William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

“You look terrible.” His voice caught in his throat, fear naked in his eyes, his face, the wild, angular rigidity of his body.
    Rathbone felt an overwhelming sense of brotherhood with him, a bond shared so profoundly it changed something inside him at that moment. All he could think of was getting rid of the terror in Monk’s eyes. He understood it because it was his own. “Margaret has gone to the clinic to help Hester,” he answered. “I don’t know any more, good or bad, but I’m taking money and supplies.”
    The momentary relief left Monk speechless. His eyes filled with tears and he turned away.
    Rathbone let him go. There was no need for words between them.
             
    The trial lasted for three days. On the first the prosecution began with the undertaker who had buried Hodge, and his evidence seemed damning. There was little Rathbone could have done to shake him, and he knew he would only make himself unpopular with the jury were he to try. The undertaker was an honest man and it was quite clear he believed utterly what he said. He behaved with both dignity and compassion.
    In the early afternoon Hodge’s widow gave evidence as to the identity of the body, not that anyone had doubted it. It was her quiet grief that the prosecution wished the jury to see.
    Rathbone rose to his feet. “I have nothing to ask this witness, my lord. I would merely like to offer my condolences upon her loss.” And he sat down again to a murmur of approval from the crowd.
    Next to be called was Clement Louvain. Rathbone found his heart beating faster, his hands clenched and slick with sweat. There was more than a man’s life depending upon him. If he probed too far, asked too much, he could let out a secret that could destroy Europe. And no one in the room knew it but Louvain and himself.
    Louvain took the oath. He looked tired, as if he had been up all night, and his face was deep-lined with the ravages of emotion. Rathbone wondered briefly what part of it might be loss of the woman Ruth Clark.
    The prosecution led Louvain through the finding of Hodge’s body and the description of the terrible wound on his head.
    “And why did you not call in the police, Mr. Louvain?” he enquired mildly.
    Rathbone waited.
    Louvain stood silent.
    The judge stared at him, his eyebrows raised.
    Louvain cleared his throat. “Part of my cargo had been stolen. I wanted it recovered before my competitors were aware of it. It ruins business. I employed a man to do that. It was he who caught Gould.”
    “That would be Mr. William Monk?”
    “Yes.”
    The prosecution’s tone was audibly sarcastic. “And now that you have your cargo back, you are ready to cooperate with the law and the people of London, not to mention Her Majesty, and help us to obtain justice. Do I understand you correctly, Mr. Louvain?”
    Louvain’s face was twisted with fury, but there was nothing he could do. Watching him, Rathbone had a sense of the power in him, the strength of his will, and was glad he had not incurred such hatred.
    Louvain leaned forward over the railing of the witness-box. “No, you don’t,” he snarled. “You have no idea of life at sea. You dress in smart suits and eat food brought you by a servant, and you’ve never fought anything except with words. One day on the river and you’d heave up your guts with fear. I got the thief and I got back my cargo, and I did it without anyone getting hurt or spending the public money on police time. What else do you want?”
    “For you to follow the law like anyone else, Mr. Louvain,” the prosecution replied. “But perhaps you will tell me exactly what you found when you went to your ship, the
Maude Idris
, and discovered the body of Mr. Hodge.”
    Louvain did as he was bidden, and the prosecution thanked him and invited Rathbone to question the witness if he wished.
    “Thank you,” Rathbone said courteously. He turned to Louvain. “You have described the scene very vividly, sir, the dim light of the hold, the necessity of carrying a lantern, the height of the steps. We feel as if we have been there with you.”
    The judge leaned forward. “Sir Oliver, if you have a question, please ask it. The hour is growing late.”
    “Yes, my lord.” Rathbone refused to be rushed, his tone was easy, almost casual. “Mr. Louvain, is it as awkward to climb the steps into the hold as you seem to suggest?”
    “Not if you’re used to it,” Louvain answered.
    “And sober, I presume?”