by Anne Perry
WHEN HE OPENED HIS eyes he could feel a touch on his face, something wet. He gasped, then vomited up river water. But he was breathing?
He tried to sit up, and collapsed as he was pushed down again.
“You stay there, sir,” a man’s voice said out of the darkness. “We’ll be ashore soon. You was just about a goner. You take it easy. I’ll get you a stiff brandy. Take the taste o’ the river out o’ yer mouth.”
“Ferryman?” Monk struggled to make his voice audible. It mattered. It would be all wrong if he were alive and that poor man were dead. He couldn’t remember why, but he was certain of it. “What happened?”
“Looks like someone rammed yer,” the voice replied. “Ferryman’ll be all right. Take a little time, mind. Broke ’is arm bad, poor devil. Ought to be drownded ’isself, whoever was in that boat, but we gotter catch the bastard first. Yer got a few bones good an’ broke too, I reckon. You’ll ’ave the mother an’ father o’ bruises on yer by termorrer.”
“Thank you,” Monk said weakly. His head ached, his chest ached, and he felt sick. He felt he must have swallowed half the filthy river. Still, he was alive, and so was the ferryman. He closed his eyes and gave in to the pain and the cold, gratefully.
WHEN THEY REACHED THE shore on the south side Hester and Scuff were waiting. She was white-faced, hollow-eyed, trying to hold her panic in. Scuff was standing beside her, suddenly looking very grown up. Then as soon as Monk clambered out of the boat—with help, but alive and comparatively unhurt—Scuff had to struggle not to show his tears of relief.
Hester went to Monk immediately, not caring who watched her take him in her arms, touching him gently, as if he might break. Scuff hung back, self-conscious, uncertain if at this particular moment he really belonged.
Monk looked at him over Hester’s shoulder and smiled, holding out his hand.
Scuff hesitated, and then came forward, still not sure. Only as Monk’s hand closed over his did he grasp it back, then abandoned all pretense and threw his arms around him, barely aware of Monk’s gasp and the gritted teeth as he returned the embrace, pain ignored.
A few of the local men insisted on helping him home in their wagon, which was waiting just nearby. With Hester and Scuff on either side of Monk, he limped over to it, thanking the men with startling gratitude. The climb from the dockside to Paradise Place would have been nightmarish.
It was a rattling, bumping ride home. Little was said. Monk was shaking with cold, pain filling him. When they stopped outside his house, Scuff helped him out of the wagon again onto the ground, and then inside and into the kitchen. He was stronger than Monk had expected.
Hester questioned him as to where he was injured and checked everything he said, then helped him slip off his sodden clothes. She washed off the river mud and as much as she could out of his hair. She regarded his bruises with a practiced eye, hiding her own distress.
“Your ribs need some binding up.” She said it as calmly as she could, but her voice trembled. She was acutely aware that Scuff was beside her, fetching hot water and bandages, and holding things for her, tense with deep, awful fear that his world was coming apart in front of him and he could do nothing to save it.
“It’ll be all right,” Monk insisted. His teeth were chattering with shock and cold, so his words emerged mumbled.
“Of course it will,” Hester agreed. “As long as you do as you’re told.”
“Hester …”
“Be quiet,” she said softly, blinking as the tears slid down her cheeks. “Unless there’s something medical I need to know, just sit still. Scuff, will you make us all some hot, very strong tea, please? And put sugar in it. I know you don’t like it, neither do I, but it’s medicine. I’ll add the brandy.”
MONK SANK INTO A deep sleep almost as soon as he got into his own bed. He ached all over, but Hester had given him various powders, which he had accepted gratefully, to help ease the pain. He hurt too much to stand on his pride.
But his sleep was not untroubled. He woke up gasping for air, still feeling the icy water holding him prisoner, hungry, sucking him down. No matter how he struggled, he could not break free. His whole body was filled with pain, throbbing in his chest, his belly, his limbs, even his head. He was imprisoned by the binding Hester had put on his chest. The blankets suffocated him, tying his arms to prevent him escaping.
Then the next moment it seemed as if he was in the water again. The fetid stink of the river mud choked him, clogged his throat and stopped him swallowing. He was drowning. Everything was dark. He could see nothing, touch nothing. This was what death was like. No lights, no comfort, just ice-cold, clinging, consuming darkness.
This was what it must have been like for those people on the Princess Mary. One moment they were laughing, drinking, dancing in the lights; the next they were alone in the dark, stifled, being sucked down and choked to death. Every one of them, one hundred and seventy-nine! And for the others dragged down also: the men in the small boats close to the explosion, as she went down. All of them! He was at one with them.
He beat his way free and sat up in his own bed. It was pitch-dark, but he could hear Hester breathing beside him, feel the warmth of her body. This was his life, and everything that mattered and made it sweet beyond words.
He reached out slowly, waiting for the bite of pain. It came, and he ignored it. He touched her gently, and relaxed back into the pillow again, holding her.
Then a preposterous thought came to him. All those deaths were acute, agonizing, totally individual, and final. Was it conceivable that someone had sunk an entire ship in order to kill one specific person?
CHAPTER
12
AT FIRST HESTER SLEPT out of exhaustion, but by about three in the morning she was awake again, listening to Monk turn restlessly, although he was clearly too sore to move much. Now and then she knew he was dreaming. Several times he cried out, and she reached across to touch him. But this seemed to make it worse, and she didn’t want to waken him.
Eventually there was one nightmare that seemed so bad that she shook him awake. She could hold him only awkwardly, because of his injuries, but she kept him in her arms until he slept again.
In the morning he was still tired and in considerable pain. She gave him the small breakfast he wanted, redressed the few wounds on his arms where the skin was broken, then gave him a little laudanum for pain. After that there was nothing else she could do for him except to instruct Scuff carefully how to care for Monk, since she had an errand to run. Scuff was to make sure that Monk rested all day and that he did not even think of going out.
“Now repeat that back to me,” she said gravely, when they were alone in the kitchen.
Keeping his eyes on hers, Scuff obeyed. “Lots o’ tea, but no more brandy in it,” he said. “No more laudanum.”
“I’ve put it away safely anyhow,” she answered.
“I’d not ’ave given it ’im!” he protested.
“I know, but he knows where it is.”
“Yer don’t trust ’im?” Scuff’s face was crumpled, his eyes sad.
“We’re not always ourselves when we’re sick, hurt, and had a very bad fright,” she explained. “We need those who love us to take care of us as well. That’s a big part of what loving is. Not just the good times, or the battles side by side, but the bad times too, and the battles we have to fight alone.”
“Where’re you going?” he asked anxiously.
“I’m going to look for Crow. I think he might be able to help us with this boat problem. He knows the river even better than the police do.”
“You can’t do that!” he protested, all kinds of dangers whirling in his mind. She was a woman. Anything could happen to her. And she was quite pretty, in a sort of way … maybe? Women were supposed to stay home where it was safe. They had to work hard, and having babies was dangerous—which was something he could not even think about. But they weren’t supposed to go out and get into trouble, and fights, and bad places.
She smiled and gave Scuff a light kiss on the cheek, which took him utterly by surprise, and felt nice, very nice.
“He will,” she promised rashly. “He’s too sore to argue right now. Just make tea and toast for him. Get him anything else from the pantry that he wants, except more brandy. And I’ll be back when I’ve found Crow.”
“But you shouldn’t—” he protested.
“Don’t worry,” she said, moving toward the door. “No need to be bored. Get one of your schoolbooks to read!”
“But—” he began, just as she closed the door behind her.
IT WAS A CALM, sunny day. Yesterday’s sharp wind had fallen completely and the air was heavy, the smell of the river pungent. She was accustomed to it, but it was still unpleasant: a mixture of fresh salt and sour mud—mostly the latter, on a day like this.
In spite of the heat, she found herself shivering as she sat in the ferry going across to the north bank. The tide was low, showing the mud banks on either side. The water itself was gleaming and flat, tinged brown, almost as if one could walk across it. It was impossible to imagine yesterday’s rough, white-capped waves pitching a boat, tossing it.
Had the other boat really rammed Monk’s ferry by accident? Were their riding lights invisible? Could anyone ram another boat and not be aware of what they had done, or going at such a speed that they could not stop and turn to look for them, even in the near dark?
Her knuckles were white where she clenched her hands on the wooden edge of her seat. Was she afraid of the water too? Or was she just imagining Monk drowning, struggling, and believing that someone had deliberately tried to kill him?
She could feel her heart beating, and her hands were clammy. She was panicking. She must stop. Regain some control. She was no use to anyone like this. She was a nurse. She had dealt with terror, mutilation, and death on the battlefield. What was wrong with her?
She knew the answer to that with a jolt of surprise, and complete understanding. Life was far sweeter, immeasurably more precious to her now, because she had everything that mattered to her—love, purpose.
They were close to the far side already. She took out her money. As they drew in to the steps she paid the ferryman, thanked him, and climbed out. It was odd to think that he did not even know who she was or that someone had almost drowned her husband the night before. The river was so intimate, and yet at times so anonymous. That brown water could close over your head and you were gone as if you had never been. You became nothing, except a memory in the minds of those who had loved you.
She walked up the steps and along the cobbled road to the high street, catching an omnibus eastward to the Isle of Dogs, the bulge formed by the large curve in the river between Limehouse and Blackwall. She alighted at the nearest stop to where Crow had set up his new premises. She knew the address, but had not visited it before.
She counted the numbers along the street, and tried to recall the exact description he had given her. She followed Wharf Road, running parallel to the shore, if such an irregular line could be described as parallel.
She knew the landmark she was looking for, but she was passing it for the third time before she recognized it and went up the narrow stairs to what eventually became a large loft with huge skylight windows. It was full of beds and suddenly it was as if she were back in the hospital in Scutari among the soldiers. Until that instant the Crimean War had become a memory so distant it could have been a story told her by someone else. Now it was real again: the smells of lye, carbolic, and blood so sharp she inhaled rapidly and started coughing.
Then she saw Crow coming toward her, tall, and lanky as ever. His shirt was stained with chemicals and in places with blood, his black hair untrimmed and flapping over his forehead.
“Hester!” He had never bothered with formalities. “Come to see my new establishment?” He grinned with pleasure, both to see her, and with pride in his wider, cleaner, airier rooms. Then he regarded her more closely and frowned. “What is it? What’s happened?”
She had always been too candid—“undiplomatic,” her family had said. That was why in the past she had left the raising of funds for the Portpool Lane clinic to others. She found it almost impossible to be roundabout with words. The more important the subject, the more direct she was.
“The Princess Mary,” she told Crow. “Beshara is probably not the one who laid the explosives and set them off. Now that Monk has raised this doubt, they have given him back the case.”
Crow nodded as understanding opened up to him. “Tea?” he offered. It was a good way to start any serious discussion.
She nodded and followed him out of the big room, so like one of Miss Nightingale’s new wards in the Crimea, and into a small room with a woodstove and two chairs. It was clearly Crow’s office.
She sat down while he put the kettle on the hot surface, then sat opposite her. Briefly she summarized the whole story, from Monk’s part in the rescue on the night of the sinking, right up to the present time, with Monk at home in bed, dazed and injured.
Crow pursed his lips. “You need me to help, until he gets better?” he asked, his voice gentle but full of doubt. “I’d be glad to. God knows, we need to find whoever did this, and string the bastard up by his … feet. But I’m not much good at detecting. I’ll ask everyone I know, see what debts I can collect, but if anyone—”
“No … thank you,” she interrupted him. “Orme and Hooper will do that. I’m afraid I need much more from you.”
He looked puzzled. “What could be more important than finding who really did it? I don’t understand.”
The kettle came to the boil. He made the tea in an old tin teapot.
“Finding out who tried to kill Beshara in prison,” she answered as he waited a moment before pouring a cup for her and one for himself. “If we knew that,” she went on, “it might lead to the person who is behind all the lies and the pressure. Possibly also tell us why.”
“It might,” Crow agreed. “In fact it probably would. But I have no idea, and I don’t know anybody who would.”
“Don’t you think Beshara himself knows?” she asked with as much innocence as she could affect.
He still did not understand. She knew him well enough to pick up even the faintest glint of humor in his bright, dark eyes. He had never been able to hide it, in fact he had seldom seen any need to try.
“He’s ill,” she added.
“I know …” Suddenly his eyes widened and his jaw dropped a little. “No!” he said, sitting upright. “No, Hester …”
“Nearly two hundred people were drowned in that disaster,” she pointed out.
“One hundred and seventy-nine,” he corrected her. “Don’t exaggerate.”
“And sixteen more in other small boats, people who tried to rescue them. A rowing boat was pulled into the vortex, with five people in it.”
“All right, nearly two hundred.” His voice wavered a little. “I still can’t do that! I might never get out!”
“We’re on the right track,” she went on. “Monk was nearly killed last night. The ferry he was in was rammed. If the ferryman dies, I suppose you could count another one. And, by the way, two of the rescued people died of pneumonia afterward.”
“And I’d make it one more!” he said. It was a last attempt to avoid being drawn in, but his eyes reflected his defeat already.
“They wouldn’t dare kill you!” she assured him, but her voice wavered. “You’re a doctor.”
“I’m a quack,” he said, wincing at the word. “If you’re going to flatter me, do it better than that.”
She smiled at him. “You’re a friend, one of us.”
Several emotions chased each other across his f
ace. Twice he drew in breath to argue, but the words eluded him. Perhaps he did not really want to.
She said nothing, waiting.
“How do I get in?” he said at last.
“I haven’t worked that out, but I will! I’ll come back and tell you. I really am … very grateful.” She finished the rest of her tea in a gulp, and then rose to leave, before he could gather his wits and change his mind.
She hurried along Wharf Road to the omnibus stop, and took the first one that was going all the way into the city. Now that Crow had more or less agreed to help, she had a favor to collect. After she had returned from the Crimea, and before marrying Monk, she had kept herself by working as a private nurse to patients who needed constant care. She had not failed in her medical duties, but she had not always pleased her charges. She was far too blunt for that, too honest as to the nature of illness. But she had made a few deep and lasting friendships, and it was to two of these people that she now went.
First she called on Colonel Brentwood, retired from the army, but still alive largely because of her quick action at the time he lost his left hand in Crimea. Next she visited Sir Matthew Rivers, a junior minister in the government whose son she had nursed during a severe fever.
She did not make any pretense as to her reasons, and in truth, there was no necessity. With the help of Colonel Brentwood and Sir Matthew, Hester was able to get Crow an immediate position as doctor to the prison where Habib Beshara was being held in the infirmary.
She had to contort the truth, but she was still quite candid to both her previous patrons as to what she wished to achieve, and why. They had both been men of adventure in their youth, and very much admired Hester’s spirit now.
She left, confident that the following day she would be able to hand to Crow the papers that he would need. The disease that affected Habib Beshara might not be curable, but his injuries were another matter. She herself was possibly more used to dealing with such things than the doctor who regularly visited the prison. She would tell Crow all she could, and hope for the best. He had studied medicine with a single-minded devotion, but he lacked the paper qualifications, for reasons she knew, but he preferred not to discuss. She trusted both his intelligence and his instinct. His dedication had never been in doubt.
