Dark Tide Rising Read online

  “Sir, one of those men has an interesting story…to trade.”

  “Trade?” Monk said with little interest. “For what? We have them.”

  “He knows something about the kidnapping of Mrs. Exeter. He says he actually took part in it.”

  “What?” Suddenly Monk was wide awake. “What part did he take? Are you sure?”

  “He described Mrs. Exeter and Miss Darwin,” Hooper replied. “He saw them, all right. He wasn’t going to tell me anything apart from that. And none of it was in the newspapers. He was there.”

  Monk pushed his chair back and stood up, his joints and back stiff from the fight on Jacob’s Island, and then this evening.

  Hooper turned and Monk followed him to where one of the men from the barge was sitting. He looked up at Monk, ignoring Hooper.

  Monk stopped in front of him. “All right. What have you got to offer, and what do you want for it?” he asked tersely.

  The man studied Monk’s face. He was perhaps thirty, fair-haired, quite pleasant-looking, if he was to smile. “I want to get out of here, with no charge,” he answered.

  “And what have you got, other than taking part in a kidnap and murder, for which you will be hanged?” Monk countered.

  The man stiffened, but he did not yield. “I had no part in what ’appened to ’er,” he said a little unsteadily. “I just rowed the boat. I took the one what took ’er in. I rowed ’im downriver to Jacob’s Island, and that’s where ’e took ’er, an’ paid me. ’E told me it were a prank. Get even with ’er ’usband. She were alive when ’e went. And I ain’t telling you no more till I get suffink from you. I row—that’s all I do. Don’t steal nothing, don’t kill nobody.”

  Monk looked at the man steadily. Was it worth letting him go to get the name and description of the man who took Kate? What guarantee was there that it was the truth?

  “Describe the woman,” he said.

  “Young one, tall, dark hair, very ’andsome, she was. Wearing a dress with flowers on, green, mostly. She had a little mark on ’er face, ’ere.” He pointed to his cheek. Monk remembered it on what was left untouched of Kate’s dead face.

  “And the other woman?” Monk asked. The man could hardly have glimpsed Celia. What would he say?

  “Older. She limped a bit. Never saw ’er face, but she was about the same height. Only saw ’er for a moment, but I’d say she older,” the man replied.

  “And you’re just a man who rows people on the river,” Monk stated.

  “Yeah. That’s right. Not really a crime. You can’t prove I ever did, ’cos I didn’t.”

  “Right,” Monk agreed. “We won’t charge you, this time. What was the name of the other man in the boat that took Mrs. Exeter from…where?”

  “The Embankment, north side.”

  “His name?”

  “Lister. Albert Lister.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Wiry. Quite tall. Long face. Long nose. Fancy dresser, when ’e can. Likes fancy jackets.”

  “Who was there when you dropped Mrs. Exeter off at Jacob’s Island? Was she conscious then?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t see nobody else. But could’ve been any number o’ people. You know Jacob’s Island?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know there could ’a been a hundred people ’ere, an’ you wouldn’t ’a seen them.”

  “Yes. Cut him loose, Hooper. But get all his details. We won’t forget him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hooper!” Monk called as Hooper turned toward the thief.

  “Yes, sir.” Hooper faced Monk once again.

  “Thank you,” Monk said, with obvious sincerity in his voice.

  CHAPTER

  7

  WHILE MONK WAS ON the river, Celia Darwin was sitting beside the fire in her parlor feeling alone, too tired to weep. She missed Kate terribly. It was not that they went anywhere together that was so special; it was the pleasure of sharing it. They talked of everything and nothing, remembered things that were funny, or beautiful, or just unexpected. They thought of all the places it would be wonderful to visit, not with any expectation of actually going. It was the dreams shared that mattered.

  It was everything shared that mattered. It was having someone with whom you could laugh at the small things, the dreams, and at times the fears or disappointments. To speak with somebody who never saw you unkindly, who laughed with you, not at you.

  She realized that thinking this way of Kate was making the pain deeper, yet not thinking of her was more difficult and felt like a betrayal, as if she had not been so intensely important after all!

  Celia was disturbed by the doorbell. She did not want to see anyone, certainly not some well-meaning friend who couldn’t say anything meaningful. Because there wasn’t anything to say. She hoped it was not the minister, come out of Christian duty. If it was, she would claim to be unwell.

  There was a tap on the door and Mary came in. The poor girl did not know what to say either. Celia should really be kinder to her.

  “It’s Mr. Exeter, miss,” Mary said. “I can’t leave him on the step…”

  “No, of course not.” Celia stood up with an effort. The leg she limped on had never hurt before. It hurt now. Or perhaps it was just the consuming pain that was everywhere.

  “Come in, Harry,” she said when he stood in the hall. “Would you like tea? Or…something else?”

  He shook his head and walked over to the chair on the other side of the hearth. He fell into it rather than sat down. He looked as if he had not slept since Kate was taken. His face was haggard and he was badly shaved, with little cuts in the skin here and there, as if he would not sit still for his valet to work. He was pale, and his dark clothes hung on him, robbing him of form and color.

  “How are you?” he asked, his voice sounding unnatural. She was trying to remember the last time he was here, in fact if he had ever been here before. What should she say to such a question?

  “The day has gone by heavy and slow as a steamroller,” she replied to him.

  He looked at her with surprise. “I didn’t know you had such a turn of phrase. It has, hasn’t it?” He gave the ghost of a smile. “I told myself I came to see how you were, as if I could do anything about what you must feel. But in truth I came because I can’t stand being in the house anymore. Every room is filled with memories of Kate. I expect her to come in through the door any moment. And as each moment goes by, she doesn’t. I had to get out, even if only to remind myself that the rest of the world is still there. Does everyone bereaved feel like this?”

  “I expect so,” she replied. “It seems just like that to me.”

  He leaned forward a little in the chair. “I knew it would,” he said softly. “I came for my own sake. Does that sound brutal? I don’t mean it to. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “There is no need to apologize. I feel…I feel the same. There is a great hole in the middle of everything. It’s…it’s good to speak to someone who feels the same. It’s a terrible loneliness when you can’t share it.”

  “You’re very understanding, Celia. I can see why Kate loved you like a sister…” He stopped suddenly and bowed his head, as his voice choked with tears.

  “I’ll get us a cup of tea,” she said, rising to her feet and leaving the room to offer him a little privacy until he could compose himself. This was a side of him she had never seen. It made it all better…and worse.

  * * *

  —

  MONK SET OFF FOR home that night tired, filthy, and bruised. However, none of his men was seriously hurt, and they had captured the thieves and most of the stolen goods. Only one crate had been lost. It was no doubt deeply settled in the mud at the bottom of the river.

  It was a good result, but not the one Monk had been looking for. He was no further along in d
iscovering which of his men had betrayed them, was ultimately responsible for Kate Exeter’s death. He definitely had seen a more emotional side of Marbury, who was clearly another lonely man, in spite of having a family. Perhaps they were not close? Or perhaps the loss of a son had driven them apart, exposed the gaps between them that had been carefully concealed before. It happened. People blamed each other out of anger and the belief that someone had to be at fault. Anger could be easier to bear than grief. Perhaps the dog had offered him trust and an unjudging love that he had badly needed.

  It shed no light that Monk could see on the kidnapping.

  How could he have worked with these men, some of them for years, and yet apparently known them so little that this could happen?

  He was walking up the hill from the ferry, toward Paradise Place. It was one in the morning. He was tired and the road was steep and icy in places. His body ached. He was bruised from fighting, but the hurt inside him was more insistent. He liked Hooper. He had always liked him. Only now did he realize that the trust did not go as easily the other way. Hooper trusted him as an officer—he knew that—but not as a man. Monk knew very little about him. He seldom spoke of himself, and Monk was only just becoming aware of this. He vividly remembered sitting in one of the boats and talking to Hooper about his own amnesia, the utter silence in the stretch of years before waking in the hospital after the accident, as if he had been born that instant.

  Bits of the past came floating back. The sudden flashes had stopped quite a while ago, but every so often events occurred, other people knew him, liked him or disliked him, and he had no idea why. He had discovered painfully why some people hated him. He had had to tell Hooper because one of those threats had been real, and very serious. He could remember every moment of that time: the light on the water, the gentle rocking of the boat in the current, the whisper of water around the hull, Hooper’s face.

  Hooper had understood and not blamed him, certain of his innocence, even when he was not himself. And yet, he knew nothing of Hooper. Monk felt bitterly alone as he leaned forward in the steepest and last few yards of the road. He did not know himself. How did Hester trust him? Or didn’t she? Was she biting back suspicions now and then, and too gentle to tell him?

  He reached the front door and took out his key. Hester would have locked the door at dusk but not yet shot the bolts, until he came home. He opened the door, closed it, bolted it, and stood in the hall. It was warm and smelled faintly of lemon and beeswax.

  She must have heard him because she appeared at the top of the stairs in her dressing robe. Her eyes widened when she saw his appearance, and she came down the stairs quickly.

  “William, are you all right?”

  He wanted to say, No, I’m not. I hurt inside so I can hardly bear it, and I don’t know what to do to make it stop. Instead he said, “Yes,” far more calmly than he felt. “Just a bit bruised…and wet.”

  She walked up to him quietly and put her arms around him, disregarding the mud and water on his coat.

  He hugged her hard, almost hard enough to hurt, he knew, but it didn’t stop him. It was several moments before he let her go—too long to avoid having her feel his emotions.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Is it Exeter? Have you found anything more?”

  She did not ask if he knew who had betrayed them. Was she being tactful, or had he forgotten to tell her the full extent of it? Now he could not remember. She would be so disappointed in him. He searched her face and could read the concern, but not the reason.

  She was always loyal, wasn’t she? But what was she thinking? That he couldn’t hold a command? That he was clever with facts, but he had learned nothing about people in all the years they had been together? He could not judge men, because he did not know himself, and they sensed that and did not trust him. Hooper was the perfect example.

  He moved away from her and took his coat off. He hung it up. There was no point in cleaning it. The mud would come off better when it was dry anyway.

  “A little,” he answered the question. “We know how many men were involved, and we’ve got our eyes on one of them. Follow it tomorrow. This evening, we got half a dozen thieves for robbing a warehouse.”

  She looked at him for a moment or two, waiting for him to continue. Then, realizing he wasn’t going to, she turned to go into the kitchen. “I’ve a hot lamb stew on, and mashed potatoes, if you’re hungry?”

  “Yes, please.” He was hungry but, even more important than that, he was allowing her to do something to help him, which she wanted to, and he would not have to talk while he was eating. He followed her into the kitchen and into the scullery beyond that, to wash his hands and face, get rid of the taste and smell of the river, at least superficially.

  He thought of Rathbone and Beata, eating in their elegant dining room. He had let them down. Exeter had trusted Rathbone, and Rathbone had trusted Monk.

  And then he thought of Exeter, who was probably not eating at all. Was he sitting in his big house, alone, memories of Kate all around him, and a glass of whisky in his hand? And then another, and another, until at least for a while he could not feel the pain?

  The stew was hot and, when he bothered to taste it, delicious. He ate carefully, in silence. He wished Hester would ask him, demand that he tell her what information he had about Kate Exeter. Monk and Hooper planned to begin looking for Lister in the morning. Perhaps it was the first real lead. It was a relief when at last she did, tentatively at first, as if she were afraid of the pain it would cause him. He wanted to share it, say it over again, and believe it would lead somewhere.

  * * *

  —

  MONK LEFT EARLY FOR Wapping. The clean clothes and freshly shaved face and brushed hair only masked the tiredness he felt inside, as he walked stiffly up from the ferry and into the Wapping Police Station. Hooper was a little late in, and he looked no better than Monk felt. His face was pale and it cost him a visible effort to appear interested. Several other of the men were here already, noticeably Walcott, who looked cold, in spite of sitting the closest to the potbellied stove. His attention was entirely on the paper he was writing up at his desk.

  Was this what it was going to be like until they found out who had betrayed them? What if they never did? Could they go on with suspicion and a sense of lost fellowship, no one daring to turn his back on the man who was supposed to guard their backs in trouble, catch the error they had missed, believe in them when the public saw only their choices and their omissions?

  They could not function like that. Those who could would find other jobs; probably the best of them would go. What would that leave?

  Hooper was a good man in every way. Would he be the first to go? Laker was young and ambitious. The Metropolitan Police would be lucky to have him.

  Hooper was standing in front of Monk’s desk.

  Monk looked up.

  “Got a bit of information, sir,” Hooper said. “Could involve this Lister. Lot of money changing hands that can’t easily be explained. Looks like they may be splitting up some of the ransom—people who are not usually in that type of good fortune. Not thieves or fences, or anything of that kind. Talking hundreds, not the odd fifty or so. Sort of proportion you’d expect from real violence. And cash, not sale of stolen goods, unless it was something big, and taken long enough ago for the fuss to have died down.”

  Monk’s attention was complete. “Any name? Like Lister, for example?”

  “Maybe. Jimmy Patch, one of my informers, says it’s enough to rent a house for the rest of his life.”

  “If this is money from the people who took Kate Exeter, the rest of his life could be a couple of weeks,” Monk said sourly. “Do you think it’s a lead?” He wished it too much to trust his own judgment.

  “It’s the best lead we’ve got, sir. Questioned everybody up and down the river. Lots of people don’t like Exeter, but can’t f
ind anyone with a real grudge. Most of it’s just because he’s richer than they are, and can make a better deal. He’s failed sometimes, but so has everyone else. Nobody can tie him to anything crooked. Takes a few chances, but most people admire that.”

  “And Kate, his wife?”

  “Apparently an heiress in her own right. Didn’t marry him for his money. Can’t find anything about her that’s suspicious. And before you ask, she’s not the sort of woman to have had an affair. Whatever she actually felt for Exeter.”

  Monk stiffened. “Whatever she felt for him?”

  Hooper hesitated only a moment. “I spoke to Miss Darwin again. It’s only an impression, but they were close, more like sisters, and maybe Kate wasn’t as enamored of Exeter as he was of her.”

  “Could that just be Miss Darwin’s emotions, projected on a woman who seemed to have everything? Didn’t you say she was the poor cousin, and with a limp into the bargain?”

  Hooper’s expression hardened. “I didn’t get that impression, sir. I thought her unusually honest. A practical sort of person.”

  Monk’s attention tightened. He was used to Hooper’s choice of words, and his certain way of understating his approval. “You thought well of her?”

  There was a faint color in Hooper’s cheeks. “That was my impression, sir.”

  “Then we’d better go and find Jimmy Patch.” Monk rose to his feet. “See if he can lead us to Lister.”

  Hooper remained where he was in front of the desk.

  “What’s the matter?” Monk asked.

  “It could be unpleasant, sir. If there’s that much money involved, even if it isn’t our murder, it could turn nasty.”

  “If there’s that much money involved, it’s already nasty,” Monk answered. “And we damned well better be involved.”

  Hooper still did not move.