Beshara?”
Orme shook his head. “No idea, sir. I’ve got to go and see about that boat that Huggins says was stolen.” He said it politely, but his anger made his voice cold, and as he walked away his body was stiff; there was no ease to his gait.
Hester had given Monk a list of the witnesses who had been called, and he studied it that evening for the first time. Perhaps it was foolish of him, since the case was closed. There was no evidence to be added.But for his own peace of mind, he went through it, along with the lists and statements of all the witnesses the police had questioned. He compared their evidence with what he knew of them, and thought about whom he would have asked for the same judgments and observations.
It carried him over into the following day, when the anger at Beshara’s escape from the rope had grown more intense. The newspapers were full of it. He saw posters on walls demanding justice, even slurs daubed in paint, ugly and uneven and filled with rage.
It was nothing to do with him, or with anyone in the Thames River Police, and yet he felt a sense of responsibility, as if he had failed.
As the day wore on, it nagged at the back of his mind. Lydiate was a good man—in all probability an honest one—but investigation needed more than that. It needed knowledge of the area, of the people, and it needed luck. It usually required more time than this also—and that, Lydiate had been denied.
Monk had occasion to be on the dockside where one of the witnesses, a man named Field, had been working at the time he claimed to have seen Beshara. He mentioned it to Landry, a squat, heavily built man whose back was bent from years of lifting heavy sacks and barrels.
“Did you see Beshara?” Monk asked with interest, wondering why Lydiate had chosen to question Field instead. He was far less respected and given to invention.
Landry shook his head, squinting sideways at Monk. “You try carryin’ a few o’ them sacks, an’ see if yer’ve got time ter see yer own mother walking past yer, never mind some foreign feller wi’ a box o’ fancy food up ter ’is face.”
Monk pictured it in his mind. “So Field was lying?” he said bluntly.
“ ’E were sayin’ wot they wanted ’im ter say,” Landry snapped back. “If yer ask the question the right way, yer get the right answer, don’t yer?
‘Yer din’t see this man, did yer?’ ‘No sir, I didn’t.’ ‘D’yer think you might ’ave seen this one?’ ‘Yeah. I might
’
ave.
’ ” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Field weren’t lyin’, ’e were bein’ ’elpful. We all want tercatch the bastard wot sank the
Princess Mary
an’ all them people! I wouldn’t ’ang the swine. I’d drown ’im, slow! Down a bit—up a bit. Know wot I mean?”
“Yes,” Monk agreed with feeling. “I saw it happen.”
“I know yer did! So why’d they take the case from yer? That’s wot I’d like ter know.”
“Politics, I dare say,” Monk replied, then realized he would be most unwise to continue the conversation. “Thanks, Landry.”
Landry shook his head and went back to work.
Monk continued on his current robbery investigation. He was trying to trace the passage of the goods both before they were stolen, and then afterward, and that involved speaking to several stevedores, bargees, and ferrymen—some of who had given evidence at the trial. He could not help asking them a few questions about what they had seen.
He soon realized that each time they had told their stories to others the words had been exactly the same. They were remembering not what had happened, but what they had said about it.
“Did you see the Egyptian?” he said casually to a lighterman called Bartlett, who hadn’t been questioned extensively or called to the witness stand. “You were there, weren’t you?”
Bartlett looked at him narrowly.
“I’m not looking for evidence,” Monk said. “It’s all over. Doesn’t matter now.”
“It’s not
Orme shook his head. “No idea, sir. I’ve got to go and see about that boat that Huggins says was stolen.” He said it politely, but his anger made his voice cold, and as he walked away his body was stiff; there was no ease to his gait.
Hester had given Monk a list of the witnesses who had been called, and he studied it that evening for the first time. Perhaps it was foolish of him, since the case was closed. There was no evidence to be added.But for his own peace of mind, he went through it, along with the lists and statements of all the witnesses the police had questioned. He compared their evidence with what he knew of them, and thought about whom he would have asked for the same judgments and observations.
It carried him over into the following day, when the anger at Beshara’s escape from the rope had grown more intense. The newspapers were full of it. He saw posters on walls demanding justice, even slurs daubed in paint, ugly and uneven and filled with rage.
It was nothing to do with him, or with anyone in the Thames River Police, and yet he felt a sense of responsibility, as if he had failed.
As the day wore on, it nagged at the back of his mind. Lydiate was a good man—in all probability an honest one—but investigation needed more than that. It needed knowledge of the area, of the people, and it needed luck. It usually required more time than this also—and that, Lydiate had been denied.
Monk had occasion to be on the dockside where one of the witnesses, a man named Field, had been working at the time he claimed to have seen Beshara. He mentioned it to Landry, a squat, heavily built man whose back was bent from years of lifting heavy sacks and barrels.
“Did you see Beshara?” Monk asked with interest, wondering why Lydiate had chosen to question Field instead. He was far less respected and given to invention.
Landry shook his head, squinting sideways at Monk. “You try carryin’ a few o’ them sacks, an’ see if yer’ve got time ter see yer own mother walking past yer, never mind some foreign feller wi’ a box o’ fancy food up ter ’is face.”
Monk pictured it in his mind. “So Field was lying?” he said bluntly.
“ ’E were sayin’ wot they wanted ’im ter say,” Landry snapped back. “If yer ask the question the right way, yer get the right answer, don’t yer?
‘Yer din’t see this man, did yer?’ ‘No sir, I didn’t.’ ‘D’yer think you might ’ave seen this one?’ ‘Yeah. I might
’
ave.
’ ” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Field weren’t lyin’, ’e were bein’ ’elpful. We all want tercatch the bastard wot sank the
Princess Mary
an’ all them people! I wouldn’t ’ang the swine. I’d drown ’im, slow! Down a bit—up a bit. Know wot I mean?”
“Yes,” Monk agreed with feeling. “I saw it happen.”
“I know yer did! So why’d they take the case from yer? That’s wot I’d like ter know.”
“Politics, I dare say,” Monk replied, then realized he would be most unwise to continue the conversation. “Thanks, Landry.”
Landry shook his head and went back to work.
Monk continued on his current robbery investigation. He was trying to trace the passage of the goods both before they were stolen, and then afterward, and that involved speaking to several stevedores, bargees, and ferrymen—some of who had given evidence at the trial. He could not help asking them a few questions about what they had seen.
He soon realized that each time they had told their stories to others the words had been exactly the same. They were remembering not what had happened, but what they had said about it.
“Did you see the Egyptian?” he said casually to a lighterman called Bartlett, who hadn’t been questioned extensively or called to the witness stand. “You were there, weren’t you?”
Bartlett looked at him narrowly.
“I’m not looking for evidence,” Monk said. “It’s all over. Doesn’t matter now.”
“It’s not
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