Blood on the Water (26 page)

“He owns it,” Hooper said. “Lots of witnesses that he was out on the night of the
Princess Mary
sinking, well before anyone was called to the rescue. He was on the water when it happened. And we did check to make sure no one reported the boat stolen.”

“And on the night it rammed us?” Monk asked, beginning to feel the weight lift from his mind, and a warmth inside him as if he had had a shot of brandy.

“Sabri was out again,” Hooper replied. “And again, no report of the boat being missing or anyone borrowing it. Got statements from people who saw him go out in it, about an hour before you were hit.”

Monk found he was smiling too. “Why? Any idea why Sabri would sink the
Princess Mary
?”

“Because somebody paid him to,” Hooper said sourly. “He’s settled up a good few of his debts since then. Quietly. No flashing nothing around. But a few collectors that were after him aren’t anymore.”

Monk allowed himself to relax. “And where is he, this Gamal Sabri? Don’t tell me we don’t know …”

“Yes, we do. Left a man watching it, but it’s like a rabbit warren down there. Best to take him at night.” Hooper glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It said half past seven. “Tonight, sir. Before he gets wind of it tomorrow. We should take half a dozen men. He won’t be alone and he has to know that the rope’s waiting for him.”

Monk rose to his feet. “Pick your men. Well done, Hooper. Any idea when Orme’ll be back? He went upriver. I dare say he won’t have found anything …”

“You can tell him when he comes.” Hooper stood as well. “I’d best be starting. Dusk is a good time …”

“We’ll take Mercer and—”

Hooper stopped still. “No, sir. I need your permission to go get him, but you’re not coming …”

“Who the hell do you—” Monk began.

“You’re injured, sir, and you’ll get in the way. Somebody’ll be too busy looking out for you to do his own job. I may not be able to stop you, but I’ll try.” He stood squarely in front of Monk, unmoving as a wall, his eyes hard.

Monk faced him.

“They’re my men too,” Hooper said quietly. “I owe them to look out for them. Not run them into danger they don’t need. We’ll get him to the police jail. Break his legs if we have to. He won’t get away.” He did not add, “Unless you move too slowly and give him a hostage to take,” but it was in his face.

Monk could give in either with grace, or without it. Or he could make a really bad command decision and lose the confidence of his men, and insist on coming. It might even be a fatal mistake for the case.

“Right,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait here. I want to know when you’ve got him.”

“You should still be at home, sick,” Hooper told him. “Go back there now. I know where Paradise Place is. I’ll come and tell you.”

“Stop treating me like a child!” Monk snapped at him.

Hooper grinned. Even his eyes were bright. The retort was in his face, but he did not make it. “I’ll see you later,” he said, and went to the door.

Monk tidied up his papers, left a note for Orme, then took his jacket off the hook and went out.

A
N HOUR LATER HE
was sitting in the parlor in his own house. He was so tired he longed to sleep, but he felt compelled to stay up until Hooper should come.

“How did Lydiate go so wrong?” Hester asked. She looked up at him from the sofa, where she was sitting sideways with her feet curled up half underneath her.

“I didn’t remember the painting of the seahorse on the boat I saw,” he replied regretfully. “And of course it hadn’t rammed us then.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she replied, shaking her head. “It can’t be so easy to get the wrong man, and come so close to hanging him, just from the lack of one clue. Are we ever sure we have the right person, if it’s this simple to be wrong? And how many innocent others have we punished for crimes they didn’t commit, if that’s the case?”

“I know,” he admitted. “We quite often get confessions, once the evidence is in. But not always.”

“But was Beshara guilty at all?” she asked. “I know he’s apparently an unpleasant man, but that’s irrelevant—or it should be.”

He smiled at her sleepily. “Sometimes you’re more innocent than Scuff.”

“There was a pretty big cover-up, wasn’t there?” Her face was grave.

“Probably,” he agreed, moving a little in the seat to ease the ache of his ribs.

She stood up and very gently moved the cushion behind him to make him more comfortable. Then she went back to the sofa and curled up on it herself.

It was after midnight—closer to one in the morning—when there was an insistent knock on the front door. It was a moment before Hester realized what it was. By then Scuff had pattered downstairs in his nightshirt and was standing in the hall, troubled but wide awake.

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “It’s probably Hooper come to say they arrested the right man.”

Scuff did not move.

“It’s all right,” she said again, more gently. She saw the fear in his face and felt a stab of guilt for it. They should have protected him from disturbance this late in the evening.

The knock came again, more heavily.

There was no time to say anything now. She unfastened the bolt and opened the door.

Hooper was standing on the step. His face was pale even in the yellow light from the hall, and there was blood on his shirt under his old pea jacket.

Hester stepped back immediately, her fear now even stronger than Scuff’s. “Come in. Come to the kitchen. Scuff, get hot water and towels.” She held out her hand to Hooper as if to steady him, although he was probably about twice her weight. “Come with me.”

“I’m all right,” he insisted, but he came in through the door staggering a little.

She led him along the passage to the kitchen and he followed without speaking again.

“Sit down,” she told him, pointing to the hard-backed chair closest to the table and away from the stove. The last thing she wanted was him passing out and falling against the hot surface.

Scuff was busy somewhere behind her. He passed her towels without being asked.

She eased Hooper’s jacket off gently and saw where most of the blood was.

“Is that it?” she asked. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I’m all right,” he said again, but quietly and with less certainty in his voice.

“Don’t argue,” she said firmly. She took the scissors out of the cutlery drawer and began to slice away his shirt to expose the wound in his shoulder.

“That’s a good shirt!” he protested.

She did not bother to reply, but took the basin of hot water from Scuff and began to clean the excess blood away and expose the jagged tear in the flesh. She heard Scuff gasp, and then quickly recover. She did not turn to look at him.

“It’s not bleeding too badly,” she told Hooper. “But it would be a good idea to put a stitch or two in it. You could very easily pull it open again accidentally.”

Hooper’s eyes widened.

“It just takes a needle and some strong, clean thread. I’ll sterilize it, I promise you.” She continued, “Scuff, would you please fetch me the brandy, and my sewing basket from the parlor? If you can do it without wakening Monk, that would be good.”

“Yes,” Scuff said, swallowing hard. Two or three minutes later he was back again, holding out both the basket and the brandy.

“I don’t like brandy,” Hooper said between his teeth.

“It isn’t for you,” Hester smiled at him. “It’s for the needle and the thread. Now please sit still. It will feel unpleasant maybe, a bit of pulling, but it won’t hurt nearly as much as the stab did.”

Hooper clenched his teeth, but apart from a slight grunt he neither moved nor made a noise.

Quickly and deftly, Hester washed the wound with the spirit. Then with Scuff’s assistance she threaded the needle with linen and stitched up the wound, drawing the sides together carefully. Finally, she knotted the finished work and cut off the ends.

“There,” she said, looking at Hooper’s ashen face. “In a few days, a week or so, I’ll take them out. In the meantime you should go and see a doctor named Crow. I’ll give you his address. Tell him who you are, and that I sent you. He’ll be happy to help. Are you still sure you don’t like brandy?”

“I might manage to swallow it down,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thank you, ma’am.” He looked at Scuff. “And you too.”

Scuff smiled but had no idea what to say.

“You’d better stay here for tonight,” Hester went on.

“Yer can have my bed,” Scuff said quickly. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Thank you,” Hester said to Scuff. “That’s an excellent idea. Now we should all go to bed. It’s halfway to morning already. Mr. Hooper, Scuff will show you upstairs. I will come to see you through the night, just to make sure you aren’t feverish. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m a nurse, and used to wounded men.”

Hooper nodded very slowly, and then, with Scuff at his side, ready to help, he went up to bed.

O
VER THE NEXT FEW
days the newspapers were full of the arrest of Gamal Sabri, and the questions it raised as to the original trial and conviction of Habib Beshara.

How much of that error had been incompetence, and on whose part? Lydiate, who had been in command? Or the Metropolitan Police in general? The entire idea of a police force was relatively new; doubts were raised again as to whether it was a good one, or did society require something different? Those who could remember the original “peelers” were still alive, having objected then to their power, and the consequent invasion of privacy to the respectable citizen.

Monk swore under his breath, and then continued reading. He was at his desk in Wapping, still sore, and more easily tired than he would wish, but well enough to be back working a full day. Hooper he could order to stay at home until he was better recovered, although he was doing well. This he heard from Hester, who insisted on visiting him regularly, since he had no family and she did not trust him to care sufficiently for himself. She had actually asked Monk if he thought Hooper would stay for a few nights at the clinic, but Monk had been unequivocally certain Hooper would refuse.

The newspapers all went on to speculate that if the police were not incompetent, were they then corrupt? Or did the corruption possibly lie in the judicial system? If they were both competent and totally honest, then how had an innocent man been convicted and sentenced to death? In fact how was it that his guilt had never been seriously questioned? Might such a thing happen to any man? Or woman, for that matter? How safe was anyone at all?

Others asked still further: Did a verdict in the courts, or even a police charge in the first place, depend upon money, privilege of birth, influence, the color of your skin, or a tragic combination of all these things?

Such questions were asked not only in the newspapers, and on the streets, but in the House of Commons. The words “corruption” and “collusion” were spoken.

As the week progressed the questions became deeper, more probing, and spread into other spheres. International and diplomatic issues were raised. Lord Ossett was mentioned as not having dealt with the matter in an open and competent way. What political favors were being offered, or called in? Inevitably the Suez Canal was mentioned also, and all the old arguments for it and against.

Letters to
The Times
became more and more open in their challenges to authority, and demands that deeper inquiries be made. They named several prominent ship owners with questions that were close to libelous. Lawsuits were threatened.

Everyone was uneasy, even on the streets and docksides along the river. Several policemen were hurt in brawls that began in taverns and spilled out into the streets and alleys. Leaflets demanding justice were nailed up on doors. Crude pictures of a hanged man were painted on walls, with the words “It could be you next” scrawled beside it.

Two weeks after the arrest of Gamal Sabri, his trial was announced. The haste was a matter of keeping some kind of control on public opinion, both at home and abroad.

Rufus Brancaster, the young lawyer who had so brilliantly defended Rathbone at his trial, was chosen to prosecute Sabri.

The following evening he knocked tentatively at the front door of Monk’s house in Paradise Place.

Monk had just arrived home, tired and disheveled but beginning to regain his strength. He was pleased to have Hooper back, even if restricted to duty at the Wapping station for a further week or two.

Hester brought Brancaster straight into the kitchen where Monk was eating a late supper. She offered the barrister something to eat, and he accepted tea and a thick slice of cake.

“I suppose you know I’ve been asked to prosecute Sabri?” he asked, looking from Monk to Hester and then back again.

“No.” Monk’s face lit with interest, and he momentarily ignored his food. “When does the trial begin?”

“Three weeks. Doesn’t give me much time. But I think they’re terrified public unrest will boil over if they don’t settle this soon. It’s been a long, wretched summer since the sinking, and people are beginning to think it won’t ever be properly resolved. It’s one hell of a mess!”

“The handling of it was,” Monk agreed, now taking his last mouthful.

“It’s a mess itself,” Brancaster said, pulling his mouth into a tight line. “Pryor has already been engaged to defend Sabri, and he won’t defer to anyone, whomever or whatever he brings down. He’s already made his mark, and his money.” The muscles in his face tightened. “I know him. He’d rather win this and go down in history, even if it means he never practices again. He won’t be swayed by loyalty, offers of a seat in the House of Lords, or threat of never working again if he gets Sabri off.”

“Sabri is guilty,” Monk pointed out. “The evidence is physical this time, no eyewitness identifications to be mistaken. The
Seahorse
is unmistakable. And before you ask, there are no other boats on the river with that particular device on them, not to mention the fact that the damages from the ramming of the ferry are still present. They’re structural; they can’t be painted over as the outside was, or replaced with new wood—that would make it even more obvious. I can give you half
a dozen witnesses, apart from myself. I’m sure Pryor will try, but you have the facts.”