The Shifting Tide

by Anne Perry

  “You look very well,” he observed, watching her eyes for the meaning behind whatever words she should use to respond.

  She longed to be able to tell him the thoughts and the fears that drove her, but she had promised Sutton not to. Rathbone of all people would care about Hester. It was a sort of lying not to tell him, but she was bound.

  “I am well,” she replied, meeting his gaze, but without inner honesty. She had to go on. It was not possible to tell how long they would have in which to talk. The music would begin again soon, Huntley might return, or any of a dozen other people could interrupt them. “But I am very exercised at trying to raise sufficient money for the clinic.”

  He frowned very slightly. “Does it really need so . . . so much of your time?” He said the word time, but she knew he was thinking of the change in her, the single-mindedness that absorbed her now so much that she wore clothes to please society and to be noticed. She was at a function she did not care for, and he knew she did not. The familiar in her was slipping away from him, and he was unhappy. She ached to be able to tell him why it mattered more than anything else, or anyone’s personal happiness.

  “Just at the moment, it does,” she answered.

  “Why? What is different from a few days ago?” he asked.

  How could she answer? She had expected the question, but she was still unprepared. Whatever she said, it could only be a lie. Even if she explained to him afterwards, would he understand, or would he feel that she ought to have trusted him? He had been part of everything to do with the clinic, even turning the tables on Squeaky Robinson in order to get the building. He was proud of the clinic and what it did. He had earned the right to be trusted. But she had promised the rat catcher, so in effect she had promised Hester.

  He was waiting, the unease in him growing.

  “We are just short of money,” she answered. “There are big bills and we have to pay.” It was an evasion. She saw in his face instantly that he knew it. She was not good at lying, and she had never done it before to him. Her candor was one of the qualities he loved in her most, and she knew it more sharply just as she felt him slip from her. He was hurt. Would she lose him over this?

  She turned away, her throat tight and tears prickling her eyes. This was ridiculous. There was no time for such personal self-pity.

  He started to say something, and then changed his mind also.

  She looked back at him, waiting.

  There was a sudden hush in the room.

  Huntley came back. “I say, Sir Oliver, they’re about to start again. Do you think we might excuse ourselves before it . . . Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss—er—I didn’t mean to . . .” He trailed off, not knowing how to extricate himself.

  She could at least help him. “Not at all,” she said. She wanted to smile at him, but her throat was too tight. “It’s a bit tedious, isn’t it? I really think the flute by itself has limited appeal.”

  His face flooded with relief. He was completely unaware of any other tension. “Thank you so much. You are most understanding.” He turned to Rathbone.

  Rathbone hesitated.

  “Please.” Margaret gestured towards the exit so obviously in Huntley’s thoughts. “I must return to my hostess or she will begin to realize my lack of enthusiasm.”

  Rathbone had no choice but to go with Huntley, leaving Margaret hurting as if she had been physically burned.

  Rathbone spent a miserable evening and went home as soon as he could excuse himself. Something had changed in Margaret and it disturbed him profoundly. He woke up several times during the night, puzzled and increasingly unhappy. Had he been mistaken in her all the time? Was she not the startlingly honest person he had thought her—more than that, he had felt he knew! Certainly the clinic would have bills, but suddenly so many, and so large?

  Even if that were true, it was not at the core of it. She was lying. He did not know why, or exactly about what, but the honesty between them was compromised. Her manner of dress was different, bolder, more like everyone else’s, as if she cared what society thought of her and without any explanation she had needed to conform.

  For that matter, why had she gone to the recital at all? She disliked that type of function as much as he did. He was there only because Huntley had invited him and it was a politic move that he accept.

  The morning was little better, and brought no ease to his mind. He went to his office as usual, and put aside personal matters with the discipline of concentration he had developed over the years. But all the strength of will at his disposal, intense as it was, could not rid him of his sense of confusion, and even of loss.

  It was quite late in the afternoon, with the light already fading as rain set in, when his clerk came to inform him that Mr. William Monk had called to see him. It was on a matter he regarded as so urgent that he refused to be put off by the fact that Sir Oliver had other commitments for the rest of the day. He simply would not leave; in fact, he would not even be seated.

  Rathbone glanced at his watch. “You had better ask Mr. Styles to wait a moment or two. Apologize to him and say that an emergency has arisen, and send Monk in. Warn him that I have only ten minutes, at the most.”

  “Yes, Sir Oliver,” the clerk said obediently, his lips pursed. He did not approve of alteration to arrangements, particularly those made with clients who paid, which he knew that Monk did not. But he also loved order, and obedience was the first rule of his life, so he did as he was told.

  The moment Monk came in Rathbone knew that whatever had brought him was extremely serious. He was barely recognizable. His usual elegance had vanished; he looked more like a man of substance fallen on hard times, perhaps sunk to the edges of the criminal world. His trousers were shapeless, his boots built for endurance rather than grace, his jacket such as a laborer might wear, and it was definitely soiled, and with a tear in the sleeve.

  But all that Rathbone noticed at a glance. It was Monk’s face that shocked him and held his attention. His skin had no color at all beneath the dark stubble of his beard, and his eyes were hollow, the shadows around them almost like bruises.

  Monk closed the door behind himself, having already sent the clerk away. “Thank you,” he said simply.

  Rathbone felt a flicker of alarm. Surely if something had happened to Hester, Margaret would have told him? He had seen her only yesterday evening, and she had said nothing.

  “What is it?” he asked a little abruptly.

  Monk took a deep breath, but he did not sit down, as if he would find the slightest bodily comfort impossible. “I had taken a job on the river,” he began, speaking swiftly, as if the whole outline of what he was going to say had been rehearsed. “On October twenty-one, to be precise. It was to find some ivory that had been stolen from the Maude Idris while she was moored on the river waiting for a wharf at which to unload.”

  Rathbone was puzzled; it was not Monk’s usual type of work. It must be a favor he owed, or more likely a financial pressure had driven him to accept it.

  “Why weren’t the River Police involved?” he asked. “They’re good, and as long as you stay clear of the Revenue men, for the most part they’re honest. Get the odd bad one, but they’re few and far between.”

  A shadow crossed Monk’s eyes. “The issue that matters is that when the theft was discovered, so was the body of the night watchman from the crew, with his head beaten in—”

  “Just a minute,” Rathbone interrupted. He could feel the tension in Monk so powerful it was like a live thing in the air, but looking for stolen goods rather than reporting and pursuing murder was so unlike Monk he needed to be certain he had grasped the facts truly. “Are you saying the man was killed by the thieves, or not? Was the shipowner trying to conceal it? Who is he, anyway?”

  “I’m telling you the facts!” Monk snapped back. “Just listen!” His voice all but choked on the emotion within him. A flicker of self-consciousness appeared and vanished. He did not apologize, but it was implicit. “Clement Louvain. He showed
me the body of the man, named Hodge. His skull was stoven in at the back. I saw the ledge inside the hold where he was found, and there was very little blood. I wasn’t certain if that was because he had actually been killed on deck and then carried down there, but I couldn’t find any blood on deck either. I was told he had a woollen hat on, and that might have absorbed a lot of it.” Monk took a deep breath. “Hodge was buried properly, as an accident. But the morgue attendant made a record of his injuries, and Louvain gave me his word, in writing, which I have, that once the ivory was recovered he would see that Hodge’s murderer was caught and tried. He just needed to get his money first, or he could lose everything.”

  Rathbone found that impossible to believe. “Why—” he started.

  Monk interrupted his question. “If his rival buys the clipper coming up for sale, then he will be first home in every voyage. First home gets the prize; second gets the leavings, if any.”

  “I see.” Rathbone was beginning to understand more. “Now he has gone back on it, and you want me to pursue it in law?”

  The ghost of a smile crossed Monk’s face, but so grim it was worse than nothing at all. “No. The alleged murderer is in custody. He took me to the ivory, and he admits he was the only one to go on board and below deck. The other man stayed above and couldn’t have killed Hodge, didn’t even know he was there. But Gould swears he found Hodge senseless but unharmed. He thought he was just dead drunk. I believe him. And I promised I would get him the best defense I could.”

  Rathbone was now deeply troubled. Monk was the least gullible of men, and this story was absurd, on the face of it. There had to be something else of crucial importance that Monk was not telling him. Why not? Rathbone leaned back against his desk. It was uncomfortable, but while Monk was standing he did not feel able to sit. “Why do you believe him?” he asked.

  Monk hesitated.

  “I can’t help you if I don’t know the truth!” Rathbone said with an edge that surprised himself. Something of the darkness inside Monk was disturbing him, although he had heard nothing yet except the story of a very ordinary robbery, and a concealed murder. That was it—why would Monk, of all men, hide a murder in this way? “The rest of it!” he demanded. “For heaven’s sake, Monk, haven’t you learned to trust me yet?”

  Monk flinched. “You don’t know what you’re asking.” Now his voice was low. His eyes were hollow, only horror left.

  Rathbone was truly afraid. “I’m asking for the truth.” He felt his throat so tight the words were forced out. “Why do you think this man is innocent? Nothing you’ve said so far makes sense of it. If he didn’t kill Hodge, who did and why? Are you saying it was one of the crew, or Louvain himself?” He jerked his hands, slicing the air. “Why would he? Why would a shipowner give a damn about one of his crewmen? What is it? Blackmail, mutiny, something personal? What would a shipowner have personal with a seaman? I’m no use to you half blind, Monk!”

  Monk stood perfectly still, a momentous struggle raging inside him so clearly that Rathbone could only stand and watch, helpless and with a cold hand tightening inside him.

  The clerk knocked on the door.

  “Not yet!” Rathbone said tensely.

  Monk focused his eyes; his face was even whiter than before. “You must listen . . .” he said hoarsely, his voice a whisper.

  Rathbone felt himself go cold. He brushed past Monk to the door, opened it and called for the clerk. The man appeared almost instantly.

  “Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day,” Rathbone told him. “An emergency has arisen. Apologize and tell them I will see them at their earliest convenience.” He saw the man’s face crease in bewilderment and dismay. “Do it, Coleridge,” he ordered. “Tell them I am very sorry, but the circumstances are beyond my control. And do not interrupt me or come to the door for any reason until I send for you.”

  “Are you all right, Sir Oliver?” Coleridge asked with deep concern.

  “Yes, I am. Just deliver my message, thank you.” And without waiting he went back into his office and closed the door. “Now . . .” he said to Monk. “Tell me the truth.”

  Monk seemed to have ceased struggling with his decision. He was even sitting down, as if exhaustion had finally taken him over. He looked so ashen Rathbone was afraid he was ill. “Brandy?” Rathbone offered.

  “Not yet,” Monk declined.

  This time it was Rathbone who could not sit down.

  Monk began, looking not at Rathbone but somewhere in the distance. “Shortly after engaging me, Louvain took a woman to the clinic in Portpool Lane. I don’t know whether he knew of Hester from me, or if he knew of the clinic before, and possibly that was why he hired me rather than someone else. Don’t interrupt me! He said the woman was the cast-off mistress of a friend, which may or may not be true.” He ran his hand over his face. “Three days ago, in the evening, a rat catcher called Sutton came to me at home with a message from Hester.” At last he looked up at Rathbone and the pain in his eyes was frightening. “The woman, Ruth Clark, had died, and in dressing her for the undertaker, Hester discovered buboes in her armpits and groin.”

  Rathbone had no idea what he was talking about. “Buboes?” he said.

  “Black swellings,” Monk answered, his voice cracking. “They’re called buboes—that’s where we get the word bubonic.” He stopped abruptly.

  The silence was as dense as fog while very slowly the meaning of what he had said sank into Rathbone and filled him with indescribable horror.

  Monk was staring at him.

  “Bubonic?” Rathbone whispered. “You don’t . . . mean . . .” He could not say it.

  Monk nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “But . . . but that’s . . . medieval . . . it’s . . .” Rathbone stopped again, refusing to believe it. He could not get his breath; his heart was hammering and the room was swaying around him, the edges of his vision blurred. He reached out his hands to grasp the desk as he overbalanced sideways and sat down hard and awkwardly, oblivious of bruising himself. “You can’t have that . . . now! This is 1863! What do we do? How do they treat it? Who do we tell?”

  “No one!” Monk said violently. He was between Rathbone and the door, and he looked as if he would physically prevent him from leaving, with force if necessary. “For God’s sake, Rathbone; Hester’s in there! If anyone got even an idea of it they’d mob the place and set fire to it! They’d be burned alive!”

  “But we have to tell someone!” Rathbone protested. “The authorities. Doctors. We can’t treat it if no one knows!”

  Monk leaned forward; his voice was shaking. “There is no treatment. Either they survive it or they don’t. All we can do is raise money to buy food, coal, and medicines for them. We have to contain it, at any cost at all. If we don’t, if even one person gets out carrying it, it will spread throughout London, throughout England, then the world. In the Middle Ages, before the Indian Empire or the opening up of America, it killed twenty-five million people in Europe alone. Imagine what it would do now! Do you see why we must tell no one?”

  It was impossible, too hideous for the mind to grasp.

  “No one!” Monk repeated. “They have men with pit bulls patrolling day and night, and anyone attempting to leave will be torn to pieces. Now do you see why I have to find out if the disease came in on the Maude Idris, and if Hodge died of the plague, and his head was beaten in so no one would think to look for any other cause of death? He was buried straightaway. I don’t know whether Louvain knew about him or the Clark woman or not. I have to find the source. I can’t let Gould be hanged for something he didn’t do, but not ever, even to save his life, can I tell what I know. Do you see?”

  Rathbone found it almost impossible to move or speak. The room seemed to be far away from him, as if he were dreaming rather than seeing it. Monk’s face was the only steady thing in his sight, at once familiar and dreadful. Seconds ticked by in which he expected at any instant to wake up in a sweat and a tangle of bedclothes.
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br />   It did not happen. He heard hooves in the street outside, and the hiss of carriage wheels in the rain. Someone shouted. It was all real. There was no rescue, no escape.

  “Do you see?” Monk repeated.

  “Yes,” Rathbone replied at last. He was beginning to. There was no one to help; no one could. He frowned. “Nothing they can do? Doctors? Even now?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want from me?” He refused to visualize it; the reality was more than he could endure. He needed to be busy. It would excuse him from knowing anything else; he would be doing what he could. “Did you say the man’s name was Gould—the thief, I mean?”

  “Yes. He’s held at Wapping. The man in charge is called Durban. He knows the truth.”

  Rathbone was jolted. “The truth? You mean he knows whether Gould killed Hodge or not?”

  “No! He knows how Ruth Clark died!” Monk said sharply. “He knows we have to find the rest of the crew from the Maude Idris. He and I have been looking, and we haven’t found any trace of them yet.”

  “God Almighty! Aren’t they on the ship?” Rathbone exclaimed.

  “No. The crew now is only skeleton, just four men, including Hodge. They were supposedly enough to guard it until it can come in for unloading,” Monk replied.

  Rathbone gulped, his heart pounding in his chest. “Then they could be anywhere! Carrying . . .” He could not even say it.

  “That’s why I haven’t time to search for the truth to clear Gould,” Monk answered, still looking at Rathbone steadily.

  Rathbone started to ask what one man mattered when the whole continent was threatened with extinction, and in a manner more hideous than the worst nightmare imaginable. Then he knew that in its own way, it was the shred of sanity they had to cling to. It was one thing that perhaps was within their power, and in that they could hold on to reason, and hope. When he spoke his voice was rough-edged, as if his throat pained him. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll go and see him. If I can’t find out who did kill Hodge, at least I may be able to raise reasonable doubt. But isn’t there something else I can do? Anything . . .”