Blood on the Water by Anne Perry

into the night after that, to find the bodies and bring them ashore. Did that include the police, do you know?”
    “Oh, yes, sir,” Hodge agreed quickly. “River Police was there all night. Saw ’em meself. Mr. Monk—’e’s the boss o’ them—’e were there right from the start, an’ even went down in one o’ them suits inter the wreck the next day, God ’elp ’im!”
    Juniver’s thin face registered surprise. “Really? You’re sure of that?”
    Hodge could not keep a flicker of anger from his face. “ ’Course I am. Anyone wot works the river knows ’im.”
    “Can you think of any reason why he has not been called to give evidence here: an experienced river policeman who actually saw it all?” Juniver asked innocently.
    York leaned forward as if to interrupt, but Hodge spoke before he did.
    “No, sir, I can’t,” Hodge replied.
    “Perhaps my learned friend has some reason that has not occurred to us?” Juniver looked across at Camborne. It was a small point, and in the heat of the moment it might mean nothing, but it was a valid one. Should there be an appeal, it would be remembered.
    Hester looked at York and saw a flash of irritation cross his face, cutting the lines more deeply around his mouth.
    Camborne affected indifference and did not respond. Instead he called his next witness, a bargee named Baker. He gave a similar account of the horror and pity he had felt at pulling bodies out of the water.
    “Did you see the ship itself go down?” Camborne asked, his brows raised, his eyes wide.
    There was not a movement in the room.
    “ ’Appened in moments, sir,” Baker told Camborne. “One minute it was all lights and music an’ laughter I could ’ear from where I was,mebbe fifty yards away. I were close. Then that terrible roar, an’ flames shot out of ’er bow, lit up the night.” He blinked. “ ’Urt the eyes ter look at it. An’ before yer could come to yer senses and realize wot yer’d seen, she up-tailed an’ plunged inter the water, an’ everything went dark—black dark like the night swallowed ’er up.” There were gasps around the room, and the sound of one person weeping with inconsolable grief.
    “Thank you, Mr. Baker,” Camborne murmured quietly. “Your witness,” he offered Juniver.
    Juniver had enough sense not to invite further disaster upon himself; he politely declined to ask any questions.
    Baker left the stand. The court adjourned for luncheon.
    The afternoon began with one of the doctors who had treated some of the survivors, and later examined the bodies of at least thirty of the dead. He was a quietly spoken, solid man with gentle eyes and thick, white side-whiskers. Gravely, his voice tight and cracking with emotion, he described what he had seen. He showed no hysteria, no anger, just grief.
    Hester recognized Camborne’s skill. Anyone not moved by the account—the terrible state of the bodies, the range of victims from the youngest of the women to the white-haired men, all enjoying a summer evening on the river, when out of nowhere the party had been torn apart, drowned in the dark and filthy water, some washed to sea, never to be recovered—must be devoid of all human feeling; yet there was nothing for Juniver to inquire after, nothing to question or doubt.
    It was early in the afternoon, but the entire courtroom was already exhausted from the emotion of it. It was both merciful to adjourn, and a wise tactic on Camborne’s part. No one who had sat through the evidence would sleep unhaunted by nightmares, or leave unaware of the precious fragility of such happiness as they had. All would ache for the small comfort that would be offered by knowledge that justice had been meted against the man who had caused such grief.

    T HE SECOND DAY BEGAN with the testimony of the man in charge of raising the wreck of the
Princess Mary
and hauling it ashore. His name was Worthington. He was in his forties, lean and strong, his hair thinning a little, his face