by Anne Perry
He walked away along the bank. The wind in his face smelled of salt and fish and the fetid thickness of river mud. A string of barges went past, the lighterman balancing effortlessly.
Scuff did not know how he ought to feel. How could a few years make him into a different person?
Just beyond the New Crane Stairs by the West India Docks he found a boy he used to know. He was taller and heavier than before, but the wild pattern of his hair was just the same. He was standing in front of a pile of debris. There were glints of metal and brass in it, possibly something worth salvaging.
“ ’Allo, Mucker,” Scuff said cheerfully. “ ’Ere, I’ll ’elp yer.” He took part of the weight Mucker was carrying, and his legs nearly buckled under it. Scuff was taller and heavier than he used to be, too, but he was not used to hard physical labor anymore.
Mucker looked startled. “ ’Oo the ’ell are you?”
“Scuff. Don’t you remember me?”
“Scuff?” Mucker’s blunt face twisted with disbelief. “Never! Scuff were a useless little article, a foot shorter’n you! Fly as an eel, but …” He stared at Scuff with narrowed eyes. “Wot ’appened to yer? Somebody stretch yer legs?”
“Yeah, summink like that,” Scuff agreed, resting one foot on an old timber. “Want ter talk to yer. I’ll get yer a decent pie an’ a cup o’ tea.”
“Wi’ wot?” Mucker asked suspiciously. Then he took a second look at Scuff’s jacket and trousers and decided he was possibly on to a good thing. “Yeah, if yer want. But I ain’t rattin’ on nobody.”
“Know anyone who were drowned in that boat what blew up?” Scuff asked casually.
Mucker’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Jeez! No. Do you? Yer gone up in the world, ain’t yer? They was all toffs!”
“Crew as well?” Scuff asked drily.
“No, course not.” Mucker stopped abruptly. “Why’d yer want to know? Wot’s it ter you?”
Scuff was prepared for that one. He smiled. “Making my way,” he replied. “Wouldn’t rat on a friend, past or present. But I reckon as someone ’oo’d blow up two hundred people ’oo are just ’aving fun is no friend of anyone on our river. Would you?”
Mucker did not even hesitate. “No. It’s bad for everyone. So wot d’yer think yer goin’ ter do about it, then?”
“Boat picked up all these people at Westminster Bridge. Where’d it come from before that? Who got on wi’ explosive stuff and set it in the bow?”
“ ’Ow d’you know it were in the bow?” Mucker asked instantly.
“ ’Cos I know someone ’oo was on the river an’ saw it go up. Anyway, stands to reason. It went down bow first, not broke its back. They’re pulling it up now.” He waved his arm in the general direction of the wreck.
“Wot’s it worth?” Mucker asked bluntly. “More’n a cup o’ tea?”
“A blind eye now and then, when you need it,” Scuff replied without hesitation. He had seen that one coming, too.
Mucker grinned. “I always thought you was a fly little sod,” he said cheerfully. “Right—ye’re on. Come back termorrer.” He turned back to his work dismissively and resumed sorting through his find.
Scuff had never imagined he could learn enough in one day. School would have to be forfeited tomorrow and maybe the day after as well. He slapped Mucker on the shoulder in agreement. The promise was made. He might have to ask Hester for money for more pies, but he’d deal with that one only if he had to.
The next person he looked for was a bargee that he had known when he was a mudlark. Again, it took several moments before the man recognized him, and Scuff had to bite his tongue not to apologize for his good fortune. He gave the same reason for wanting to know about the wreck of the Princess Mary: that it was bad for the river.
“They’ll be coming around asking everyone on the river what they know,” he said reasonably. “If they think of it.”
The bargee was busy splicing ropes. His gnarled fingers grasped the shiny hook and wove it in and out almost as if the task needed no thought. Scuff had seen old women knit the same way.
“River Police’ll think of it,” the bargee said with a downturn of his mouth. “Got their long bloody noses into everything. Still, according to old Sawyer down the way—an’ ’e’s ninety if ’e’s a day—it used ter be a lot worse, before they came.”
Scuff was startled. “When was that?”
The bargee grinned. “Afore your time, son. In the 1790s, or thereabouts. When the French were all cutting each other’s ’eads off. Told yer, ’e’s ninety or more. Says the river were the worst place in the world then. Pirates all over the place. Murder was as common then as thievin’ is now. An’ thievin’ were as common as takin’ a breath of air. So what is it yer want, then?”
“Could anyone ’ave got that stuff to blow them up an’ put it in when they were on the river?” Scuff asked. “After dark, like? Or did it ’ave ter be when they was tied up somewhere? Like Westminster Bridge, or Gravesend?”
“Yer sayin’ as maybe one of us did it?” The bargee’s face was suddenly hard, his eyes angry.
“No I in’t!” Scuff snapped back. “What d’yer take me for? I know that. And like as not, the River Police know. But they in’t in it, are they! It’s bin taken off them and given to the regular land police, ’oo don’t know nothin’!”
The bargee glared at him, the splicing hook idle in his hand for a moment.
“An’ ’ow do you know that, then?” he demanded. Scuff had his complete attention now.
“I know a lot o’ things,” Scuff replied darkly. “An’ the sooner we get this sorted, the sooner we’ll ’ave the reg’lar police off our river and get our own police back, what we know ’ow ter deal with.”
“You cunning little sod!” the bargee said with feeling. He looked Scuff up and down again, this time taking more notice of his clothes, and particularly his boots.
Scuff wanted to tell him he had not earned them himself, but that would have destroyed what little respect this man had from him, so he smiled and said nothing.
He continued all day, searching out people he had known, either directly or by repute. He visited an “opulent receiver,” a fencer of stolen goods who specialized in small and valuable pieces: jewelry, carvings in ivory, miniature portraits, and other easily hidden things worth a lot of money. Already several items had turned up, taken from the corpses that had washed onto the shore. Scuff thought robbing the dead was despicable. But he also knew hunger, cold, fear, and loneliness, and hated them; his experience made him slower to judge, and allowed him to hide his disgust. On the one hand it was like being a carrion animal; on the other, the dead had no more need of treasures, and to the living they could mean the difference between survival and death.
He must be home in time for dinner, but not because he could not go without eating. He could, and had. But if he were late Hester would want to know where he had been and he would have to come up with a very good explanation. He had no idea how she did it, but she was uncannily excellent at knowing when he was bending the truth.
Therefore he spent another few pence going back across the river in order to be able to walk up the hill to Paradise Place not so very long after he should have done were he coming home from school.
Had he accomplished anything? Possibly not. He had asked a lot of questions, trying to find out where the man with the explosives could have got into the boat, and learned that it would have been almost impossible anywhere in the first half of the voyage, partly because it would have been daylight, and to do anything unusual then would’ve been terribly risky.
But the explosives could have been loaded at Gravesend. How could he find out whether they had? Gravesend was miles away, down the estuary toward the sea.
His legs ached as he walked up the hill away from the ferry landing. He had become unused to being on his feet all day. He might be learning all kinds of interesting, useless things at school, but he was also getting soft.
He passed an old woman he
knew and smiled at her. She pursed her lips and shook her head, but she wished him a good evening.
“Evenin,’ ma’am,” he answered politely. He was nearly home.
Who would do such a terrible thing as blow up a boat full of normal people, and in such a way that almost all of them drowned? Why? Did whoever had done it know that was what would happen? Of course! You put explosives in the bow of a ship, any fool knows it will sink. And any fool knows that all the people below deck will drown because there is no way on earth for them to get out in time.
He stopped still as if he had walked into a wall. That was it! It didn’t matter where the bomber got into the boat! Anywhere would do. But it mattered more than anything else where he got off! He must have known when it would explode. It was a horrible way to die—he would have left the ship before that! But where? And how? Someone swimming in the river would surely draw attention. Apart from the fact that hardly anyone could swim, the water was filthy enough to poison you.
And swim to where? They would’ve been out in the middle in the current of the incoming tide. And the Thames tide was swift and strong.
There would have been other boats around: ferries, barges, large ships coming in to anchor in the Pool of London. They could see each other because they carried lights—they had to. Law of the sea. But a swimmer didn’t! A swimmer could be struck, swamped in the wash, or, worst of all, caught in the paddles or the screws and hacked to pieces. Scuff shuddered at the thought of it and felt his legs go weak.
He put it out of his mind and hurried the last few steps home. He wanted lights, warmth, people, even if they scolded him for being late. It was very nice to be wanted.
“You’re late,” Hester said as soon as he was in the door. “Are you all right?”
Perhaps he should have been penitent—it would have been wiser—but he could not keep the huge smile from his face.
“Yes … I’m home.” He saw the irritation in her eyes and was not absolutely certain what it was. “And I’m hungry,” he added.
Monk came in a few moments later, and spoke only of the usual sort of business on the river. He did not even mention the Princess Mary, so Scuff thought he had better not mention it either. Hester did not refer to the fact that he had been late, and he was too grateful for that to risk anything but enjoying the good food and comfortable silence. He did not allow into his mind those who would be sleeping outside on the dock, as he once had.
CHAPTER
3
MONK TRIED TO WORK as usual and put the atrocity of the pleasure boat loss at least to the back of his mind. Sometimes he succeeded for as much as half a day, but there was always something to remind him of it eventually. People were still talking about it. There was speculation in the newspapers and in fliers posted up on every wall and street corner, or passed from hand to hand. Even into June, wreckage was being washed up with each high tide: pieces of wood, broken furniture, waterlogged cushions, and the torn fabric of clothes. On the curved shore of the Isle of Dogs, three more bodies surfaced. A pall of grief hung over everything, in spite of the sunshine, and it was slowly hardening into anger.
Monk saw the Metropolitan Police on the banks, at the docks, even at times on the river itself, talking to lightermen and bargees. He did not envy them. At first they were resented, interlopers in an alien territory. Now they were being blamed because they seemed to have no idea who they were chasing, or even why the tragedy had happened.
Who would do such a thing? Possibilities teemed in Monk’s mind. He could not think any ordinary river pirates or thieves could do anything so extreme. It would draw unwanted attention. But since the revolution that had swept Europe in 1848, some twenty years ago, London was full of refugees: people either fleeing the persecution that had followed the suppression of revolt, or simply looking for a different and better life. Occasionally old quarrels erupted into violence between groups; social change, overcrowding, strange languages and customs—all of it frightened people.
And yet standing on the quayside watching the river traffic passing, hearing the familiar shouts and clangs of men working their trades, Monk could not believe that any of the immigrants would commit such an atrocity. Apart from any morality involved, it would be pointless. All they wanted was a little space, and the chance to earn a living.
The speed with which Monk had been dismissed and Lydiate appointed smelled political, but to what end? Ships came and went from the Pool of London to every country on earth. Cargo included things as small as diamonds or as huge as timber.
Could the tragedy have to do with smuggling? The Princess Mary had been to Gravesend. Could it have met a coastal freighter there? The possibilities filled his mind. Smuggled goods deliberately sunk, to be plundered afterward? By whom? Pirates? Salvagers? Corrupt laborers, or even police?
Would Lydiate even think of that? Should Monk suggest it?
Or did Lydiate already know what or who was behind the explosion, but was keeping it quiet because it was political?
Whatever the reason, it had to be overwhelming for anyone to have committed such a horrific crime.
Years ago Monk had been in the regular Metropolitan Police himself. Whether he had resigned or been dismissed was an arguable point. Early in his career he had worked alongside a man named Runcorn, and they had trusted each other. Then Monk’s darker nature had brought out the worst in Runcorn. Friendship had turned first to rivalry, later into something close to hatred.
The final straw came when Runcorn had been promoted, becoming Monk’s superior. Runcorn was by nature obedient, loyal, unimaginative, and often pompous. All these things considered, it was surprising how long it had taken him to dismiss Monk. It had occurred at precisely the same moment when Monk had completely lost his temper and resigned.
For some time Monk had worked as a private agent of inquiry, but the living was dangerous and irregular. When he had been offered the position of commanding the Thames River Police, little as he liked either the responsibility or the discipline, he had accepted it. Commanding men had taught him much, humbled some of his arrogance and given him an unexpected sense of loyalty to his work and the people he worked with. He had even found, to his amazement, a kind of friendship with Runcorn, who had mellowed much since his unexpected marriage to a woman he had imagined hopelessly beyond his reach.
Now, at the end of the day on the river, Monk found he had finished his work a little earlier than expected. On impulse, he took a hansom to Runcorn’s police station in Blackheath and asked to see him.
He had to wait about a quarter of an hour until Runcorn returned from some errand, but he did so with patience. He recognized Runcorn’s rather heavy step ascending the stairs and found himself anticipating the meeting with pleasure, something he could not have imagined a few years ago.
Runcorn came into the room smiling and with his hand held out. He was a big man, tall and solid with a long face and thick gray curling hair.
Monk stood and gripped Runcorn’s hand. The pressure expressed eloquently the strange mixture of memory and understanding that bound them.
Without asking Monk’s preference, Runcorn called over his shoulder for two mugs of tea. Then he waved at the chair for Monk to resume his seat. He took off his jacket and sat down himself, crossing his legs comfortably, waiting for Monk to state his reason for having come.
“I expected to have to wait longer,” Monk remarked. “Or have you got something else on at the moment?” He knew he would not have to tell Runcorn what case he was interested in.
Runcorn sighed. “Something else,” he agreed. “Damn stupid knife fight in an alley. Lucky he isn’t up for murder. Seems idiotic, doesn’t it? Words! Man with the vocabulary of a pig insults you, and you risk spending the rest of your life in prison breaking rocks just to get back at him. And we’ve got a hundred corpses being hauled out of the river—and for what?”
“No idea yet, then?” Monk asked.
Runcorn sighed and answered the door as a constable arrived w
ith the tea. He took it from him, thanked him, and then shut the door again. He passed one of the mugs over to Monk. “Take your pick. Theft, but there’s nothing to steal that wouldn’t have been taken a lot more effectively by half a dozen pickpockets, and sold on without anyone the wiser. Some sort of fraud?” He pursed his lips. “Can’t see how. Extortion? ‘Pay, or I’ll sink your boat?’ You’d have caught wind of anyone doing that sort of thing, on that level. Revenge seems to be the most likely scenario.” Runcorn’s face was sad, the anger in him unmistakable. “God knows for what.”
“But it’s puzzling,” Monk said. “If it was out of revenge, why would the person behind the bombing not claim the act? Is revenge satisfying if you can’t gloat?”
“Don’t know,” Runcorn replied. “Never hated anyone that much.” Then a bright, sharp light came into his eyes and he half smiled. “Not lately, anyway …”
Monk laughed. It was the first time he had done so since the boat went down. It was a mark of the peace between them that Runcorn could refer to it. There was no longer the need to step around their former enmity with unease, like it was a patch of thin ice on a pond, likely to crack at any moment.
“Maybe it’s something to do with all the talk of shipping changes,” Runcorn went on. “Because of this new canal they’re building between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea.”
“That was de Lesseps’s idea, not ours,” Monk pointed out. “We’re latecomers to that whole game. Why take revenge on us for it?”
Runcorn shrugged ruefully. “That’s true, but I’m not sure whoever did this was thinking logically. We’ve got a lot of men working over there.”
“But what could that have to do with the people on a pleasure boat on a day trip along the Thames? I could see it making sense if it were a freighter of some kind, perhaps,” Monk said.
