Dark Tide Rising

by Anne Perry

  “I understand,” she cut across him, perhaps seeing his difficulty. “Come in by the fire.” Without waiting for him, she led the way into the parlor. The fire was low. She had obviously let it die down for the night. She had probably been intending to go to bed very shortly. Now she bent down and picked more coal out of the scuttle.

  “Let me,” he said, kneeling beside her and taking the tongs from her hands. He was aware of her closeness, of the faint smell of something warm, like vanilla, or some kind of flower. It was clean rather than sweet.

  She hesitated a moment, almost as if she did not mind his being so close to her. Then she stood up and murmured her thanks.

  He fueled the fire, mindful not to use the last of the coal, then rose and sat in the chair opposite her. There was no point in putting off telling her. It might look as if he had no urgent reason to have come.

  “It was the bank ledger clerk,” he said quietly. “A Miss Bella Franken…”

  He was not prepared for the shock with which Celia recognized the name: shock and unconcealed grief.

  “You knew her?” he asked.

  “Yes, not well, but…” She took several deep breaths and tried to compose herself. “How did it happen? Please…be honest, Mr. Hooper. This is too horrible to trivialize for the sake of mercy. Poor Bella, she was so…alive!” For a moment she could not mask her distress. She put her hands up to her face and bent forward, struggling to keep from weeping openly.

  Hooper felt profoundly for her. It was not the time to berate himself for his stupidity in not having thought Celia might know Bella Franken. All he could think of was what he could say to ease the misery. He wanted to touch her, to put his hand over hers at least, but that would be an inexcusable intrusion when she was so very vulnerable.

  “She did not suffer,” he said softly. “She knew nothing. One blow…” He thought of what she would read or hear tomorrow. “She was found in the river, but she did not drown.”

  She looked up slowly. “Found?”

  “She went to meet Mr. Monk, to tell him something. They were to meet at the Greenwich Pier. Her choice of place. But she never got there.”

  “Tell him something? You mean from the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  She searched in her pocket for a handkerchief. He handed her his. It gave him a ridiculous feeling of pleasure that she might keep it.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I…I have some idea of what that might be.”

  He felt a sharp stab of interest. “What?”

  “She knew there was something wrong with the inheritance money.”

  “What inheritance?” He had no idea what she was referring to.

  “Kate’s inheritance. It is a very great amount. She would have received it in a year and a half, approximately.”

  “And where is it now?”

  “In a trust, in Mr. Doyle’s bank. The trustee is our cousin, Kate’s and mine, Mr. Maurice Latham. He manages it. But it is not there now. Naturally both he and I were willing to use it to pay the ransom. It was Kate’s money anyhow. It is only a technicality, a temporary one, that Maurice has charge of it.”

  Hooper was stunned. Seeing the house, Celia’s obvious restrictions in the spending of money, he had never considered the possibility of her being an heiress. It was vaguely troubling. The past lay over him like an iron cage. He would never have asked her to marry him. But he realized that, but for his own emotional imprisonment, he would have. But if she were an heiress, that would be absurd. She would not even imagine him in such a way.

  He looked down, avoiding her eyes. He forced his mind to consider the case.

  “It would have been Kate’s very soon,” she interrupted his thoughts.

  “And who inherits it, now that she is…dead?” he asked, although he thought he had already guessed the answer.

  “No one,” she said a little briskly. “The kidnappers have it. Maurice came to ask me only as a matter of courtesy. Of course, I gladly agreed to give it to Harry to pay them. As I say, it was Kate’s money anyway.” There was an edge of anger in her tone that he even had to question it.

  Suddenly the pieces fell into a pattern in Hooper’s head. So that was where the ransom had come from—Kate’s own money. “Why would Doyle hate that?” he asked. “I can see why pride might make Exeter hate it, but what reason could there be for Doyle, or anyone, to prevent the police from knowing that? It is what any decent person would do.”

  “I don’t know,” Celia said quietly. “But one thought comes to mind—and may God pardon me if I am wrong—but perhaps it was the accounts of the trust that Bella Franken was bringing, and…and they were not in order.”

  “You mean sums were embezzled from it?” he asked very quietly.

  Her face was flushed with shame. “Perhaps. I am so sorry. It is a terrible thought. I do not like Maurice, but I would not wish that guilt upon anyone at all.”

  “I am sorry, too. But I must tell Monk tomorrow. Perhaps from the papers that were saved from the river, he will be able to tell if that is so. I’m sorry to ask, but could Exeter have taken anything from the trust?”

  “No. Maurice is the sole trustee. I believed the money had been invested through Mr. Doyle’s bank, on their advice. I was not told the details. It is not really my concern.”

  He stood up. “I’m sorry…Miss Darwin.”

  She smiled. “Please…do not feel uncomfortable. You had to tell me. Just find…find some sort of peace for Kate. No, I don’t mean that. Of course there is peace for Kate. To deny that would be to deny God. Find some ease of heart for the rest of us. Then at least we can stop suspecting the wrong people.”

  “I will,” he promised. “I will.”

  She stood up and went with him to the door, but they did not speak again. He waited for a moment, seeing her standing in the light, tears brimming in her eyes. Then he turned and walked out into the chill of the night.

  CHAPTER

  15

  MONK BEGAN THE DAY hearing from Hooper the news that Katherine Exeter’s inheritance, held in trust until her thirty-third birthday, was to be passed to her cousins, Maurice Latham and Celia Darwin, should Kate die before inheriting. However, they had both willingly granted access to it to Exeter, for the purpose of paying the ransom for her life.

  “Does that mean the kidnapper has to be someone who knew of the legacy?” Hooper asked miserably. “That could be Doyle.”

  “Yes, it could,” Monk agreed. “Or someone who had no idea about it, but knew that Exeter was a very rich man.”

  Hooper said nothing.

  * * *

  —

  MONK WORKED FOR THE rest of that day with Runcorn. He found it both a pleasure and, at times, a strain. Runcorn did not mention it directly again, but his remark about finding out which of Monk’s men had betrayed them stayed with Monk. He recognized that he had been avoiding the issue, always putting it off for something more urgent. The murder of Bella Franken had distressed him deeply. If he had stopped at her desk and insisted they meet at some safer place, she might have been alive now. He had liked her and admired her courage. He could not get the sight of her wet, bruised face out of his mind.

  Should he? Should he have enough self-control to be able to dismiss it and get on with the job? Kate Exeter had been slashed to pieces! Although it didn’t haunt him constantly as Bella’s death did, that did not leave his mind for long either. The sound of dripping water took him straight back to Jacob’s Island and the darkness, the bone-chilling cold.

  Did it affect all the men like that? Even whoever had caused it to happen? Did the betrayer mean to do that? Or had he intended something else, something that ended only in the kidnappers escaping? Well, they had escaped, all but Lister. Why not him? Had he been greedy and wanted more than his share?

  Or was he destined for death anyway, as soon as
his purpose was served? Whoever had done that, it was not Hooper. It could not be. They had been together at the time Lister must have been killed.

  He had checked on the other men. None of them was accounted for beyond doubt. Laker had said he was with Bathurst, but that was a lie. Bathurst said he had met with his sister and had supper with her, but he was supposed to be on duty. His sister was in some kind of difficulty and needed his help.

  He knew Laker’s secret because Hester had told him, and he no longer suspected Laker or, honestly, Bathurst either.

  “Don’t blame Laker, sir,” Bathurst had said urgently. “I took too much time off. He did that to cover for me.”

  “Why did your sister need you so urgently?”

  Bathurst blushed. “She’s only fifteen, sir, but she’s very pretty. She doesn’t know how to say no to her boss like she means it. And she can’t afford to lose her job. There’s too many to feed…” His voice trailed off. He did not want to tell Monk about his family’s poverty. It seemed a private thing, so telling would be like breaking a confidence, like looking at someone when they did not realize they were naked.

  Monk was angry with himself for being so clumsy. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “Would an inquiry from the River Police trim his ambitions a bit?”

  Bathurst’s eyes widened. “Please don’t, sir. She’ll learn. She’ll have to. My older sister, Edith, she’s pretty good at making people…cool off. Only Lizzie doesn’t like to admit she can’t do it herself. Laker was looking out for me.”

  “Someone told the kidnappers which way we were coming.”

  Bathurst’s expression reminded Monk how young he was. He looked like a schoolboy at the age when loyalty was everything. “Then it must be Walcott or Marbury, sir,” he said. “It isn’t any of the rest of us.” He looked straight at Monk, his eyes unwavering.

  Monk did not argue. That was his own feeling. He needed to trust the men he knew. It was the safety of the familiar. That was why it was so hard to be a stranger too many times, the person unknown, the first to be suspected. It had nothing to do with your behavior or your inner self. It hurt to remake the ties, try all over again to adopt new patterns with people: new things to understand, to laugh at, to feel comfortable with.

  “I believe you,” Monk said. It was at least partially true, but he said it because he knew Bathurst needed to hear it. Something inside you dies, some source of courage, when you know you are not trusted. It is a loneliness of the soul. “Be careful,” he said then. “Don’t let anybody think you don’t trust them. That would—”

  “I know,” Bathurst had agreed, before Monk could finish. “That could make them turn on me. I just find it hard to go into anything first, trusting them to watch my back, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’ve got to get it over with,” Runcorn said, when Monk confided he was still looking for the traitor among his men. “You owe it to the rest of them to find the one that’s bad. It’s not fair to—”

  “I know!” Monk said sharply. “You don’t need to tell me again. I’m protecting one at the price of the others. Who’s Fisk? What did he do before he joined you?”

  “Fisk?” Runcorn’s eyes widened. “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “What was he? Merchant seaman?”

  Surprise rippled across Runcorn’s face. “Yes. How did you know? It was twenty years ago. And what has it to do with this?”

  Monk clenched his teeth. He hated having to explain this to Runcorn. “I’ve seen him looking at Hooper as if he’s trying to remember something.”

  “You suspect Hooper? I thought he was your best man?” There was surprise and sadness in Runcorn’s face.

  “He is. One of the best men I’ve ever known. He should be the first one I clear.” He hated saying the words, especially to Runcorn. They had been such enemies and, he thought now, that had been more his own fault than Runcorn’s. His upbringing had made him cautious, not quick or naturally able to explain himself in words. He understood rules and was confident with them. They were like armor: restricting, but also protective. Monk had been a natural renegade, mercurial, easy with words, and with a wry humor. Runcorn hid his insecurity by clinging to the rules. Monk hid his by carving his own path and trying to be right every time. He had not even looked for the best in Runcorn, until circumstances had forced him to.

  “Do you want me to ask?” Runcorn said with surprising gentleness. “Or would you rather speak to Hooper and let him tell you himself? It probably has nothing to do with this.”

  “Anything could have something to do with this,” Monk replied miserably. “Whatever a man can be pressured over, blackmailed for, or have taken from him makes him a hostage to fortune, in the right hands.”

  “And whose hands are the right ones, Monk? Who’s behind this? The bank manager, Doyle? He’s a master blackmailer? How on earth would he know something about Hooper from twenty years ago? You think Fisk told him something?”

  “I’ve no idea. Maybe people who knew about other men’s debts and fortunes hear a lot of things.” He sounded bitter, and he knew it. One touch in the right place and so much could unravel: things he had taken for granted. He felt as if he had looked down at his feet for the first time in years and found that he was walking along the edge of a precipice. Perhaps a degree of blindness was the only bearable way to live.

  He was stunned by how much it all mattered. Friendship was a common cause that was truly worth fighting for. There were so many people who mattered: Hester, Will (now no longer Scuff in his mind), Rathbone, Hooper, even the peripheral ones on the edges of his life, like Squeaky Robinson, the bookkeeper at Hester’s clinic who had kept a brothel there until Rathbone had tricked him into deeding the property and staying on to run it as a refuge for the sick. They were all parts of a whole that was immeasurably precious to him. Was the price of it finding who had betrayed them? And even as he asked, he knew the answer.

  “So, you think it could be this bank manager, Doyle?” Runcorn broke into his thoughts.

  “Yes. Hooper’s gone to see where he was at the times of the murders—”

  Runcorn winced.

  “What?” Monk asked. “They’re tied together: Kate Exeter; Lister, the one kidnapper we know; and Bella Franken.”

  “Other suspects?” Runcorn asked.

  “No one, except possibly Maurice Latham. Unless it’s one of us.”

  “Who the hell is Maurice Latham?”

  Briefly Monk told him.

  “Or else what? Lister was working for one of your own? Come on, Monk! You don’t believe that any more than I do. There’s somebody behind this with a real power and intelligence, using the others. If you were thinking straight, you’d know it, too. If you get no other ideas, then either it’s Doyle, or you’ve got to find your own man who’s in debt or being pressured by someone, maybe got an old grudge against you,” Runcorn said. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Some issue dug up from the past?”

  For once, Monk had not even thought of his own past in this.

  “No, I hadn’t thought it had anything to do with me.”

  Runcorn stared at Monk steadily, and it was as if a parade of ghosts had walked between them. “If it is,” Runcorn said, “I’ll help you catch the bastard. I’m not afraid.”

  From another man, it might have seemed pompous, self-praising. From Runcorn it was simply a statement of fact, and of friendship.

  Monk found himself absurdly choked with emotion. He looked away in order to shield himself. “Thank you. I’m going to work on my own men. See what they’re each afraid of. I’ve got to get rid of this…doubt.”

  * * *

  —

  MONK TOOK LAKER WITH him to try to learn more about Bella Franken’s death. He went by boat to begin with, because it gave him the chance to be alone with Laker and not be overheard. He hated this, but Runcorn was
right. Until it was resolved, they would have suspicion like an unwelcome guest between them all the time.

  It was a cold, damp day on the river, but the fog was holding off and there was no wind. It was an excellent day for rowing and they were going downriver with the ebb tide.

  “Do you think we’ll really learn anything about Bella Franken, sir?” Laker asked. “Wasn’t she killed by Doyle because she found where he fiddled the books, probably because he was stealing, along with getting the money for Exeter to pay the ransom?”

  “You think he took the chance to take something for himself while he was at it?” Monk asked. Actually, it was what he thought himself. Either him or Latham. It was what the figures suggested, as much as he could understand the bookkeeping. It certainly made sense, and although she had not said so, he was almost certain that was what Bella had thought. “And Doyle knew he’d been found out, so he killed her?”

  “Wasn’t that what she said?” Laker’s voice was sharp with disgust.

  “More or less,” Monk agreed. “She explained something of the ledgers to me. It wasn’t obvious. He’d been very careful about it. Lots of small discrepancies, as if someone had been bad at arithmetic, or done it late at night, with quite a lot of corrections. Once you knew what to look for, it seemed clear enough.”

  They rowed in silence for a minute or two.

  “What do we expect to find out downriver, then?” Laker asked.

  “How do you suppose Doyle got in touch with Lister, or any of the kidnappers?”

  “Did he? You think he actually had a hand in it, rather than just…I don’t know…” Laker stopped, sounding uncertain.

  “You don’t?” Monk affected surprise. He hated this game of cat and mouse, but he had to go through with it. If Laker knew something he did not, then this long time alone with him, when conversation came naturally, was the only way to find out. “The kidnappers got in touch with Exeter,” he went on. “And someone who betrayed him—and us. Someone knew our plans exactly. Knew which way we were going in, which buildings we’d go through, which passages we’d use, what time.”