by Anne Perry
He wanted to agree with Laker, but, unwilling to risk further conversation, he did not know how.
CHAPTER
9
“IT DOESN’T HELP MUCH,” Hooper said unhappily at Wapping the next day.
Monk seemed determined to be optimistic. “It’s the first break we’ve had. And you said Lister got away?”
“Yes. But it may not have been more than a fight over money. He was throwing it around like he had lots more where that came from,” Hooper pointed out. “He’s…lightweight, behaving like a fool. He’s slick enough and a good street fighter, but he’s not got the brains to plan the Exeter kidnap.”
“But he knows who has,” Monk argued. “Which is almost certainly why someone tried to kill him. You’re sure that was what the third man was trying to do? Not rob him?”
“Yes, he meant to kill him.” The more Hooper played it over in his memory, the more certain he became. “Ask Laker,” he added.
“You trust Laker?” Monk asked it with a twisted smile, little humor in it.
Hooper imagined he could hear the pain behind the question. He thought for a while. Did he trust Laker? He pictured Laker’s face in the momentary light before the fog swirled back again. He had been remembering something, some incident, some loss, with shame, an awkwardness, as if it still hurt. But if there was guilt in it, Hooper had not seen it. He found himself defensive. Was that because he wished to defend not only Laker, but himself as well? “Yes. He’s young, but not too young to have a wound or two.”
“Twenty-eight,” Monk told him.
“Well, he came to my aid yesterday afternoon, when he could’ve finished me if he’d wanted to. And if the third man was behind the kidnapping, and Laker betrayed us, that’s what he would’ve done.”
“And you think the third man was behind the kidnapping? Not just someone else who saw Lister flashing money around and decided to take some of it?” Monk asked.
“I don’t know. It was just an impression. Why kill him if all he wanted was money?”
“And you’re sure he meant to kill him?”
“I was then, but now I don’t know,” Hooper admitted. The impression remained, but was it fear? “He only attacked Lister, not either of the other two.”
“Lister had the money,” Monk said.
“I know that, because the other two hadn’t had time to rob him, but did the third man know that?”
“I agree with you,” Monk conceded. “We’ll go with that. It’s all we have. I’ll tell Exeter.”
“Want me to come with you?” Hooper offered. A part of him would have given a great deal to avoid encountering Exeter’s grief again. He had no way of easing it at all. It was painful to see, and he felt guilty as well. They had failed in every way to keep their promises to the man. It was cowardly to refuse to look at your errors and allow someone else to suffer. But he also wanted to know if he could see the shadow that Celia Darwin saw in Exeter. Perhaps an arrogance? An insensitivity? Had he given Kate everything he thought she wanted, without ever asking her?
Why on earth did he need to know that? Because he wanted to believe that Celia Darwin was not petty minded, denying what she could not have, needing to see a fault in it.
Ridiculous. And yet he stood up and went with Monk outside, into the fine rain, which seemed to have cleared the fog away, at least for a while.
They took a hansom ride and were at Harry Exeter’s house by late morning. They expected to find him at home. He was too recently bereaved to be having any social life, and his businesses took care of themselves, at least for a while. His juniors would be expected to call on him, rather than he call upon them.
The house still had all the elements of mourning: the drawn curtains and the black wreath on the door, small and discreet. Inside, perhaps the mirrors were turned to the wall, even some clocks stopped, but there was no sawdust on the roadway to muffle the sound of horses’ hoofs.
The butler opened the door to them, inquired how he might help, and then conducted them through to the withdrawing room, where a huge fire was burning. Harry Exeter sat in the armchair, staring into the flames. He rose as they came in and went straight to Monk, initially ignoring Hooper. He held out his hand.
Monk took it and Exeter grasped onto him. “Any news?” he asked. “I can see it in your face. What is it? What have you found? Have you some idea who it was? Tell me!”
Hooper knew Monk well enough to read the expression in his face, the sudden hardening of resolve, the effort to imagine what Exeter must be feeling and to meet it not with pity, but with measured honesty. He had seen it all before, if in more measured degree. This was the first case where they’d been involved before a violent tragedy occurred, believing they could avoid it. Monk was carrying it all himself. He would not expect Hooper to share it.
“We think we have identified one of the kidnappers,” Monk said levelly. “He has certainly spent a great deal of money lately, and he never has before. He hires out his services on violent jobs, and we have an informant that placed him at Jacob’s Island.”
“An informant?” Exeter was clearly startled. “From other kidnappings?”
“There are always kidnappings,” Monk replied, his voice gentle, as if he did not want to make Exeter’s grief even worse. “Not like Mrs. Exeter’s. Not as…brutal. Hers was unique in that. And usually we get the victims back. It is self-defeating not to return the victim, or next time no one will pay. They trade on hope.” The contempt in his voice was lacerating.
Exeter must have heard it, too. “Then why Kate? Did they not believe I would pay? I had the money.” His face was anguished. “I was there! With it all! Did they think I couldn’t get it, do you think? I could! I did!” He seemed desperate that they should believe him.
“It was an enormous amount, Mr. Exeter, but I don’t think they would have asked for more than they thought you could get. It would be pointless. Some men would not even try…”
“But I did!” Exeter protested again. “I did everything exactly as they asked. They could not expect me to come alone! I don’t know the damned area! I could only get to it, where they asked, by river. I needed you to guide me, and they had to know that.” He looked at Hooper for understanding, perhaps reassurance, that it was not his error that was responsible for the disaster.
Hooper tried to convey by his expression that nothing better or different could have been done.
“You had the money,” Monk said quietly. “You gave it to them as they asked.”
“But they did kill her…because I made some kind of mistake?” Exeter forced the words out, as if he had been trying to find the courage to ask himself that question since the night it had happened. He looked at Monk, pleading for the answer he needed.
“What could you have done differently?” Monk asked. “You followed their instructions to the letter. They must have intended to kill her all along. They did it as you got there. Nothing could have prevented it. They knew you would find the money and that you would come. Which means they knew you.”
Exeter closed his eyes tightly, and shook his head. “That’s too horrible to think of. Do you believe they knew Kate as well?” Suddenly his eyes were wide, searching Monk’s face. “Did they? And could still do that to her?”
Monk put the thought they all had into words. “If they knew her, perhaps she knew them also, and they dared not let her go?” If that was so, Kate would surely have realized it, too! He could not imagine what terror or pain she had suffered.
“Tell me it wasn’t someone I know!” Exeter said between his teeth. “Will the law blame me if I kill them?” He stared at Monk, as if seriously trying to judge if he could do it or not. It was possible he really was toying with the idea.
“Don’t,” Monk said quietly. “Please…”
Exeter’s whole body was taut with knotted muscles, as if he would attack someo
ne this moment, if only he knew whom.
“Have you ever seen a man hang?” Monk asked, his voice still soft.
“What?” Exeter was startled. “No, of course not. Why?”
“It’s not a nice way to go,” Monk answered him. “Especially if it’s done judicially. It’s quite barbaric, actually. You are probably awake all night. They’ll send a priest or chaplain to you, for you to have the last rites, confess and all that. Maybe at that point you realize in a few hours you’re going to cease to exist. Or worse, you are going to face judgment, everlasting punishment, from whatever deity there is. And you can sit and watch the hands go round on the clock, ticking your life away, and it won’t be as if anyone believed you were going to heaven!”
Exeter shuddered. “What’s your point?” He gave the ghost of a smile. “Although I realize hanging would be a very civilized refinement of torture that killing him myself would not be. A slow sort…of pavane of death. Right. I’ll settle for that. You’ve convinced me. Is that what you were going to say?” He opened his eyes wide.
“No, I came to tell you we found a man behaving extravagantly and we think he could be connected with the other kidnappings.”
“Why didn’t you arrest him? Do you think he’s going to lead you to the others?”
“We were going to arrest him,” Hooper replied, before Monk could speak again. “We were following him. He encountered a couple of other men, who may have intended to rob him. Then someone else came and attacked them all, tried to kill one man…”
“They killed him? Now you’ll never know.”
“No, we rescued him. But while we were fighting off the others, he escaped,” Hooper corrected him. “But we’ll find him again. And next time, we’ll arrest him.”
“But he’ll have the others after him,” Exeter said. “Won’t he be safer in custody? Oh! I see. Of course, if you try him and convict him, he’ll hang, and he would probably rather be murdered on the dockside.”
“Exactly,” Monk agreed. “But we’ll find him. We know the dockside, too, and we have informers.”
“And you think he’ll tell you who the others are?” Exeter asked eagerly. “Can you offer him any leniency to do that? God, I want to know! There’s nothing left for me now, except justice. I want them to suffer as much as Kate did. And don’t tell me that’s wrong! It may be. I don’t give a damn.”
“I think most people would understand that,” Monk nodded. “And as long as you don’t kill them yourself, the law has no problem with you.”
There was a moment’s silence. A log settled in the fire with a shower of sparks.
Exeter looked up at Monk. “Thank you. If you…if you have the chance to speak to them, ask them why. Why did they do that to her? If it was someone who knew her, and not just the money, I want to know!”
“I don’t think you do.” Monk shook his head slowly. “But it was a hell of a lot of money, and if it was just about that, then I think you do want to know. That would mean it was not an enemy of yours, choosing that way to hurt you, and it was in no way your fault.”
Exeter did not move, but he seemed to crumple; he looked smaller. “You’re right,” he said hoarsely. “I want to know that…I need to know. I think you know me as well as anyone could. You’re a good man.”
Outside in the street, Hooper and Monk did not speak for a long time. Hooper was filled with his own thoughts, and he guessed Monk was, too. There were many emotions stirred, memories of love and pain, regret, mistakes that could not now be undone, maybe never could have been.
* * *
—
FORESEEING LISTER’S ATTEMPT TO escape both the police and whoever it was that had attacked him the previous night, Monk organized a search party of six men, including himself, to apprehend him. He could not spare more. The fog had lifted and it was a much milder evening with a three-quarter moon. They began along the docks beside the Limehouse Reach, trying the public houses Lister was known to frequent. The streets were still damp and the tide was flowing upriver, carrying the smell of salt on the wind.
Monk and Hooper walked separately, so as not to appear to be together. Neither of them doubted that Lister would now be very wary indeed of police, or of anyone who seemed to be following him.
It took two long, tedious hours to find him, beyond Limehouse and into the Isle of Dogs, much further east than expected. He was enjoying himself greatly in one of the dockside public houses when Hooper went in, wandered around, and saw Lister with a full tankard of ale and a group of dockers and watermen around him, all with tankards in their hands. He looked set to stay for some time: not only enjoying himself, but safe. As long as he paid the bill and kept the company, no one was going to attack him—kidnapper, thief, or police.
Hooper went out again into the street and found Monk in the shadow of a wall, looking bored.
“He’s inside,” Hooper said quietly. “Just got a fresh pint of beer. He’s treating half a dozen heavyweights. Didn’t stay long, in case he recognized me, but I reckon we’ll have to stay outside until he comes out, and then follow him until his ‘escort’ takes its own way. We’ll not do any good in there. Didn’t want a roughhouse we couldn’t win. We could say we’re police, and he’ll say we’ve come to kill him. They’ll attack first, and then if they realize we really are police, they’ll have to get rid of us, or face the consequences. One guess what that’ll be!”
“We’ll move up the street a bit.” Monk shifted his weight a little. “Out of the wind,” he added. “Feel it in your bones when the tide turns!”
They walked slowly away from the public house and turned the corner into the next alley. They turned again along the back entrances of the houses opposite and passed backyards grimy with coal dust, fallen garbage, and here and there broken slates. It was some time before they discovered a passageway that looked out on the street almost opposite the public house, with a decent sideways view of the back door.
“Give me a leg up onto the roof of that shed, and I’ll be able to see the back door,” Monk said. “We’ll be out of his line of sight, if he’s looking.”
Hooper obeyed and accepted Monk’s arm to haul himself up. It was hardly comfortable, but it did afford an excellent vantage point from which to see the public house.
They remained silent, watching. Every now and then one of them changed position. Hooper’s mind began to wander. Who was Lister waiting for? Was Kate’s kidnap and murder done out of hatred of Exeter? If so, did Exeter really have no idea who it was? Were there so many possibilities?
And which of Monk’s men had he corrupted, too? Hooper knew it was not himself. He had never suspected Monk. And for no concrete reason, he did not believe it was Laker. That left Marbury, Walcott, and Bathurst. Why? Money? Blackmail over some weakness? He shivered momentarily, as if a cold wind had arisen. There, but for the grace of God, went he! No one knew about his past to blackmail him. But if they did? Would he have the strength to say go to hell, and do your worst? Would he escape, make a run for it? Were his actions on the Mary Grace still a hanging offense, after all these years? Was there anyone left alive who knew the truth, the real truth, behind the apparent stories?
What would Monk make of that? Hester would understand—or would she? She was sort of an army person, in a way, an army nurse.
What about Celia Darwin?
Why was he thinking of her? He would probably never see her again. Were it not for the past and the Mary Grace, would he? Would he deliberately go and find her?
He was still thinking about that, how good it would be, when a hand reached up from the paved ground below and grabbed his ankle. He lost his balance and slid down, only just righting himself before he fell off the roof and landed awkwardly. He was immediately struck a hard blow across the face and fell sideways. A moment later, another man moved across in front of him and struck Monk, only Monk had already moved forward, and t
here was a grunt of pain and a curse. Hooper stumbled to his feet and struck the man with a short, hard punch to the gut. Almost immediately he himself was hit from the side, a hard blow to the head. He felt sick as the darkness opened up and smothered him. Then there was a stinging pain in his thigh.
Careless. He had been thinking when he should have been listening, watching, nerves stretched for anything out of the usual pattern.
He took a deep breath and then lashed out at the sound of a man stopping close to him. He had no idea who he was. But it was not Monk’s elegant boots he kicked as hard as he could.
Someone gave a shrill cry and lost his balance, swearing savagely.
Then Monk was in front of him. “Come on!” he shouted. “Lister’s gone. Come—” He broke off as the first man climbed to his feet, ready to fight again. There was no time to chase after Lister. Hooper and Monk needed to save themselves and get out of this without serious injury.
Ten minutes later, they were at the far end of the road looking into the main street and the public house.
“We’ve lost Lister,” Monk said bitterly. “Our own fault. Weren’t paying attention. We’re slipping, Hooper. Where the hell did he go? And who were the other men?”
“More kidnappers?” Hooper suggested.
“If they were all together, why did Lister run off?” Monk asked. He swore, then turned around slowly. There was no way to tell in the darkness which direction Lister had gone, or might continue to go, or whether he might double back or even cross the river.
Hooper was suddenly aware of how cold he was, and how his bones ached and his flesh hurt where he had been struck. He would feel far worse tomorrow morning.
“Where did he go?” Monk asked. “It was only a few moments. He could still be around.”
“So could the other men!” Hooper said sharply. “Come on!” He grabbed at Monk’s arm and pulled hard. “If they’re part of the kidnapping, they’ll come after us.”
