Blood on the Water (34 page)

Hooper was called. He told briefly and powerfully how he had seen the boat on the Isle of Dogs, and found Sabri and arrested him. Witnesses were produced who could connect Sabri to the boat, not on one occasion but a score. Pryor failed to discredit Hooper at all.

Brancaster was careful not to suggest Beshara was a good man, or innocent of any involvement in the sinking, only that he had not been placed on or near the
Princess Mary
himself, and Sabri had.

The court was adjourned for the weekend.

“Not a completely unassailable case,” Rathbone said as he and Brancaster walked out of the Old Bailey and down the shallow steps to the noise and bustle of the street.

“I know,” Brancaster admitted, turning to go down toward Ludgate Hill. He fitted his step automatically to Rathbone’s. “It could be enough for any other case, but not this. They’ll still take reasonable doubt—it’s easier. Nobody wants to think the justice system is so fragile we could have hanged the wrong man for this. We were all so sure.”

“It’s not only a matter of not hanging the wrong one,” Rathbone argued. “It’s about hanging the right one. Did you see Camborne in court today?”

Brancaster drew in a sharp breath. “No, I didn’t. Of course he’ll fight pretty hard not to have Beshara vindicated.” They reached the corner and turned into Ludgate Hill, the sun at their backs. The traffic was heavy in the late afternoon. It was Friday. There was a weariness in the air.

Rathbone debated with himself whether to raise the subject that was clamoring in his mind. Was it a weakness to mention it now, or cowardly not to? It would have to come, if not today, then on Monday.

“And York,” he added. “He won’t want to be effectively reversed.”

Brancaster shot a sideways glance at him.

Rathbone wondered how much he had guessed, or deduced, about his feelings for York’s wife. Was he as transparent as he felt?

They walked fifty feet without speaking.

“They’ve all got reasons,” Brancaster said at last. “Pride, fear, money, advancement, something.”

“Protecting somebody,” Rathbone added.

Brancaster kept step with him.

“So Sabri put the dynamite in the
Princess Mary
, and he detonated it and then leaped over in time to escape the explosion. Do you think he did it to protect somebody?”

“It’s possible. And we still don’t know who picked him up,” Rathbone added. “That wasn’t left to chance.”

“That’s the whole issue, isn’t it?” Brancaster sighed. “Who else was part of it at the time, and—even worse—who else covered it up afterward?”

“I know,” Rathbone said quietly. They were now on a side street and there was no clatter of traffic to drown their voices.

“The other thing that is troublesome,” Brancaster went on, “is that we still have no motive. Sheer hatred of Britain can be powerful, but why this particular reaction, and why now? If the jury is going to believe me, then I need to show a reason they can understand.”

“Not only that,” Rathbone warned him. “You need to have something that speaks to ordinary human passion, not something financial or to do with trade routes and shipping, if that’s what it turns out to be. And I would advise you very seriously not to get into a political train of thought that may end by painting Britain in general as being greedy, exploitative, and destructive of other people’s lives and homes, in order to increase our own profits. It may well be true, but your jury will not wish to accept it.” He glanced sideways at Brancaster as they crossed the road. “You can force them to accept it, if the weight of your evidence is heavy enough, but it will be against their hearts, and they’ll make you pay for it. No one wants their dreams broken. Patriotism is a very powerful force. God only knows how many people, what families down the ages, have given their lives for their country. Don’t try telling them now that they did it for an unworthy cause.”

Brancaster stopped, his face bleak, mouth pulled tight. He stared
at Rathbone. “Why the hell did Sabri do it? Am I going to end up with nothing better than a plea of insanity? Play to their belief in a foreigner having a different and baser morality than ours? That’s not only untrue, it’s …” He struggled for a word. “Degrading myself. I’m not sure I’m prepared to do that, even for a conviction.”

Rathbone looked back at him. “And what about our justice system that latched on to Habib Beshara because he’s an unpleasant character, and was prepared to twist and distort, overlook or misrepresent the facts, a detail here, a detail there, to convict him? Hang him and get the whole thing out of the way? Are you prepared to take off the garments clothing our system’s less public parts, and expose that for what it is?”

“How the devil else can I put this right?” Brancaster asked with a note of desperation in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Rathbone said frankly.

T
HE TRIAL RESUMED ON
Monday morning. Brancaster knew that if he did not discredit the conviction of Beshara he had no chance of having Sabri found guilty in his place. He and Rathbone had debated the wisdom of a preemptive strike. Would it seem unnecessarily spiteful? Might it even betray a sense of vulnerability in their own arguments to defend them before they were attacked?

Rathbone looked across at the table where Pryor sat waiting, listening, his pencil ready to take notes. There was a keen doggedness in his face. His heavy jaw was clenched so the muscles showed very slightly in the slant of the light from the windows.

Brancaster called a young policeman by the name of Rivers, who gave an account of his search for witnesses, when the case had been given to Lydiate’s men. He seemed both serious and candid. He was very polite.

Brancaster treated him gently.

Rathbone sat fidgeting, aware that it was a mass of detail, and inevitably boring. He saw the attention of the jury begin to wander.

Pryor yawned and hunched his shoulders, then relaxed them.

It was more than time that Brancaster elicited something of value. Much longer and it would fall on deaf ears, regardless of its relevance.

“Can you describe this particular witness, Sergeant Rivers?” Brancaster asked pleasantly.

Pryor had had enough. “My lord, how can it possibly matter what the witness looked like? I began to fear that Mr. Brancaster is stretching this out to impossible lengths in the hope of boring us to death!”

Antrobus looked inquiringly at Brancaster.

“Not at all, my lord,” Brancaster said respectfully. “Were Mr. Pryor to die, we should have to begin all over again, and I, for one, have no wish to do that.”

There was a titter of amusement around the gallery.

“Nor I,” Antrobus agreed. “I doubt I should survive that myself. Perhaps you will be good enough to reach your point, on the assumption that you have one?”

“Yes, my lord,” Brancaster said obediently. “You were going to describe the witness for us, Sergeant Rivers.”

Rivers looked puzzled. “He was very ordinary, sir. A trifle portly around the middle. A sort of a … blunt kind of face.”

“Was he dark or fair?” Brancaster asked.

“I … don’t recall. Medium. Sort of brownish, I think.”

Pryor waved his arms. “My lord!”

Brancaster ignored him. “And what sort of age?”

“Between thirty-five and fifty,” Rivers replied.

“Clean-shaven, or bearded?” Brancaster persisted.

“I don’t recall,” Rivers said hotly. “But he was a good witness, clean and well-spoken.”

Pryor stiffened.

Brancaster smiled. “But you, a trained police officer, who stood opposite him in the daylight, cannot recall anything specific about him, not the color of his hair, his age except within fifteen years, or whether he was clean-shaven or had a mustache!”

Now he had the jury’s total attention.

“I was trying to judge his honesty, not remember his appearance!” Rivers protested.

“Of course,” Brancaster agreed. “I imagine your witness was minding his own business rather than trying to recall the face of the man he saw boarding the
Princess Mary
.” He smiled. “He, too, was an honest man, doing his best to help after an appalling act. And, just like you, Sergeant Rivers, his memory is fuzzy. He does not know the details, because at the time they did not matter. Thank you. That is all I have for you.”

Pryor hesitated, briefly scanning the jurors’ faces. Then he gave a slight, dismissive wave of his hand and declined to pursue the issue.

Brancaster called a lighterman who worked strings of barges frequently passing the places of main concern on the last voyage of the
Princess Mary
. His name was Spiller. He was grizzle-headed and strong, and he climbed the steps up to the witness box with some grace. He looked like a man who was used to keeping his balance on a moving deck.

Brancaster asked him about his job, the places it took him on the length of the river, and the sort of sights he was accustomed to pass every day. This time the jury was not bored, and Pryor paid attention to each question and answer.

Brancaster had to be more careful. Rathbone knew that all he expected was to show that Spiller was experienced, observant, and familiar with all the workings of the river and its people. He had noticed few of the things the witnesses against Beshara claimed to have seen. Those he had seen he said happened almost every day, and he attached no significance to them.

“Did you explain this to the police when they asked you?” Brancaster said curiously.

“They didn’t ask me,” Spiller replied. There was a gleam of both humor and contempt in his eyes.

Rathbone saw that this remark was not lost on the jury.

“But you were there?” Brancaster said, investing his tone with confusion.

“ ’Course I was,” Spiller answered. “I suppose the police had what they needed already.”

“But your answer would have changed their understanding of what they were told,” Brancaster pointed out.

Pryor rose to his feet, burning for the chance to attack.

“My lord, Mr. Brancaster cannot know why the police did not ask Mr. Spiller, or what difference his answer might have made, if any at all. He is deliberately misleading the court.”

“Ah, Mr. Pryor,” Antrobus said with no inflexion in his voice, “I am glad you are awake.” He turned to Brancaster. “You know better than that. You may give us facts, sir, and allow the jury to draw their own conclusion as to their importance or their meaning. Please do not oblige me to tell you that again.”

“No, my lord,” Brancaster apologized. “I’m sorry.” Then he turned back to the witness stand. “Mr. Spiller, when the case was handed back to the Thames River Police, did anyone approach you then?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Hooper. I told him what I told you.”

“Thank you.” Brancaster turned to Pryor.

Pryor rose and immediately attacked Spiller, even as he was walking across the open area toward the witness stand.

“You are known to the River Police?” he asked, his voice derisive.

“ ’Course I am,” Spiller replied, but his body stiffened. “I work the river. It’s their job to know everyone on it.”

“This is not a time for humor, Mr. Spiller,” Pryor snapped. “ ‘Known to the police’ is not a phrase meaning ‘acquainted with them socially.’ You have been a police informer on criminal matters, haven’t you?” He did not wait for Spiller to answer. “And one wonders how many criminal matters you did not inform them of!”

“No, I haven’t!” Spiller said vehemently.

“Indeed? So you know of criminal matters and did not inform the police?”

Spiller was confused. “Yes …”

“Yes or no?” Pryor demanded. “Make up your mind, sir!”

Brancaster shot to his feet. “My lord! Every decent citizen reports
criminal offences to the police. My learned friend is making it sound as if the witness is lying when the question is unclear. I myself no longer know what he means. There is a world of difference between a police informer and a citizen who reports a crime, and he is deliberately obscuring it.”

Pryor turned back to Spiller. “Perhaps you can explain yourself so we can all understand?” he challenged him.

“Only a fool works the river and don’t keep on the right side of the police,” Spiller replied, his face tight and angry.

“My conclusion exactly,” Pryor said with a sneer. “And was helping them get their revenge on the Metropolitan Police for taking their case from them part of ‘keeping on the right side,’ Mr. Spiller?” He held up his hand as if to silence Brancaster, and even prevent Spiller replying. “I withdraw the question. I don’t wish to confuse you any further.” It was an insult, an implication that Spiller was lacking intelligence.

Spiller flushed with humiliation, but he did not speak.

The afternoon and the following day continued in the same vein. Brancaster called another ferryman who had been working the night of the explosion. He had not been questioned by Lydiate’s men either. He was a good witness, but Pryor attacked him also, and ended by leaving the man angry, which destroyed his value with at least some of the jurors.

Rathbone could see it, and feel the advantage of Brancaster’s argument slipping away. Pryor had not disproved any facts, but he had managed to make it seem as if the new evidence was born of troublemaking, invented by men with their own grudges to exercise.

“You live and work on the river, don’t you, Mr. Barker?” he said to the last witness Brancaster called.

“Yes, sir,” Barker answered.

“And to do that successfully, as you told us, you know the River Police and stay in their good books?”

“Yes, sir. It’s natural.”

“Of course it is. I’m sure the gentlemen of the jury will well understand
the need to have the favor of the police, their help, from time to time, even their protection. Life on the water can be dangerous. As we know only too tragically, a man who falls into the Thames will be lucky to come out alive. It’s deep, its tides can be swift and erratic, its mud can hold a man fast. Its waters are enough to poison you, even if you can swim. And that does not take into account the thieves and pirates who infest the worse parts of it, the rotting slums, the wrecks, the marshes, places like Jacob’s Island. Of course you need the River Police as your friends. They are hard, skilled, and brave men, suited to their jobs. I imagine the weak don’t even survive! Thank you, Mr. Barker.”