by Anne Perry
Monk pulled away so sharply Hooper was almost knocked off balance. “We can’t wait. There are only three of them, and this time we’ll take them by surprise. It’s our only chance to get them all!”
Hooper knew it was risky. These men might be armed with knives. In the night, by the docks, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill a police officer, if they were cornered. And that was if they even knew Monk and Hooper were police.
Hooper hesitated only a moment. An elation was growing inside him. Monk may not realize it, but there was no greater trust in another man’s loyalty than to go into such a fight beside him. It did not occur to him until later that Monk had not even for an instant questioned that Hooper might not trust him!
They went quickly and quietly, close together, down the main street, staying near to the curb. It made them visible, if anyone was looking, but staying close to the walls also made an ambush almost impossible.
In a hundred yards, they met a cross street. Right led to a dead end, left toward the river. A quick glance and they chose the left. They passed a timber yard and tried the gates, but they were locked and chained. There were stairs at the end, down into the water, and a narrow ledge leading around a corner and out of sight. The water swirled past them, gathering speed. One misstep would be fatal.
There was no way within sight down to the river.
Monk turned upriver and saw riding lights in the distance. “Too far away,” he said, his voice tight with tension. “Couldn’t have got all the way there in that time.”
Hooper stared ahead across the river. There was a rowing boat a hundred feet away. Then he saw an oar, lying in the water only a few yards from the shore. “There’s no one rowing!”
Monk swung around to look. “Damn! Do you think that’s him in it? Lister?”
“With no oar?” Hooper asked. “If he dropped it, why didn’t he pick it up? He didn’t get far out with only one.”
“Scull? From the stair?”
“In this tide?”
Monk squinted across the water. “Is that even moving?”
“You mean is he dead already?” Hooper asked, his voice grating with the misery of yet another defeat.
Monk turned away. “We’ll have to get another boat and go out after him. Where do you think is the closest place to find one?”
Hooper looked round. He knew this part of the river moderately well. “Next warehouse after this might have one. There’s a passageway over here.” He pointed. It was invisible from where they were standing at the water’s edge, but he knew that the gates into the alley hid a narrow slit between buildings. “Have to look out for an ambush.” He nearly told Monk to keep his hand on his knife, then bit the words back. Monk already knew.
They went quickly and silently across the street, into the passage and along it to the far end. They found a boat, a fast, light shell of a thing, to take a man out to any of the ships at anchor. They unhitched it and Hooper took both oars. The boat was too narrow for two men side by side.
It took them nearly ten minutes to catch up with the drifting boat, now well into the current and being carried upriver on the flood tide. One glance inside, by the light of a bull’s-eye lantern Hooper held high, showed them everything that was of immediate import. Lister was dead. His throat had been cut from side to side and his shoulders and chest were soaked with blood. It was not an injury a man could possibly have inflicted upon himself.
It took another two and a half hours to get the body and the boat ashore. They put Lister’s boat in the custody of the Wapping Police Station and took the body to the police surgeon, although they doubted he would tell them anything that was not already obvious. Lister had been put in the boat alive, and then his throat had been cut with a large and very sharp knife, or possibly an open razor of the type known casually as a cutthroat, although nobody felt like making even a gallows-humor remark about that now. He would have died almost immediately, although from the frozen, almost gargoylelike horror on his face, he’d had time to see it coming and knew exactly what was going to happen.
It was well into the small hours of the morning when Hooper went home. He was cold, tired, and aching all over by the time he took off his clothes, washed until he was clean enough not to spoil his sheets, and finally went to bed.
* * *
—
HOOPER SLEPT FITFULLY AND awoke late and heavy-headed, as if he might have been wearing a hat too tight for him. He washed, shaved, and dressed, then left immediately for Wapping, without even taking a cup of tea. It was his duty to be there, and his personal need. Had they heard anything more? He remembered looking at the body last night, searching the clothes, the pockets, the shoes, anything at all. Had fresh eyes this morning seen anything he or Monk had missed?
It was a sharp morning with clear skies, and the autumn sun was dazzling. It showed the world in too clean a light. The other men looked as exhausted as he did. Someone had brought a pile of ham sandwiches from one of the street peddlers, and there was fresh hot tea in the big enameled pot. Hooper felt a wave of emotion that the old warmth and camaraderie seemed to be there, but he soon realized it was an illusion. They were trying to make it look as if it was the same. It wasn’t: it wouldn’t be until they knew who it was who had betrayed them. And even when they knew, and had dealt with him, the knowledge that it had happened would mean it could always happen again. The safety of absolute loyalty had been a delusion.
Bathurst was busy making more tea, and they shared the sandwiches. Monk arrived a few minutes later, with the police surgeon. Laker and Marbury were sent to examine the rowing boat. Monk said he would go, at a decent hour, and tell Exeter the news. It might give him some small comfort.
“Do you think Lister was killed for the money?” Hooper asked. “And does that mean those who killed him were the other kidnappers? Or just that he was fool enough to show that he had money to spare?”
“I don’t know,” Monk replied, some of the light going out of his face. “As I said, I find it hard to believe he was the brains behind the kidnap. He was…” He did not bother to finish the sentence.
Hooper knew what he meant: Lister had shown a careless, impulsive, spur-of-the-moment reaction to having money, not that of someone who planned meticulously. The kidnapping was planned in advance, piece by piece.
“He might be the man who actually took Mrs. Exeter, sir,” he said.
“Maybe,” Monk agreed. “He could look respectable enough. We’ll never know.”
“Miss Darwin might recognize him,” Hooper suggested.
Monk stared at him. “With his throat cut? You can’t expect her to look at that, Hooper. Look at a dead man in the morgue, and say whether it was the man who kidnapped her friend and slaughtered her? According to Exeter, she’s a quiet sort of woman, shy and not…not reliable. Why upset her for a testimony we couldn’t rely on, even if it came to the worst?”
“It would be useful to us to know.” Hooper found his reply a little sharper than he had intended. His resentment of the characterization was palpable.
Monk looked at him with more attention. “Is Exeter wrong about her?”
“Yes, sir,” Hooper replied without hesitation. “She’s quiet. That doesn’t mean she’s unreliable, just…just a more serious person.” That sounded heavy, stolid, and she wasn’t, just badly hurt. There was light inside her, and delicacy…
Monk smiled very slightly. “Then go and see if she can tell you. But be careful, Hooper. This man kidnapped her cousin and may be the one who murdered her. And now he’s been killed himself. They’ll make him look as decent as possible, but he’s still a man who died violently. She may never have seen a dead body before, let alone a murdered one.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
Hooper set out straightaway. He had no idea if Celia Darwin would be at home. He had no idea of the pattern of her life at all. He felt as if they k
new each other, which was ridiculous. They had talked like comfortable friends, but beyond her relationship with Kate Exeter, he knew nothing of her daily life, her wishes and dreams, what she did that mattered to her. And she knew nothing of him at all, except that he was with the River Police. She had probably not given him a thought between the time he stepped out of the front door and the time when he would knock on that door again.
He stood in the sunlit street and knocked. He would be almost relieved if she did not answer.
It seemed like no time at all before the maid was there and he had to explain himself.
“Oh, yes, sir. If you’ll come in, sir?” She stepped back and invited him inside.
He wondered for a moment if he had misrepresented himself as more important than he was. This was going to be difficult.
Celia was in the sitting room at an old mahogany desk, writing letters. She looked up as soon as he came in, and the maid announced him.
Celia rose to her feet, looking a little flushed. Was she wondering what had brought him back so soon? “Good morning, Mr. Hooper,” she said quickly. “Do you have news?”
He had rehearsed, and yet the words seemed inadequate now, so formal as to be a rebuff. “Yes, Miss Darwin, we have found a man we believe to have been involved. Unfortunately, he was killed by two other men who may also have been involved. It looks likely it was over the money.”
Her face was impossible to read. “The money might once have been important to Harry. I believe there was a great deal of it. Even so, I think he now hardly cares. And if, as you say, this man is dead, then he cannot tell us anything.”
There was a downward fall of disappointment in her voice, and also in her face.
“We don’t know for certain that he was involved.” He sounded to himself as if he was making excuses, and he hated that. “But he could have been the man who actually took Kate from beside the riverbank.” He realized he had used her name as if he had known her, and had a right to. It was too late to take it back now, and he would be drawing attention to it if he apologized.
She stared at him, her eyes very steady. “You want me to tell you if it is the same man, if I recognize him?” she asked.
“If you’d be willing to?”
“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath. “Yes, of course I will. I don’t know if I will be certain…but I shall try.”
“Thank you, Miss Darwin.” Now he had the responsibility of taking her to look at Lister. It was even more his responsibility than she knew, as it was he who had suggested they ask her to do this, not Monk. The last thing he wanted was to cause her pain or embarrassment, if she were to faint. But she also knew a ghastly experience was coming, and she did not shrink from it. He wished there was some way he could protect her.
She collected a heavy cloak from the cupboard in the hall and went to the front door. She gave instructions to the maid and estimated what time she would return. She sounded so normal, as if she was taking a usual walk, maybe to post a letter, but Hooper could see the stiffness in her. He admired her composure. He thought again how graceful she was. Pleasing to look at, calm like a summer dawn, not all full of froth and need for attention, like the wind in daffodils.
Then he blocked out his own stupidity and followed her along the street, catching up in a few steps because his legs were so much longer than hers.
They walked toward the main road. He did not want to ask her to wait for an omnibus, and he did not know the routes in this area.
“Have you always lived here?” he asked, then thought how foolish that was. He was a policeman, taking her to see if she could recognize a corpse! This was not a social occasion.
“Here, or in Kent, much further to the south,” she replied. “It’s so rich, the countryside. I miss it sometimes.” She glanced sideways at him. “But you’re not Kentish, are you.” It was a statement.
“No. Essex, further down the estuary toward the sea. Flat coast. Some people think that’s boring.” As he spoke, he thought of the wide skies he had loved as a boy. They had set him dreaming of horizons, and what marvels might lie beyond them.
She was looking at him. “You don’t.” She said it as if she knew. “Sometimes it’s a shame to have everything known, every hillside, every cliff or beach, or even all of the trees. Then you don’t have to build them in your own mind, because they’re already built.” She turned away. “I’m sorry. That’s a bit fanciful. I’m trying not to think of this wretched man. Dreams are so much safer…sometimes.”
He wanted to comfort her, just a hand on her arm. But it would be intrusive.
He stepped into the road and hailed a cab. When it stopped, he handed her up into it, then followed. He gave the driver instructions quietly: just a street name and number, not that it was the morgue.
“Do you want to be safe?” he asked. “Never surprised?”
“You make it sound so…dead! Oh. I’m sorry. That was an unfortunate thing to say—when we’re going to such a place…” She trailed off, embarrassed.
He hid his smile. “I think that ‘hibernating’ would be a better word.”
“How gentle you are,” she said. “Going to sleep for a while is so different from never having woken up in the first place. But we can’t pick and choose to sleep through the bad bits. And how would you know if you did, that you didn’t dream them anyway?”
“You’d miss the cold,” he pointed out.
“And the winter furrows can be so beautiful across the ploughed fields, and the new fallen snow, and…and…” Her voice choked off. “I miss her already, and it’s only been a week. There are so many things you can’t talk about to just…anybody.”
“If you’ve ever had even one person you can speak to, you are fortunate,” he replied. “And if you can share with one, perhaps you can share with another. Some people can’t put a name or a word to anything and really mean it.”
She lifted up her hand as if she would touch his arm.
He sat painfully still, hoping she would.
Then she realized what she was doing and withdrew it.
They sat in silence, but it was companionable. He thought about broad estuary skies and birds on the wild winds, white gulls, skeins of geese with their wings creaking. There was no other sound like it. One day, perhaps, he would tell her about it.
They arrived at the morgue and Hooper paid the driver, then stood to help Celia out, taking her hand. She did not seem to lean on him at all.
They went inside, and he took her to a room to wait while he went for the police surgeon. Then they accompanied him to look at the body of Lister.
He had been considerably tidied up; nearly all the blood had been removed. He looked ashen now. There was almost a bluish tint to his skin.
Celia looked at him quite steadily, but she stood very close to Hooper. He would like to have put his arm around her, if he had dared.
“Has he blue eyes?” she asked.
Hooper had no idea.
“Yes,” the police surgeon told her.
“Then that is the man who took Kate. He…looked brighter-colored then. He moved gracefully.”
“Are you sure?” Hooper asked.
“Oh, yes, he has that funny little mark on his nose. I thought it stopped his face from looking too exact. Poor man. It’s too late to mend anything now, isn’t it! May we leave, please? I don’t like this. It’s all so perfectly…pointless.”
“Of course.” This time Hooper did take her arm, whether she thought it forward of him or not. He wanted to steady her because she looked a little off balance. “We shall get a cup of tea—very hot.”
“We?” She gave the ghost of a smile. “I am not your responsibility, Mr. Hooper.”
“We,” he repeated firmly.
CHAPTER
10
MONK WAS STILL WORKING at nearly half-past six, putting toget
her the details of Lister, everything that was known of him, and the police surgeon’s report of his death. There were a few marks on his body, as if he had very recently been involved in several fights. None of them had been serious, but they had left deep bruises, some of them very shortly before his death. His actual death looked to have been quick. A single knife stroke had severed his throat almost to the spine. There were no obvious wounds of self-defense.
Probably two men took him by surprise, Monk deduced. It fitted in with what both Hooper and Laker had told him. Then Hooper had brought in Kate Exeter’s cousin, Celia Darwin, and she had identified Lister as the man who had taken Kate from the riverbank in the beginning. Monk was still weighing all the new evidence and trying to work out what it meant, if it added anything to what they already knew.
He felt a strong burst of cold air as the outside door opened and a young woman came in. She wore a long black coat and had the collar turned up to protect her face from the wind. She stopped just inside the door and stared at Monk.
“Can I help you?” he asked, getting up and walking slowly toward her.
She stopped and gulped. She was quite small, slender, and dressed almost entirely in black. She looked fragile, and at this moment, almost rigid with tension.
“Who are you?” Monk asked. “This is the Wapping station of the Thames River Police. I’m Commander Monk. Is this where you wish to be?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” She took a deep breath. “I’m Bella Franken. I’m a bookkeeper at Nicholson’s Bank. I…think I might know about some money that was used for the ransom. I think…” She stopped and bit her lip, waiting for Monk’s reaction.
Nicholson’s was the name of the bank to which Hooper had followed Roger Doyle. Did this mean anything? Was the money the key to what had happened?
“Tell me about it, Miss Franken. Come into my office and sit down. It’s warmer in there, and I’ll make fresh tea.”
She followed him obediently. When she had sat down in the chair opposite his desk, she pulled onto her lap a soft-sided bag and opened it. She took out a sheaf of papers and handed them across to him. At a glance, they looked to be dozens of loose sheets crowded with figures in columns, hundreds of them, all neatly set out in the same hand, and all in ink.
