by Anne Perry
She felt the color flame up her face. The remark was true, and it hurt. She wanted to tell him that no fortune on earth would make him marriageable to a woman of any taste, but it was not true. More to the point, it would only show how deep the knife had cut.
“I am more than willing to give it up for Kate’s safety,” she said coldly. “It was never mine, nor did I ever think it so. I thank you for the courtesy of informing me. Harry has already done so.”
“He is not trustee of it,” Maurice said with a tight smile. “I am. Grandmama ensured that he had no access to it whatever. That was her intention. I grant this because I have no moral choice, and because the police are handling the affair.”
“Precisely. Then if you do not wish for tea, I won’t keep you. Thank you for your…courtesy.”
He gave her a cold look, suspicious of sarcasm, but took his leave all the same, saying he had much to do.
When he had gone, she stood alone in the room, suddenly aware of being colder, as if the fire had gone out. She had not expected or wanted the money, but it made her aware of how alone she was. She would miss Kate unbearably. All the money Celia would ever have would be a small price to pay for Kate’s release.
CHAPTER
3
WHEN HOOPER ARRIVED BACK at the station, Monk went over the plans again with all the men concerned, apart from Bathurst, who had not yet arrived.
With difficulty, Monk refrained from second-guessing himself. He knew from experience that altering plans in the last hours could lead to mistakes, especially when the pressure was intense. Obedience must be instinctive. There might not be time for consideration, weighing, and judging.
Bathurst came at last. He had the scrubbed look of a schoolboy woken too early in the day: bright-eyed, but not quite awake; still slightly bemused, but ready for anything. Monk saw Hooper take him aside and tell him his part in the plan. Even from across the room he could see the moment Hooper mentioned Jacob’s Island. The smile died from Bathurst’s face, and his body stiffened, but he nodded.
Monk wondered if he had ever been that young, and keen. He had no idea, that time lost along with all his other memories. He would like to think he had, but he doubted it. Bathurst had been born in the south, and had known the river all his life. Monk knew that he himself had been born in Northumberland, almost on the Scottish border. He had no accent. He must have worked hard to get rid of it, lose the lilt in his voice. How badly he must have wanted to belong!
Exeter came five minutes earlier than they had agreed the day before. He was wearing old clothes and a heavy jacket, such as dockworkers wore to keep out the cold. He was carrying a very battered-looking Gladstone bag. Seeing Monk glance at it, he nodded, his brow puckered.
“I’ve got it all,” he said. “You ready?” His voice was unsteady, and his face was pale. Even the bitter wind off the water hadn’t whipped color into it.
“Yes, sir,” Monk replied. He didn’t know why he added the “sir.” He did not usually, but he felt a profound sympathy for Exeter. No degree of regard was adequate to assure him of Monk’s dedication, professional and personal, to recovering Mrs. Exeter alive. “We will leave in half an hour, perhaps a few minutes less. The tide is with us, although it will be low water at about four.”
“And dark,” Exeter added, then looked as if there was something else he wanted to say, but he could not think of the right words for it.
Laker walked over to them. “Excuse me, sir, would you like a cup of tea? It’s pretty strong, perhaps not what you’re used to, but it’s hot.” He was looking at Exeter.
“No, thank you,” Exeter said a little sharply.
“Sir?” Laker turned to Monk.
“Yes, please,” Monk accepted. There was all the difference in the world between strong, stewed tea on the potbellied stove, too sweet, and often with no milk, and the tea at home, fresh, fragrant, subtle-flavored, and definitely without sugar. But this served its purpose.
Laker went off and returned a moment later with two mugs, giving one to Monk, and offering the other to Exeter.
“Thank you,” Exeter answered, and took it. He smiled bleakly over the rim of the enameled mug. “Is he always so persistent?”
“I daresay he’s been along the river on a winter dusk more often than you have,” Monk replied.
“On kidnaps?” Exeter asked.
“No, thank God. But on other cases.”
Exeter took a sip of the tea and tried not to grimace, but failed. “How often do you drink this stuff?”
Monk smiled at him. “You get used to it.”
Exeter gazed back, quite openly searching Monk’s face. What was he looking for? Assurance? Courage? A promise?
Monk could not give him that. He turned aside and offered instead a rough plan of Jacob’s Island, and the ways they intended to enter so as to reach the spot indicated on the piece of paper Exeter had shown him.
“Is that what it looks like?” Exeter asked. “I can see why they chose it.” He looked back up at Monk. “You’re not going to try to catch them first, are you?” His voice wavered between certainty and doubt.
Monk had already given his word. “No. But if the chance arises after we have Mrs. Exeter safely out of there, then we’ll take it. We don’t want them to take the money before we’ve got her back.”
Exeter breathed out slowly, and something like a smile returned to his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I apologize.”
“In your place, I would have, too,” Monk replied.
They drank the tea slowly, watching the hands of the clock move round its face. Marbury arrived, and three minutes after him, Walcott. Quick words were exchanged.
Exeter did not move at all, except to take the mug to his lips. His knuckles were white.
At twenty-five minutes past three, Monk gave the signal to leave and they went out without speaking again. The wind was rising in the open space across the dock, and the last of the sun stained the sky to the west with color, lending the scene an unnatural beauty. The tide was nearly at its lowest. Stretches of mud glistened smooth, almost like flesh in the brief, lurid glow. To the east, where they were headed, a pall of darkness was rising swiftly.
They climbed down the steps to the boats, three to one, four to the other, leaving one behind in case there should be an emergency elsewhere. One other boat was already on patrol. There was no sound but the scrape of boots on the stone and the slurp of the water against the dock.
Hooper went ahead with Marbury and Walcott. Monk took Laker and Bathurst and directed Exeter to sit beside him in the stern.
They pushed out into the current, following after the others, rowing in long, even strokes, each man holding his single oar. They could go on like that for hours, and frequently did.
Monk tried to think of something to say to Exeter that would reassure him, but nothing came. Conversation seemed artificial, as if he did not understand the fear and apprehension Exeter must feel. What had been the last thing he had said to her? Something trivial? If it was something critical, what would he pay now to take it back? Had he ever told her all that she meant to him?
The light was already graying, losing color. There was no wind, but the cold was penetrating. Monk’s face felt stiff with it, and he missed being able to pull on the oar and warm himself with the effort. There were times when he felt his whole body ache with it, but he also found a comfort on the river.
They moved swiftly. There was no resistance from the tide. The water was already slack. Not much light was left, but he could still see the other boat ahead of them quite clearly. The bigger ships at anchor had their riding lights lit. It was strangely still, almost as if they were painted onto the darkness, with the skyline of the city drawn behind them. Lights along the shore blinked on, chains of them where there were roads on the bank. A few moved: carriage lamps; on the water, ferries.
It was quarter to four in the afternoon, but too late to work, as it was too easy to make a mistake because you couldn’t see.
Ahead of them, Monk saw Hooper’s boat turn toward the bank. Laker rested on his oar, and Bathurst rowed harder, bringing the bow round.
“Aren’t we going the other direction? Downriver?” Exeter spoke for the first time. “The other way in? That’s what they’re expecting.” He turned sideways in the seat. “We’ve got to stick to the plan!”
“We are doing,” Monk assured him. “We’ve got to stop in the lee to light the lamp.”
“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry.”
“We’re going to do exactly what they told us. The other men are going in upriver of us, as we planned.” He put out a hand on Exeter’s arm, and felt it rigid beneath his fingers.
“Are we late?” Exeter demanded.
“No, nor are we early. If they’re any good at this, they will have been here long before us.”
“Kate will be frozen…and terrified.”
Monk tightened his grip on Exeter’s arm. “If we rush, we may make a mistake.”
Exeter looked down at the lamps, although he could barely have seen them. “I’m sorry. I…this is hard. I…”
“I know,” Monk said quietly. “Not much longer now. Help me light these. We won’t see a damn thing without them.”
“I imagine you don’t see much in a place like this, even in daylight,” Exeter observed bitterly.
They were entering the waterways around Jacob’s Island, and the other boat had gone out of sight, upriver. The houses reared up out of the water on either side of what was a short canal. They balanced on rotted stilts, leaning this direction and that, according to what had given way first. The river water barely covered the thick, viscous mud that sucked anything of weight into itself, like quicksand.
Monk had seen men fall into it. Their bodies were never found. God alone knew what lay beneath its stinking surface. It barely moved. There were no eddies or swirls here, nothing to cleanse either at low tide or high.
“This place is like death,” Exeter said hoarsely. “Perhaps hell is like this. Worse than burning!”
Monk looked at him. His face was starkly shown in the lights of the bull’s-eye lanterns. The yellow glow caught and magnified every line, deepening the shadows. Monk thought he must look nearly as haggard as that himself. But the tension in Monk was far less. This was only his job, his professional success or failure. For Exeter, it was everything that mattered in his life.
“You have the money,” Monk said. “All they asked? They must expect you to bring someone with you. You can only get to the site by water. You’re going to give them the money when you’ve seen your wife and she’s well.”
“But if—” Exeter began.
Monk looked at him. “You want to change your mind?”
“No! No. Of course I don’t. It’s just…get this over with. It is the only thing I can do, and…second-guessing myself…there’s no point. How much further until there’s something we can land on? All I can see is mud and water and rotting wood that wouldn’t take the weight of a seagull, never mind a man!”
“Not much further,” Monk assured him. “There’s a stone wall a dozen yards over there, but watch your feet. You don’t want to step on a rat.”
“Wouldn’t the damn things get out of the way?”
“Not if they’re dead.”
Exeter swore under his breath.
Three minutes later, they arrived at an old mooring post by a flight of steps. The wood was rotten, but the iron core of it still held firm.
“Where are we going?” Exeter said, the note of panic rising high in his voice again. “There’s nothing here!”
“Over there.” Monk pointed. “There’s a loading bay there, and beyond it the entrance to a cellar, and a tunnel.”
“It’s under the water!”
“Not now. It’s low tide.”
“The tide will turn any moment, and we’ll be drowned!” There was an edge to Exeter’s voice: Fear, a nerve struck? Memory of some other time?
“Then we’d better be quick!” Monk passed one of the bull’s-eye lanterns to Exeter. “Come on.” He stood up carefully, keeping his balance, and stepped up onto the shallow stone slab. He turned to offer his hand to Exeter.
Exeter rose also, but his balance seemed uneasy. He hesitated a moment, then took Monk’s hand and leaned on it with more weight than expected. There was an instant adjustment, then Exeter moved and put his feet on the stone. Laker was a yard behind him; Bathurst was to stay and keep the boat ready for their return.
Monk waited only an instant, then faced forward, holding the light ahead of him, and very carefully moved along the stone slip and into the darkness of the tunnel mouth. It looked like an ordinary loading bay, except that the wood was wet up to head height. This would be an underground river at high tide. Even in a couple of hours it would be an ever-deepening morass.
When they had gone twenty feet from the entrance, the last of the daylight was swallowed up. Monk refused to look backward. He had memorized the passages and now concentrated on finding his way: how many steps, how many walls, broken or whole. He could hear the rats skittering along the wooden beams that still survived.
Was the water at his feet rising, or was it only his imagination?
Ahead of him, the way divided. A flight of stairs went upward and disappeared. Monk went straight past it. He knew that it led nowhere. The next floor had been carried away when the rafters fell in. The way from here, against all instinct, was down. Now the ground was open, but they must come back in less than an hour, or the current filling it with the weight of the incoming tide would carry them off their feet.
Exeter stopped.
Monk turned back. “There’s no other way, come on.”
A rat scuttled along a beam and fell off into the water with a heavy slop somewhere ahead of them.
Monk held the lantern up. The light shone on Exeter’s white face.
“Let me go over it again,” Exeter said hoarsely, clearing his throat for the umpteenth time. “We go together as far as what must be the next set of stairs. You wait there, I take the money up, and the very first turning to the right leads to another few steps down. A bigger room. They’ll be there. I should give them the money, but make sure Kate’s there and all right. Hooper will be waiting to come from the other side, if…if…she’s not.”
“Right,” Monk agreed. “Don’t go anywhere else, or you’ll get lost.”
Exeter’s face muscles tightened and he winced at the thought. “I know! I know. The tide is rising. Can we get on with it? I can’t bear the waiting. I must see her! Hear her speak…”
Monk nodded. “Go!”
Exeter hesitated only an instant, then squared his shoulders. Without looking at Monk again, he moved forward into the darkness, the wavering lantern in one hand and the Gladstone bag in the other. He reached the steps and began to climb them slowly, making sure not to slip on the wet surface. They had been covered with water only an hour ago, and in another hour would be again. Then the light disappeared and Monk was left alone with the creaking wood, the dripping water. Something above him moved. Bats? They were almost invisible. The air could be full of them.
He knew his men were not far away, and yet he felt utterly alone. The bone-aching cold settled in, the dampness on his skin as if nothing was dry, not his hands, not his face, not his body, at once sweating and chilling.
Minutes ticked by. The building settled as if it were surrendering to the tide and the mud. There was no wind down here, no rattling breath, but he imagined he could hear the tide creep higher.
How many men were involved in the kidnapping of Kate Exeter? There had to be at least three, more likely four, to be sure of guarding her all the time. They would keep it to a minimum. Fewer ways to split th
e money.
Monk shifted his weight to keep from cramping. What was happening? If they were there, as they said they would be, Exeter must have reached them by now. Maybe they weren’t! But only a fool would play games here. If they lost him, he could be anywhere. If he went the wrong way, slipped and fell, dropped the case with money, they might never find him. The tide would drown them just as easily as it would Exeter or Monk, and any or all of his men.
Why could he hear nothing? No, that was wrong. He could hear the rats, the water creeping. The tide would be well into the flow now! Rising inch by inch. More than two or three feet deep and it would be strong enough to pull a man off balance. Three feet and it would drag him along, or break a rotting log, blocking the way out, or carry him into the darkness, like being eaten. The stench was appalling. Who knew what dead creatures the mud contained, reduced to bones and stew? Something moved in the water.
There was a cry ahead of him, a hoarse, grating sound of surprise and pain.
Monk was galvanized into action. Holding the lantern high to light the way as much as possible, he ran forward and stumbled up the slippery steps. He fell on his knees and only just saved the lantern from smashing. He reached the top and an open space. It was the wreck of a room, one wall gone and looking out on the black water about ten feet below them and the tangle of wreckage breaking through the surface.
There was a sound behind him. He swiveled to face it, and the lantern was knocked out of his hand. A heavy blow struck him on the chest, and another on the jaw. He fell hard, splayed on the filthy floor. He avoided a third blow, but now without the lantern he could not see who had attacked him. He judged where the next blow might come and kicked hard. He judged right, and he felt his foot land on flesh. There was a cry and a curse. Another blow just missed his head, and the weight of a man’s upper body fell across his chest. He struggled to free his other leg and kicked at air.
