Blood on the Water by Anne Perry Page A

weathered dark by the elements. He looked uncomfortable in his suit. Several times he half lifted his head, as if to ease the high-collared white shirt around his neck, then changed his mind.
    He told the story of hauling up the wreck with as little emotion as possible. He could have been speaking of raising any wreck: the practical difficulties, the skills and the equipment needed.
    Hester sat in almost the same seat as she had the previous day, and listened as Camborne led the witness through the process of raising a shattered and sunken ship. The tension in the room eased a little as he allowed the people present to concentrate on the technical details. When this part was over he would ask about the bodies. She had watched him long enough to know that he would time it perfectly: asking enough to horrify the jurors, to draw every ounce of pity from them, but not so much that the listeners were exhausted and their emotions numbed. He would leave scope for the imagination to work.
    She looked across at the faces of the jurors: twelve ordinary men. Except, of course, that they were not ordinary. They must by law all own property, which ruled out far more people than it included. They must be worthy citizens, themselves above reproach. That ruled out a few more. All women were excluded automatically. Was this truly a jury of peers? Hardly. Did it matter? Probably not at all in this case. For once there was no social division over the crime, no sympathy at all for the accused, no difference in the rage or the pain between rich and poor, man or woman, churchgoer or atheist.
    They might register their feelings in slightly varying ways, but the result would be the same. Hester might be one of very few in the courtroom who realized that Camborne had not connected any of the events with the silent man who sat in the dock.
    For the rest of the morning Worthington gave expert evidence on exactly what had caused the
Princess Mary
to sink so disastrouslyquickly that only a few of those on deck at the time had managed to escape.
    In the afternoon he told in specific detail how the explosion was caused by a heavy charge of dynamite, where it had been placed and how it ignited.
    As to who had done it, that was entirely another matter, and Camborne said that would be explained when the trial resumed the following Monday.
    York adjourned them for the weekend.
    H ESTER DID NOT DISCUSS the trial with Monk over the Saturday and Sunday, and he did not ask her. She had told both him and Scuff that she had attended, but had heard nothing they hadn’t already deduced. They were not satisfied, but they did not press her, and she guided the conversation to other subjects: family things, and what Scuff was learning at school—a subject he avoided answering with some skill. She made a mental note to inquire further later on.
    The conversation shifted to what they would like to do when they had a weekend free and could travel. Brighton was not far. Or Hastings? Scuff wished to see Leeds Castle, which, despite its name, was in Kent, not in Yorkshire. Perhaps they could go to Canterbury Cathedral and the high altar before which Archbishop Thomas à Becket had been murdered by the king’s men, seven hundred years ago. They discussed that at some length, and in detail, and the
Princess Mary
was temporarily forgotten.
    O N M ONDAY MORNING THE whole tragedy returned with renewed force as Hester took her seat in the courtroom again. She had written once to Oliver Rathbone, sending the letter to Rome to await his arrival. She had done so largely because she wished to record her impressions while they were still fresh in her mind rather than remember them in the light of whatever should happen subsequently.
    Listening to the conversations around her as the public waited for the proceedings to begin, she heard no arguments as to guilt or innocence, only anger that the whole series of events had occurred. In one or two instances there was a degree of irritation