Ghost of the Thames by May McGoldrick

companion’s name, sir?”
    Warren’s lawyer shot a glance
helplessly at the old man.
    “Priya,” John Warren said through
clenched teeth.
    “Yes, the body will be positively
identified by Priya of Bengal.”
    “She is only a servant. I am
Catherine’s uncle, the only living kin. I know my own
niece.”
    “Yes, indeed, Mr. Warren. But you are
an uncle who has seen your niece only once in the past ten years.
Why, you are not even able to produce a recent portrait of her for
authorities, I understand.” He looked at the police inspector, who
nodded. “I am told this woman has been charged with raising her
since birth. Did you not tell the inspector that this Priya was the
last person to lay eyes on her the night of her
disappearance?”
    “That she was, but—”
    The crowd’s noise smothered the old
man’s response. The beadle had to demand silence, and John Warren
was asked to repeat his statement.
    “The woman speaks no English,” Warren
protested.
    “None? Then tell the court how she
communicated with your niece?”
    “Miss Warren was fluent in
Bengali.”
    “And how do you communicate with this
Priya woman, now that she is under your roof?”
    “I don’t make it a practice of
carrying on conversations with my bloody servants!” Warren snapped.
The cane thumped sharply on the floor.
    Mr. Warren, Hodgson knew, was correct
not to trust Priya before a judge and jury. Though the old woman
had communicated not more than a dozen words of English since
arriving in London, Hodgson wondered how much more she was really
capable of saying.
    “Very well. There is no reason why the
woman cannot appear before us with a translator. In fact, when the
time comes, we’ll make the arrangements ourselves.”
    “When the time comes?” Warren
exploded, half rising. “What do you mean, when the time comes? How
long must this—”
    “The machinery of justice, Mr.
Warren,” Harmon responded, cutting him off, “cannot be hurried.
Without a body, we must hear all relevant testimony.”
    As the voices in the guild hall rose
to the level of one highly entertained mob, the old man sank
stiffly into his seat. When the din subsided somewhat, Warren
raised the head of his cane.
    “Yes, Mr. Warren. You have something
to say?”
    “The woman wishes to return to her
homeland,” Warren said. “I have one more ship leaving for India
before winter sets in, and I planned on putting her on that ship.
Otherwise, she cannot leave for several months.”
    “We have not subpoenaed
the person in question. Naturally, you may do as you wish, sir. Of
course, that would mean you are willing to hand over Miss Warren’s
inheritance to the Crown. A sum of, what was it? Seven hundred thousand pounds ? Very generous of you,
sir.”
    The courtroom again exploded in a
roar. Most attending had no idea of how much the estate consisted
of. Hodgson stared open-mouthed for moment at the coroner,
wondering how Harmon could have learned the total value of the
fleet of merchant ships and the land and the cash.
    "Silence!" the beadle shouted,
throwing his arms about and trying unsuccessfully to restore order.
“Silence!”
    The sum of Catherine’s wealth, here
and abroad, was something John Warren had tried to avoid bringing
attention to. Too late. Hodgson could already imagine the front
page of every newspaper in London tomorrow.
    “You can see, gentlemen, that there is
no reason to continue with this hearing today,” the coroner shouted
to the jurors above the din. “You shall be summoned again when more
information is available regarding Miss Warren’s disappearance or
her whereabouts.”
    The lawyer inclined his head to them.
“I hope you do not feel that went badly, sir,” he said with a
straight face. “The coroner has not ruled against us, and we can
request another hearing next month . . . and bring the Bengali
servant along with us.”
    Warren stared at the man, his eyes
bulging with barely restrained fury. Seeing the look, the