Dark Tide Rising

by Anne Perry

  “Who?”

  “On a building site.”

  “For God’s sake, Runcorn, he owns building sites! That’s what he does. Maybe Lister was doing a day or two of manual labor? Ever thought of that?”

  “If Exeter didn’t murder Kate, who did?” Runcorn asked innocently.

  “Doyle, of course! He’s the one changing around the money, taking a good bit for himself! There could be someone else involved. I’ve got some of my men looking into it, and I’ve got a list for you to try. Exeter is a very successful man. He’s bound to have enemies.”

  “Doyle got the money together for the ransom. It was in his bank, and he made it available immediately. Cut all the red tape.” Runcorn ticked off the points on his fingers. “He took a part as payment—maybe not admirable, but understandable.”

  Monk had no argument, at least not one that would count in court. “Reasonable doubt…? Did you look into this trustee Maurice Latham?”

  “Maybe Rathbone will go with that. Unless he has a rabbit to pull out of his hat?”

  “Not that I know of. Did you check Latham’s account of his time?”

  “Yes. He can account for it.” Runcorn’s face tightened in unhappiness. “Do you know yet which of your men tipped off Lister and his crew?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll have to find out. You can’t go on knowing one of them did and not knowing who, for whatever reason, even if you understand it and might have done the same.”

  Monk jerked his head up.

  “Hostage to fortune,” Runcorn went on. “A man will do most things to save his family. It may not be greed or resentment, envy, revenge, any of those things. Just someone you have destroyed, someone you have a duty to protect. Or just someone to whom you owe an unpayable debt—guilt as a payment. You have to know.”

  “All right! Yes, I do,” Monk said quietly. “I wish…no, of course what I wish is irrelevant. We all…wish.”

  * * *

  —

  MONK SPENT THE NEXT days still working every angle he could think of to prove both Exeter’s innocence and, in its place, Doyle’s guilt. He even tested Latham’s account of his time, but he could not find a weakness. The first day of the trial dawned without any new evidence of value.

  “I’m coming,” Hester said. She was not asking him or making a gesture of support. It was simply a statement of something she took to be unarguable. She was dressed in a blue jacket and skirt, very plain but well cut. Monk looked at her with appreciation, although she had never been traditionally beautiful. Her face was too strong for that. The only really tender thing in it was the curve of her mouth, and for him, the gentleness and the passion in it made her all the more lovely.

  “Thank you,” he said simply. He was the first witness. Rathbone had warned him that the prosecutor was a clever man, but far more than that, he was a decent man who would not be carried away by emotion or vanity. This made him more difficult to trip up than a man more interested in his own reputation. Rathbone regarded him as a friend outside of the courtroom.

  Monk looked at Hester for a moment, hesitating inside the front door. She was smiling at him, but her look was guarded, as if she were trying not to let her emotion come through. She was afraid for him; he knew her well enough to see it. She was afraid he was going to lose and be hurt by it. He was glad she did not say so aloud.

  She was not in any way a witness to the case, so she was allowed to be in the court the whole time, and she had promised, unless there was some crisis in the clinic, that she would be there every day. He was not sure he was pleased by that. It was not the savagery of the crime that he would protect her from; she had seen war, dozens of deaths, perhaps even scores of them, injuries worse than any normal man or woman’s most terrible nightmares. But there was something impersonal about war. You were a soldier on one side or the other. This was intimate, one to one. This had happened unexpectedly, to people who knew each other.

  But she was outside already, waiting for the carriage that would take them to the Old Bailey. The wind was pulling at her skirts, and behind her the Thames was gray, dotted with breaking whitecaps on the rough water. He must go.

  * * *

  —

  ALL THE USUAL PRELIMINARIES were over by the time Monk was called and went into the packed courtroom. He walked across the open space to the steep, twisting steps up to the witness stand. The stand itself stood well above the level of the floor, and he looked slightly down on Rathbone, who was dressed very formally in his black robes and barrister’s wig.

  Across from him in the dock, also above the body of the court, he could see Harry Exeter. He looked the way he had the day after Kate’s death: gray-faced, the life drained out of him. Monk wanted to smile at him, but it would be ill-advised. It might give the jury the idea that he knew the man, even liked him. He must appear neutral. Exeter’s life might hang on Monk’s testimony. Who knew what word or gesture, what fleeting expression of the face, made a man believe or disbelieve what you said?

  After Monk had taken the oath to speak the truth, and nothing but, and testified to his name and occupation, the crown prosecutor, Peter Ravenswood, rose to question him. He was a mild-looking man, one a person might not have taken seriously had they not noticed the expression in his eyes and the marks of a sense of humor in the lines of his face. And Monk had the feeling already that that would have been a mistake.

  “Commander Monk,” Ravenswood began calmly, “would you tell the court how you came to be involved in this terrible case? It has to be harrowing for you, but we need to know, and justice is not always easy for any of us.” There was no overt emotion in his voice. It might have been easier if there had been. There was nothing for Monk to fight against. And yet this was the man who was going to get it all so tragically wrong and hang Exeter for the crime that had cost him all that was most dear to him already. Now it threatened to take his life as well.

  Monk drew in a deep breath and began. He did not even attempt to be impartial. He remembered the depth of his feelings that night.

  “Sir Oliver Rathbone, whom I have known for years, came to my house and said that he had a client who needed my help, or more specifically, the help of the Thames River Police. He was waiting at Sir Oliver’s house and would I go there immediately. I went. There I met with Mr. Exeter for the first time.”

  Ravenswood interrupted him. “What was his manner? His appearance?”

  “He was extremely distressed. Much as he looks now. He told me that his wife had been kidnapped. He was willing to pay the ransom. Enormous as it was, he had managed to get the money together. It was to be handed over the following day. All he wanted from me was to accompany him to Jacob’s Island, a place he was afraid to go alone. Very particular instructions had been given him, which he was unable to follow, since he did not know the area. Few people do. It is one of the worst Thames-side slums, slowly sinking beneath the mud. The place specified was below the high tide mark, and the appointment was at dusk.” He let the image hang in the air, sink into the jurors’ imaginations.

  “I have heard of it,” Ravenswood remarked. “Indeed: vile. I can see why he would not want to go alone, and possibly not even be able to find it. Nor, perhaps, take a boat there by himself. How far did you go?” He looked interested.

  Monk tried to remember exactly what Exeter had said. The memory of the journey came unbidden to his mind. The cold, the evening light, the sound of the water at slack tide, everything dripping. “All the way,” he answered.

  “With a lot of men?” Ravenswood asked. “Were you not afraid the kidnappers would see you?”

  “The boats are all large, but easily managed by two men,” Monk answered. “And they are not an unusual sight on the river. More usual than a boat with one man.”

  “Although a fisherman might go alone.” Ravenswood lifted his eyebrows.

  “In
the Pool of London?” Monk looked even more amazed. “Nothing lives in that water. The estuary, perhaps.”

  Ravenswood gave a slight, acknowledging smile. “How many men did you take?”

  “There were six of us altogether. Two to remain in the boats, four to go with Mr. Exeter. He had already decided that he would not come alone.”

  “Did you not think that strange?”

  “No. He did not intend to fight with them, only to give them the money and get his wife back unharmed. That was all he cared about.” Monk looked at Ravenswood’s smooth, artless face and realized he had believed Exeter was innocent, but he wanted Monk to prove it. “I saw the money myself,” he added. “It was real, and it was all there. If he had meant to fight, he could have hired men. Easy enough to find on the dockside. I think he took police to assure it was a smooth exchange.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “More or less. I don’t remember his exact words.”

  “It’s what you understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that what you did, when your own wife was kidnapped?” Ravenswood asked quietly, even gently.

  For a moment, Monk was speechless. How on earth did Ravenswood know that? Runcorn, of course. Suddenly, Monk felt vulnerable, as if the man had caught him unexpectedly naked—not different, just without the camouflage for emotions that one habitually wore.

  Ravenswood was waiting for an answer. Should Monk say that he had not even thought of it? Whether it was a lie or not, it would sound like one. He would not get another chance to create a good first impression.

  “If I had the money, yes, of course I would pay it,” he answered.

  “Of course,” Ravenswood agreed. “Most of us would. It is the only thing a civilized man could do.”

  Monk was about to reply. Then he realized how oblique the second remark was, how double-edged. Of course, any man would say that was what he would do! Whatever his feelings were. “He raised the money,” he pointed out to the court. “All he wanted from the police was guidance in a strange and dangerous place.”

  “Very natural,” Ravenswood smiled slightly. There was no sneer hidden in it. “So, you agreed to go with him, either for his sake or for Sir Oliver’s.”

  “And for Mrs. Exeter’s,” Monk added.

  “Quite. Who knew of your plans?”

  “The men I took with me.” Already they were approaching the wound that still hurt, still bled. Monk could see Ravenswood’s awareness of it in his face, in the care with which he chose his words. He might not like to poke it, but he would.

  “I imagine you told the men to tell no one else?”

  “Yes.”

  “So before you went, it was only you, Mr. Exeter, and your own men who knew?”

  “Yes. And before you say so, I will admit we made one or two last-minute adjustments, so when it came to the point, even if someone else had known of the original plan, they would not have known the changes.”

  “So, Mr. Exeter could not have told anyone?”

  “No.”

  “What happened, Commander Monk? Tell me how events transpired, to the best of your knowledge.”

  Monk had been rehearsing this over and over in his mind ever since it had occurred, and he still hated it. He could smell the stench of the river water in enclosed spaces as he spoke of it.

  “We went downriver just before slack tide. It was the only time the lowest point was accessible. We took two boats, one for each entrance, to comply with the instructions. Left a man in each boat—Bathurst and Walcott. Laker, Exeter, and I went in the south way. It was already early dusk.” He could remember it vividly, the sour odor of the water, the drips off the sodden beams, the movement that could have been tide, or rats, or just rubbish bumping against a fallen beam.

  “We went into the first tunnel, really just a room whose walls were collapsed on two sides. We had an exact map, and we followed it. It was slow. If you dislodge something it could collapse on you. We were moving inland and upward—”

  “You know the place well, Commander?” Ravenswood interrupted him.

  “Only as well as I have to. It seems to change with every tide. A timber here and then gone, shifting mud and small stones,” he replied.

  “A dangerous place?”

  “Very.”

  “Was that why Mr. Exeter needed someone of your experience to go with him?”

  “Possibly. And also to make sure that he did not get lost in it, unable to find the place where the kidnappers had arranged they meet.” He could remember it as sharply as if it had been yesterday. The fear, the confusion in Exeter’s face, his eyes. And he could barely have imagined it would end in this tragedy, and that he would find himself blamed for it. Had any man enough courage to face that? If it had been Hester taken, he didn’t think he would have cared if he had been blamed or not. He would have been numb with grief. Of course, he would’ve had to stay sane, for Scuff and all the other people who cared for her. Exeter did not seem to have anyone who really supported him, needed him. Not even Celia Darwin! Was he so private a man he had refused all help? And refused also to give way, to Celia or to anyone else? He did not seem to think very highly of her.

  Ravenswood was talking to him but he had not heard.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you separate during this journey into Jacob’s Island?” Ravenswood repeated.

  “Yes. But I stayed with Mr. Exeter. That was the purpose of going with him, to see that he did not get lost.”

  “He kept hold of the money?”

  “Yes. Then we were attacked. I don’t know by whom, because it was getting darker and the only light inside the place came from bull’s-eye lanterns we carried. We both managed to fight our assailants off, keep the money, and make our way to the place where we were to meet the kidnappers.”

  “Together?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could see Mr. Exeter at all times?”

  Monk tried to visualize it in his mind: the rising tide, the thickening darkness, what he had actually seen, rather than heard or imagined. “Yes. Right until he went alone the last few yards to meet the kidnappers.”

  “Yes. The last few yards. He was out of your sight then?”

  “It was getting darker, and I was attacked myself. From behind. I had no idea who it was, but I wasn’t badly injured…just…out of it for a few moments.” It was a humiliating memory.

  “Was Mr. Exeter also attacked, do you know?”

  It sounded a harmless question, but Monk was beginning to see that Ravenswood was not as innocent as he seemed, merely well mannered.

  “When I saw him again, he was filthy and badly bruised.”

  “He was gone a long time?”

  “No. It was getting dusk and very difficult to see anyone clearly, unless one of the lanterns was close to him. He went to give the money to the kidnappers and—and get his wife back. He was willing to part with the money! All he wanted was to get her back—safe…”

  “That is what he told you? And you believed him, because you put yourself in his place, and remembered how you felt when your own wife was taken.” Ravenswood made it a conclusion, not a question.

  “Any decent man…” Monk began. Then he checked himself and made his voice softer. “He had given me no reason at all to believe it was not exactly as he said, then or since. He had acquired the money, I believe, with some difficulty. It was an extraordinary amount. He took it to hand over, but they had already killed her. They took it and fled. I believed at the time that that was what had happened, and I have had no reason since then to change my opinion.”

  “If they had the money and were in no danger of imminent arrest, why would they kill her?” Ravenswood looked sad and puzzled.

  Monk had wondered that himself. But he knew that Exeter’s defense relied on
there being some credible answer. “I assume she recognized one of them,” he said.

  “Kidnappers? Really?” Ravenswood looked mildly puzzled. “You think she had acquaintance with such people? Where would she have been likely to encounter them? Hardly in her social circle.” He shook his head very slightly. “I imagine you did look into this, as a matter of course.”

  “Yes. There was no one who was sufficiently in debt or otherwise vulnerable, and we looked carefully. We also asked Mr. Exeter, and he knew of no one at all.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I do not find him as believable as you do,” Ravenswood said drily.

  “We narrowed it down to the bank manager, Roger Doyle,” Monk carried on. “He knew about the situation, and he knew Mr. Exeter’s financial circumstances: that he had the means to raise exactly that amount of money, at the highest end of possibilities. He also knew Mrs. Exeter by sight and could be certain that Mr. Exeter would turn to him for help, so he would always be aware of exactly how the case was proceeding.”

  “And yet you did not arrest Mr. Doyle?”

  “I would have, within the next couple of days.” That sounded like an excuse, and Monk could hear it in his own voice.

  “What persuaded you, Mr. Monk?” Ravenswood sounded interested more than critical.

  “The desire to have sufficient evidence to charge him also with the murder of Bella Franken, his ledger clerk, whose body—”

  He was interrupted by a swelling murmur of horror and general disturbance in the gallery. For the first time, Monk looked across at the dock and saw an instant of surprise in Exeter’s white face. Then it was gone again.

  “Yes?” Ravenswood asked.

  Where was Rathbone in all of this? He had not said a word yet.

  “Whose body I found floating in the river,” Monk said. “She had already approached me about errors in the ledger and made a second appointment to speak with me, which she did not keep because she was dead.”

  “And you are suggesting a connection?” Ravenswood asked.