Anne Perry: Blood on the Water

“It is, my lord,” Brancaster said quietly. “And I apologize for doing this at such short notice, but I received vital news only this morning, or I would have presented it to you, and to the defense, at a more fortunate time.”

“My lord,” Pryor protested, “this is preposterous! The prosecution is desperate and is putting on an ill-considered and-”

“Mr. Pryor!” Antrobus said sharply. “Am I the only one here who is unaware of what Mr. Brancaster is going to say?”

Pryor was caught on the wrong foot. “No, my lord … I … I am speaking of his melodramatic …” He stopped. Antrobus’s stare would have turned a glass of water to ice.

Rathbone buried his face in his hands, and no one took the slightest notice of him.

“Mr. Brancaster?” Antrobus’s voice was polite and knife-edged.

Brancaster swallowed. “Yes, my lord. I have a new witness who has just come forward. Unfortunately illness prevented his being aware of the value of his information, but his testimony explains all those aspects of the tragic sinking of the Princess Mary that have confused the issue until now.”

Pryor threw his hands up in disgust. “For heaven’s sake! This exhibition of-of gamesmanship is absurd, and offensive! Two hundred people died in-”

“Four hundred people were murdered!” Brancaster shot back at him. “And British justice was held up to ridicule, like blind men chasing each other in the dark!”

“Two hundred!” Pryor snapped. “For God’s sake, man, sober up! You are behaving like something out of a seaside farce!”

Antrobus glared at him. “I know you are an ambitious man, Mr. Pryor, but you will not yet usurp my place in this court. I decide what is evidence and what is not.”

The scarlet blood washed up Pryor’s face, but he was wise enough not to argue this time.

Antrobus looked gravely at Brancaster. “Was that a highly unfortunate slip of the tongue, sir? Or are you aware of something that we are not?”

“I am aware, my lord, of something that the rest of the court is not,” Brancaster replied respectfully. “And I would like to call Major Richard Kittering to the stand to testify of it. I have his particulars here, which I will pass to your lordship, with your permission. And a copy for Mr. Pryor. If you would prefer to adjourn while …”

Antrobus held out his hand.

Brancaster picked up the papers on the table and gave them to the waiting usher.

Rathbone held his breath. What on earth was Brancaster playing at? Who was Kittering? And why now? He turned in his seat to look around the gallery. Was Monk here? He could not see him, but Hester caught his eye almost immediately. She was sitting in a seat next to the aisle, and she watched Brancaster as if he were the only man in the room.

There was utter silence while Antrobus read the papers, then looked up.

“You say this witness was unavailable earlier, at the time you were presenting the case against the accused?”

“Yes, my lord. He was injured in the Middle East, and invalided home. He has come, at some cost to himself, and with the assistance of an ex-army nurse who served in the Crimea with Miss Nightingale. It was she who sought him out and made him aware of the value of his knowledge. His testimony will explain the whole, terrible tragedy. I cannot believe that there is any honest person in this room who would not wish that, my lord.”

“We will adjourn for one hour, and give Mr. Pryor the opportunity to prepare such rebuttal as he can,” Antrobus declared.

“That will not be sufficient,” Pryor said immediately. “I have no idea who this Kittering is or what he may say. I object to his testimony altogether.” He swiveled round to face Brancaster, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “But I can take an educated guess as to who the nurse is who went searching for him, and now suddenly presents him to the court, without warning. That will be Mrs. Monk, wife of Commander Monk from whom the case was taken in the beginning. She is well known, very well known indeed, to Sir Oliver Rathbone!” He let the words hang in the air as if they were some withering, poisonous fumes.

Rathbone’s hands were clenched so tightly he was shaking. He felt the breath rasp in his chest. Pryor had to be right: It was beyond coincidence. Had Hester brought Kittering to Brancaster this morning, between the time Rathbone had left and the beginning of today’s hearing?

“Mr. Brancaster?” Antrobus’s temper was wearing thin. “Mr. Pryor has a degree of right on his side.”

Brancaster drew in his breath, held it a second, then let it out slowly.

“Yes, my lord. It was Mrs. Monk who brought me word of the information Major Kittering possessed. I have checked it as far as I am able, and I believe it to be accurate, and extremely relevant. And of course I checked that Major Kittering is exactly who he says he is, and of an office of high standing and exemplary record.”

Rathbone stared at him in disbelief. What on earth was he thinking he could achieve, at this late date?

“My lord, Major Kittering served in Egypt,” Brancaster continued. “In the area of the new canal from Suez to the Mediterranean. He has personal knowledge of an incident that may be the beginning of this story. I do not believe Mr. Pryor will find anything he wishes to rebut.” He stopped abruptly.

Pryor was on his feet again, his face twisted in fury. “My lord, this is a last-minute trick of Sir Oliver Rathbone and Commander Monk to try to take control of the case and set the law at mockery and disrepute! A court has already found another man guilty of this monstrous crime, and sentenced him to death for it. The conduct of the case was taken from Commander Monk and the River Police because of its magnitude, and out of vanity Monk is now seeking revenge, even at the cost of the honor of the law.”

Antrobus’s face darkened, but Pryor would not be stopped.

“I can call many witnesses, my lord, who will testify to Commander Monk’s past reputation for arrogance and disregard for his superiors. He was dismissed from the Metropolitan Police and is now seeking revenge on them. He has no compunction in trying to destroy the reputation of Sir John Lydiate because he is a man who does not forget a grudge, and is bitterly jealous of a dignity and office he cannot attain himself.”

“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.”