Revenge in a Cold River (31 page)

“How interesting. So what business did you share, Mr. Gillander? Smuggling? Gunrunning? Gambling? Helping wanted men to escape? Guns for hire?”

Rathbone started to rise to his feet to object, but Gillander answered too quickly. “Don't know much about building and settling a new town, do you?”

“Nothing at all,” Wingfield agreed. “I'm a Londoner. We were settled here before Julius Caesar landed in 55
BC
. Please answer the question. What did you carry up and down the Californian coast, with the accused?”

“Food, furniture, tools and equipment, timber, bolts of cloth, household goods, and of course rations and prospectors. It's a long way from Bristol down the Atlantic, around the Horn, and up the Pacific coast all the way across the Equator again and into San Francisco Bay. You don't do it in a few weeks. Once a year is enough for most people. You don't want to go round the Horn in winter…which down there is June, July, and August.”

“Thank you, I am aware that Cape Horn is in the Southern Hemisphere, Mr. Gillander. So you and the accused were facing hardship and danger at sea in a part of the world most of us here only dream of?”

“Yes,” Gillander agreed reluctantly.

“Is this going somewhere, my lord?” Rathbone asked a little wearily.

“Get to the point, Mr. Wingfield, if there is one,” the judge prompted.

“It will become apparent later on, my lord,” Wingfield said.

Monk felt himself cold, as if somebody had opened a door to the icy weather outside. Wingfield was going to raise Piers Astley's death later on. He would when the subject could be brought up naturally, somehow or other. And Rathbone would find no defense against it because Monk had none.

“So you were already well acquainted with Mr. Monk when he questioned you about Owen, the escaped prisoner?” Wingfield said.

“It took me a few minutes to recognize him,” Gillander answered. “It had been twenty years. But yes, I soon realized who he was.”

“And who was he, Mr. Gillander?”

“Commander of the River Police at Wapping,” he said. Gillander smiled again. Then before Wingfield could interrupt. “But it was the same man I knew as a damn good sailor in California.”

Wingfield let out his breath slowly. “And you were friends, after a manner? You were both soldiers of fortune? Or perhaps sailors of fortune would be more appropriate?”

“If you like.”

“Allies at times?”

“And rivals at others,” Gillander added.

“Just so. Now, in the matter of getting Mr. Monk, and probably yourself, out of this predicament regarding the rescue of the escaped prisoner, and the violent death of the customs officer, Pettifer—are you rivals or allies in that, Mr. Gillander?”

“Allies, Mr. Wingfield. We would both like to find the truth and prove it, on both counts,” Gillander said without hesitation.

“Or at least to blame it all on someone else,” Wingfield retorted.

“Wherever it fits!” Gillander snapped back at him. “I don't know where that is yet, and neither do you!”

Wingfield put his head a little to one side. “Yes, I do, Mr. Gillander. It fits with Mr. Monk, and very possibly also with you!” He turned to the judge. “Thank you, my lord. That is all I have for this witness at present, although I reserve the right to recall him if new evidence emerges.”

The judge adjourned the court for the day. Those who were free to do so went out into the rapidly darkening afternoon, and the wind and ice.

Monk was taken back to his cell to lie idle through the long evening, and then awake and chilled all night. He tried desperately to think of any way to prove his innocence. He had not killed Pettifer intentionally. That was the one thing he was sure of. Everything else was as impenetrable as the dark of the cell with its closed door, iron lock, and barely a glimmer of light from the one high window into the yard.

A
ARON
C
LIVE WAS CALLED
in the morning. He was treated with the utmost respect. Even Mr. Justice Lyndon spoke to him with grave politeness.

Monk knew why he was called, even though he could add nothing to the sum of knowledge. Clive impressed the jury. They would believe every word he said, and Rathbone would be a fool to try to trick him or interrogate him in any way. He had warned Monk of that, speaking quietly, levelly, and as if he had some plan, although he did not say what it was.

Monk had seen Rathbone comfort accused men before, trying to give them more hope than there was, but out of compassion, and because a man without hope looks to the jury like a man who knows his own guilt. Would not an innocent man believe in the ultimate justice of his cause, and have faith in it?

Not if he had as much experience of the law as Monk had! Hester was not here today. He had searched for her along every row that he could see and then forced himself to believe she was following some hopeful trail, some clues that would condemn McNab. Any other thought was unbearable. He must not look as if he had lost belief. He must not look guilty!

Clive was handsome, calm, and almost heroic, not reckless like Gillander. He had the kind of charm that both men and women warm to. He spoke with authority, as if he had never in his life wanted or needed to lie.

He recounted accurately exactly what his men had reported to him of the events on Skelmer's Wharf. Even Monk, listening to every word, could see no evasion or addition of unnecessary detail. The account was limited to facts, largely already known, but it gave them the imprimatur of truth.

Rathbone asked him nothing, but reserved the right to recall him, if it should prove necessary. It sounded like an empty, formulaic thing to say, and that knowledge was plain in the faces of the jury.

Then the main prosecution witness was called: McNab. He strode across the open space from the entrance to the witness stand, and climbed up the winding steps to face Wingfield. He swore to his name, official status, and his occupation.

Wingfield was now getting well into his stride. He stood easily, almost gracefully, his dark face calm, oozing confidence.

“Mr. McNab, so far we have heard a great deal about the actual circumstances of Mr. Pettifer's death, but no real reason why the accused so passionately wished for the destruction of a man with whom he had no personal relationship. Why when chance offered itself, even in front of witnesses, could he not control his passion to kill?”

McNab stood silently on the stand and smiled. He reminded Monk of a hungry man at last sitting at the table with knife and fork in hand, and his favorite meal in front of him.

Rathbone sat rigidly, the light catching the silver in his fair hair, his shoulders locked. Did he have any weapons at all with which to fight back?

Wingfield cleared his throat. “Mr. McNab, how long have you known William Monk?”

“On and off, for about sixteen years,” McNab answered. He looked comfortable, his hair brushed back hard off his blunt face. He was dressed neatly, but his suit was very plain, that of an ordinary man who worked hard.

“Professionally or personally?” Wingfield asked.

“Professionally.”

“And do you know, to your own knowledge, whether Monk was also acquainted with Mr. Pettifer, the dead man?”

“Not as far as I am aware, sir,” McNab said politely. “Mr. Pettifer quite recently told me that he knew Mr. Monk only by repute, as a hard and clever man who was exceptionally good at his job, but prone to take it all a little personally.”

Rathbone stood up. “My lord, that is hearsay.”

“Indeed it is,” Mr. Justice Lyndon agreed. “You know better than to ask your question in that way, Mr. Wingfield. Find some other way to establish the relationship, or lack of it, between the accused and the victim.”

“I apologize, my lord. Of course you are right.”

In that instant Monk knew that Wingfield had done this on purpose. He now had all the latitude he wished to bring in the supposed acquaintance a great deal more obliquely. It was Rathbone's first slip.

“I believe that in the course of your professional duties, you would work with Thames River Police?” Wingfield continued. “As, for example, on the apprehension of dangerous smugglers, such as gunrunners, perhaps?”

“Yes, sir,” McNab said, nodding slightly.

“Did Mr. Pettifer ever work with Mr. Monk on such a case, to your certain knowledge?”

“Yes, sir, he did.” McNab's face was almost shining with his anticipation.

“Will you tell the court about it, please?” Wingfield directed him.

Rathbone sat still. There was nothing for him to object to. If he tried, he would only draw even more attention to it.

Monk felt as if they were making a certainty of the verdict against him.

Detail by detail McNab described the knowledge gained by the Customs service and the Wapping Station of the River Police concerning the schooner that was coming upriver with the smuggled guns.

Wingfield did not interrupt him except here and there, reluctantly and to clarify an issue, a time, a state of the tide. It was a good tactic. It made McNab seem uninvolved personally, and it emphasized all the points that were most telling.

“And who knew this exact time and place of the gun smuggling, Mr. McNab?” Wingfield asked gravely.

“I heard just before we left, sir,” McNab answered. “Mr. Pettifer arranged it. I don't know if he told anyone else. He said to me that he didn't.”

“And what happened, Mr. McNab?”

“The river pirates boarded the schooner, from the downriver side of the smugglers, within seconds of the River Police coming up the side and boarding from the west, the darker side.”

“One would presume that was the natural side to board?” It was a question for the jury's benefit.

“Yes, sir. No one would be looking for pirates that way, at that time.”

“Indeed. And what happened, Mr. McNab?”

Would Rathbone object that McNab had not been there, and could only know from other people's reports? There was no point. It would make Rathbone look to be out of control, grabbing at anything he thought could distract the jury from the increasingly obvious truth.

“There was a very nasty gun battle going three ways, sir,” McNab answered. “The schooner crew were locked below deck and breaking their way out through the hatch. The River Police were on the decks, and the pirates were swarming up the east side of the hull and onto the deck. They could then take advantage of the fact the River Police had locked the crew below and spent most of their ammunition, shooting at them as they tried to break out. And effectively they were marooned there because their own boats had gone when the pirates attacked. They were outnumbered and outgunned.”

“A desperate situation,” Wingfield said gravely. “What happened? How is it that Mr. Monk, and indeed Mr. Hooper, are still alive?”

“They were badly wounded,” McNab said, nodding his head slowly. “And one of them, Mr. Orme, Mr. Monk's longtime friend and mentor, the man who brought him into the force, was killed. Very bad business. He bled to death.” He spoke with reverence, as if it were a grief to him also. “Mr. Monk did everything he could to save him, but he could not stop the bleeding. Mr. Hooper was injured also. In fact he is not long back on full duty. Mr. Laker, another young man of Mr. Monk's, was badly hurt, too.”

“And this was all brought about by Mr. Pettifer's betrayal to the river pirates?” Wingfield said with amazement. “Why was he not hanged for such a heinous act?”

“No, sir, he was not responsible. But for a time, before we could investigate it thoroughly, it did look like it.”

“Then whose fault was it?”

McNab bent his head in apparent sadness.

“A series of mischances, sir. The river pirates have men all over the place. Someone was not careful enough. I'm afraid it happens.”

“So Mr. Monk, convinced, as you yourself were for a while, that it was Mr. Pettifer, had a very powerful reason to hate him?” Wingfield said in the silence that followed.

Monk sat in the dock with his fists clenched, his teeth clamped so hard his whole head ached. He had never thought it was Pettifer. He knew damned well that it was McNab himself. And he knew why!

“Yes, sir. I'm afraid he did,” McNab said. “He also believed that Mr. Pettifer both drowned and shot Blount. Which of course he didn't! But Mr. Monk became obsessive about it. That is why I believe he was determined to catch Owen himself. He thought there was some huge plan to rob one of the warehouses along the river. Blount was a forger, and Owen an expert in explosives. He thought they were planning, with a couple of other men, to rob Mr. Clive's warehouse.”

“And were they?”

McNab was perfectly straight-faced. “Not that we are aware of, sir. Anyway, Blount is dead and we have good evidence that Owen escaped to France, thanks to Mr. Gillander's assistance.”

Wingfield pursed his lips. “You said that Mr. Monk became obsessive about Mr. Pettifer, and his part in the fiasco of the battle with the gun smugglers. Can you give us an example of what you mean, so the court understands?
Obsessive
is a powerful word. It conjures up visions of unnatural behavior.”

McNab considered for a moment, as if he had been unprepared for this particular question. “Yes, sir,” he said at last. “He has gone over the evidence a number of times, at least four, and sent two of his own men, Mr. Hooper and Mr. Laker, to check on my personal movements leading up to the event.”

“Perhaps he is checking to see if he made any errors himself?” Wingfield suggested. “Or possibly that his own men did? He must carry a profound sense of guilt for Mr. Orme's death, on top of his natural grief for a man who did so much for him.”

“He was looking for my men's errors,” McNab said with contempt. “He knew it was Mr. Pettifer who was going after Owen because of the questions he asked my men about Blount. He got it into his head that there was some large conspiracy involving them, with two other people with high skills, and that Mr. Pettifer was the connection between them. It was frankly ridiculous!”