turned one way, then the other, but for once he could think of nothing wise or clever to say.

Brancaster looked around, then moved forward and offered his arm to Kittering.

“Thank you, sir. May I take you back to a more comfortable place, and perhaps fetch you a glass of water?”

Kittering rose with difficulty and accepted Brancaster’s arm.

Antrobus nodded slowly. He looked at Pryor, then at Brancaster’s back as he walked all the way to the doors with Kittering. He glanced at Rathbone and smiled very slightly before adjourning the court. They would check the military records Brancaster had given them,
perhaps even check with the Egyptian embassy that the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh had been as reported, but no one doubted it.

Outside Monk joined Hester.

“God, what an awful crime,” he said with emotion all but choking him. He put his arm around her, drawing her closer to him. “I must tell Ossett that it’s over, at least the legal part. Whether Pryor loses anything, except the case, time will tell. York’s finished. The decision on Beshara will obviously be reversed, so Camborne will lose, maybe more than just that decision. I hope Lydiate won’t lose his job, but he might.” He did not add that possibly he deserved to. He was not sufficiently sure he could not have been manipulated, were his family’s lives at stake.

“Come with me,” he added. “You can tell Ossett about Kittering better than I can. And it was you who found him. He’ll be relieved that we’ve found the truth at last.”

She nodded silently, linking her arm in his as they went down the steps toward the busy street.

O
SSETT RECEIVED THEM ALMOST
immediately, putting all other business aside. They were shown into his gracious and comfortable office with its striking portrait above the mantelpiece.

“It is over, sir,” Monk said without preamble. Ossett looked drained of color, as if he had neither eaten nor slept well in days, possibly weeks, and Monk felt a surge of pity for him. Perhaps he was guilty of having pressured Lydiate into a fatal haste where Beshara was concerned, but if so he had done all he could since then to support Monk in his pursuit of the truth, and then the trial of Gamal Sabri.

“There is no question that Sabri is guilty,” Monk said with certainty. “Kittering’s evidence makes sense of it all.”

Ossett was very pale, but there was a tension within him as if he were unable to remain seated.

“How did you find him, Mrs. Monk?” he asked.

Was it politeness to make her feel included, or did he really wish
to know? Monk himself was uncertain. But now that it was all but over, he felt the man deserved any information he asked for. He was the one who would have to deal with the political consequences, and advise on the legal ones, should there be any.

Briefly, Hester told him of her service in the Crimea, and that she still knew several men with military careers. As she did so, she glanced up at the portrait, and smiled.

“I see,” Ossett said hoarsely. “And what does this Major Kittering have to say about the sinking of the
Princess Mary
?”

Quietly and in the simplest of words, Monk told him of the atrocity in the village of Shaluf et Terrabeh, and how the raid had been a hideous error by an arrogant mercenary commander. One man had stood out against him, and all but lost his life for his temerity.

Ossett looked as if he himself had been struck. He was shaking, and as pale as the white paper on the desk in front of him.

“Are you … certain of this?” he said falteringly. “Does this man, Kittering, know beyond doubt?”

“I believe he does,” Monk answered. “His friend, Stanley, was there and all but lost his life trying to prevent it.”

“Stanley?” Ossett repeated the name as if it had some terrible meaning for him. “Captain John Stanley?”

Monk was puzzled. “Yes, sir. Do you know of him?”