Dark Tide Rising

by Anne Perry

  A blow landed on his shoulder. Now he had a better idea of how the man fought and was able to land a hard punch on the other’s throat. He heard the satisfying groan, and the next moment the man’s weight went slack. Monk rolled from beneath it and dived for the lantern, now covered with mud. He grasped it and set it upright. The other man was already moving. Monk could see him more clearly now. He was dressed in working clothes, such as any waterman might wear: thick, warm, browns and grays, a woolen hat pulled over his head and part of his face.

  Before he could get his balance, Monk hit him with all his weight and he went down again, but one foot caught Monk on the shin. In trying to keep his balance, Monk dropped the lamp. There was the high, thin sound of breaking glass, and then complete darkness. Monk moved back and to the left, moments before the man passed where he had stood. There was no point in trying to find him. He must go forward and find Exeter, or at least some of his own men.

  He pressed on in what he thought was the direction Exeter had gone. He could hear sounds ahead, but all he could see were shadows here and there, a break in the darkness as the outside light was reflected off water. Everywhere there was dripping. He stopped again, to see if he could hear movement. Nothing! He took a few more steps. Still nothing.

  Then, ahead of him, the sound of someone limping. He moved as softly as he could toward it. Then a light, a bull’s-eye lantern, and the dark form of a man carrying it. There was something familiar in his step.

  “Laker!”

  “Is that you, sir?” The figure lurched toward him eagerly, holding the bull’s-eye up.

  “Are you hurt?” Monk demanded.

  “Not much. You, sir?”

  “No. Any idea how many there are of them? Did you see Exeter?”

  They were only a yard apart now. In the lantern light, Monk could see a bruise on Laker’s face, rapidly darkening.

  “Did they miss you, sir?” Laker asked.

  “No. Exeter’s ahead of me. Behind you!”

  “Then he must have taken a wrong turn,” Laker replied. “We’ll have to go back for him.” He sounded terrible.

  “Can’t have gone far.” Monk forced himself to sound positive. “They want the money, and they know this place. They’re only trying to not get caught!” This was far from what he felt, but he mustn’t let Laker know that.

  Together, they moved back over the ground Laker had covered, picking their way through the debris on the floor by the light of Laker’s lamp. Something moved above them, flying in the dark.

  There was no sign of Exeter.

  The outside light was getting less. Twilight came slowly, but it was well after sunset and there would be little light in the winter sky.

  Laker stopped suddenly, almost falling. “Damn!” he swore, his voice cracking with tension. He bent over and gently turned the body that had tripped him, then gasped.

  Monk pressed forward, his throat so tight he could barely breathe.

  Laker moved the lamp closer and then looked at Monk, his eyes wide and dark with fear. It was Hooper. His face was smeared with blood.

  Monk felt as if it were he himself who had been struck. He was numb with the pain of it, and the immediate denial. “No! He can’t…”

  Laker moved the light even closer, as if seeing more clearly would make him realize it was not really Hooper, just someone in his clothes who looked like him.

  Hooper stirred. “Take that out of my face,” he said haltingly. “I can’t see!”

  Monk felt tears sting his eyes immediately.

  Laker swung the lamp away.

  Hooper blinked, then struggled to sit up. “Damn, my head hurts! Where’s Exeter?” He tried to turn sideways, to climb to his feet.

  Monk leaned forward and held him back. “You all right?”

  “Yes! Just…hit me on the back of the head. Didn’t even see the bastard. Where’s Exeter? Damn you, let me stand up!”

  Monk gave him his hand and pulled. Hooper was heavy and still dazed, but he made it upright. Without speaking, they all moved behind Laker, who had the only light, and followed him the way Hooper said he had come.

  Monk had lost his bearings. He thought Exeter was only about twenty yards ahead of him, at the place he was supposed to meet the kidnappers. Exeter had insisted on going the last space alone, and repeated the directions over and over. Had he fought them over the money? They were obviously here! They had attacked Monk, Laker, and now Hooper as well. Were they making sure nobody followed them?

  “Listen!” Monk said sharply to Laker.

  Laker ignored him. He was already going as fast as he could in the poor light of one lamp and the little daylight that came through broken roofs and rafters and crumbling walls. The slurping was getting faster, and they must be as aware as Monk was of the water rising to the lower timbers, gathering force as the tide started to come in.

  They found Marbury, dazed and limping. One side of his jaw was bruised, but it did not stop his grin of relief at seeing them. He dropped the piece of timber he had been holding as a weapon.

  “Have you seen Exeter?” Monk asked him.

  “He must be that way.” Marbury turned. “It’s the only way left.”

  Silently, they went where he pointed, Laker first with one lamp, and Marbury last with the other. No one spoke. It took intense concentration to avoid potholes, rotting timbers, fallen beams across the path. Everything was wet. They were well below the high-tide line, and no one forgot it. Soon this would be filled to the ceiling with filthy water, black, airless.

  It was Laker’s bull’s-eye that shone on Exeter’s terrified face, streaked with mud and blood and swollen, with one eye almost closed. “Have you got her?” Exeter shouted at him. His voice cracked and he drew a long shuddering breath. He looked at Monk, and Monk saw the hope die out of him, almost as if he had shrunk into a smaller man, beaten, all but lifeless.

  Monk answered. “No. We all fought with them, and one is lying back behind us. She must be ahead. Did you give them the money? What did they say?”

  Exeter looked stricken. It was difficult to tell how badly he was injured. There were quite a few dark stains on him that looked like blood, but it could have been his own or that of one of the kidnappers. If he could stand, that was all that mattered now.

  “Yes…yes. I fought with some of them, several, I don’t know. They took the money, but I don’t know where Kate is. I’ve looked. They left her. Please…”

  “Of course. Give me your lamp. I’ll lead the way.”

  Wordlessly, Exeter handed him the lantern and fell in step, close behind Monk. Hooper, Marbury, and Laker all followed, stumbling in the dark, tripping over timbers, odd bits of rotted furniture, years old and sodden wet. When they reached the bottom of the stairs at the far side, the water was already ankle-deep. In half an hour, it would be over their knees, and the pull of it enough to knock them off balance and carry them away, battering them senseless against the pieces of wet, broken piling. If they caught a foot in refuse, they could drown. They all knew that, except possibly Exeter.

  Monk lost track of time. Was it a quarter of an hour or only five minutes before he rounded a corner and came into a room that was almost dry? It was open to the weather completely on one side, but it was landward, and much of the wood was unbroken.

  Monk stopped abruptly. He saw what they all would, as soon as he moved out of the way. The body of a woman was sprawled on the floor, over on the far side against the wall. There was blood everywhere. And the dark outlines of rats were approaching her, curiously, scenting food.

  Monk gagged, horror stopping his breath.

  Behind him, Exeter let out a terrible cry and flung himself on the floor, touching her gently, sobbing her name over and over.

  Hooper moved past Monk and went to Exeter. He did not try to lift him or move him away. A glance was enough to know
that he could not help her now.

  Monk walked toward her, his stomach churning, his mouth dry. He forced himself to look beyond Exeter, at what was left of his wife. The only good thing was that she must have died quickly. There would have been no time to feel the pain of the terrible wounds. Please God, not even enough to realize what had happened to her.

  He turned away. “Laker, go and get the police surgeon. You’ll have to head back through the tunnel and find Bathurst. Take Marbury. Don’t try that tunnel alone. Be quick. The tide’s coming in so you’ll have to return at the landward side.”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I get some more men, sir?”

  “There’ll be nothing to find tonight. Get the police surgeon, and…someone to see to…us. I don’t know who’s hurt, or how badly. God knows how many kidnappers there are, or if they’re still here.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get as many as I can…” Laker wanted to say something more, but there was nothing. He turned and ran back, as fast as he could go, with Marbury on his heels.

  Monk looked at Exeter, crouched on the floor, his body shaking, crippled with grief. How could he help the man? What was there to say? He was locked in his own world of grief, and nothing else would matter to him now.

  The only thing was to get him out of here, physically safe and dry, and not cold to the bone with shock. There was no comfort to offer.

  CHAPTER

  4

  THE TIDE WAS STILL rising. There was nothing more Monk, or any of his men, could do on Jacob’s Island. The police surgeon had taken Kate’s body away. He would report to Monk sometime tomorrow, when he had something to say.

  There was absolute darkness now. The tide had already risen high enough to fill the lower cellars and passages dangerously, and some of the men were hurt badly enough to need more than the temporary patching up that the police surgeon could do.

  Monk himself ached in every bone, but how much was bruising and minor cuts and how much the torture of utter failure, he did not yet know. Fortunately, the men he had left guarding the boats, Bathurst and Walcott, were unhurt and could row them back up to Wapping.

  They went in silence. There was no sound but the slapping of the water against the wooden sides of the boats and the rhythmic creak of the oars. Nobody spoke. Whatever their thoughts were, they were too raw and too complicated for them to find the words.

  Monk sat in the stern while Bathurst rowed. It was a heavy task alone, and Bathurst was straining with the effort, but at least the flood tide was with him. Laker nursed his wounded arm and sat awkwardly with one bandaged leg straight out.

  The other boat was ahead of them, its one riding light bobbing as they hit choppy water. Monk could see nothing more than that.

  What had happened? They had followed the plan exactly, done everything the kidnappers had instructed, as to both time and place. Exeter might not know anything about Jacob’s Island, but he had followed the directions, and the more often Monk went over it in his mind, the more certain he was that they all had done so exactly. They had not been a yard out of place. What had gone wrong?

  Or had the kidnappers done something wrong? Quarreled among themselves, perhaps? Fallen out as to shares of the money? Certainly, they had not killed Kate by accident. Injuries like that could not happen by mistake. As he pictured her, trying to force the image out of his sight and failing, it came to him again that her feet were still tied together. So she had not tried to run away. The slaughter was deliberate! Why?

  There was hatred in it: deep, almost insane. What could Kate Exeter possibly have done to awaken such a feeling in anyone? Monk had assumed it was about the money. Heaven knew there was enough of it to account for any depth of greed. But obviously it was something far more visceral than that.

  Was it even about her at all?

  Exeter himself seemed a far more believable target. She was just a means to hurt him. Did he actually know who was behind this? He had affected to have no idea, and believe the ransom was the point. Was he lying to hide a reason he was ashamed of? Or was hiding it part of the price?

  In that case, the kidnappers had not believed he would remain silent after Kate was returned to him. It would not be the end, as he had said, but only a hiatus.

  That was pretense, too. He would hunt them now, until either he was dead, or they were.

  There must be a very terrible story behind such a crime. Tomorrow, Exeter might tell them himself. If not, Monk would have to press him further.

  He realized again how cold he was. Not only his face, exposed to the damp river air, but his body, deep inside his layers of clothing. His feet were numb. His hands ached, and he could not even feel the scraped skin on his knuckles where he had struck the man who attacked him.

  Some of the others must feel worse. He had seen the ragged slash on Marbury’s shoulder and arm. Hooper’s face was dark with bruising. They were all splashed with mud and some were wet through.

  The air was clear. He could see riding lights from anchored ships all around him, and lights on both shores. The patterns were long familiar. That must be Wapping ahead of them now.

  Half an hour later they were in the station. The potbellied stove had been refueled, and heat spread throughout the open room. Hot tea was made for everyone, the wettest clothes changed. It was just after seven, and pitch-dark outside. It had all happened in less than four hours, and yet instead of being the end, they had barely passed the beginning.

  Monk looked around the other men, filthy, exhausted, four of them injured to some degree or another. Now began the dissection, piece by piece.

  “Walcott?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did anyone pass you at the river going toward Jacob’s Island? Anyone at all?”

  “No, sir. The water was flat and I would have seen all of it. Not a soul.” His voice was firm, without hesitation, and he looked Monk straight in the eye.

  “Bathurst?”

  “No, sir. A boat passed within about thirty feet, but kept right on going. They must have seen me, unless they were half asleep, but no one came back. And I watched for it.”

  “Then either they got there before us and were waiting, or they came in from the landward side,” Monk concluded. “How many do you reckon there were? Start with you, Laker.”

  “Just one man, sir, but he took me by surprise. He came out of the darkness and I didn’t hear him above the general creaking and dripping. He hit me pretty hard from behind, and I went down, but I managed to get up when he came closer, and we fought, but he got away.”

  “Which direction?” Monk asked. He was not sure if the answer would be of any use, but he must give them the feeling that he had ideas, even solutions. They all looked utterly defeated. And that was how Monk felt. “Marbury?”

  “I saw only one man, sir. We had a stiff battle, but when I hit him with a really good blow, he went down. I think it was after he had attacked Laker, sir, because he was already filthy and battered-looking, mud on his clothes as if he had lain on his back in it. And it was near dark by then.”

  “Thank you. Hooper?”

  “Came from a side passage, sir. Hit me with a plank of wood. It was rotten, but it was very heavy, because it was wet. Broke across my back. I went down sideways, but I got up again. Sort of rolled over. We fought hard and I was pretty well beaten. Couldn’t get my breath.”

  Monk nodded and looked around at each man. “Same thing happened to me. They ambushed us. Which means they were expecting us.”

  “They got four of us, sir, and Exeter, and they had someone to hold Kate—” Laker began.

  “Unless she was already dead,” Monk cut across him. It had to be said. “And they never intended to hand her over.” It still suggested three men, at the very least. “And they had come from the landward side, or escaped that way anyway. Walcott? Bathurst? You sure you saw nobody?” he asked again.


  Both men thought for a moment, then shook their heads. “No, sir,” they said almost together. “And one of us had to have seen anyone leaving by the river. You can’t miss a boat in the water, even at dusk. Your eyes get used to the shadows,” Bathurst added.

  “So, they left by land. With the money.”

  “Could have left it there,” Laker argued. “Go back for it later.”

  “And expect to find it?” Monk asked incredulously. “The damn place is moving, sinking, rearranging itself every ten minutes. Not to mention the tides rising and falling twice every day.”

  “Then they took it,” Walcott said flatly. “And left us nothing but the body of that poor woman.”

  That was greeted with silence.

  It was Hooper who broke it. He looked up, his face a confused mask of pain. “Why did they do that? They didn’t even do it…quickly! You don’t slaughter an animal like that.” His voice cracked and he struggled to control it. It was Monk he was looking at.

  Monk felt it acutely. It had seemed a good plan, as good as could be involving so much uncertainty. He had told Exeter it would be all right, and Exeter had done exactly as he was told, and lost everything.

  Monk looked from one man to another. They looked like a bunch of stray, whipped dogs, bruised, bloody, most of them wet through with the pungent river mud. But above all, they looked beaten. They had trusted his plan, and it had failed in every way.

  Bathurst blinked. “But he was going to give them the money!” he exclaimed, his face tight with anger. “Why kill her?”

  “Perhaps she recognized them,” Walcott said, with a cadence in his voice that implied it was an obvious answer.

  “Then why wouldn’t Exeter know them, too?” Bathurst shot back. “He said he didn’t.”

  “Maybe he lied?” Marbury suggested. “Perhaps he knew perfectly well who they were, and he felt guilty. Or perhaps saying he didn’t know them was part of the price?”

  “For what?” Hooper asked. “Getting her back alive? Then why keep silent now? He didn’t get her back, and he lost all the money as well. If he knows who they are, he should be the first to say.”