by Anne Perry
That had not even occurred to Monk. He had assumed the quarrels were as spontaneous as they had seemed. Breeland’s indignation had sounded entirely genuine. Could any man act so superbly? Breeland had not struck him as a man with sufficient imagination to simulate anything.
Lanyon was waiting for an answer, looking sideways at Monk curiously.
“It was certainly planned,” Monk admitted reluctantly. “He must have had men ready to help, with a wagon. They must have known the river and where to hire a barge. Perhaps that was the message he received which made him leave his lodgings and go that night. I had wondered where Merrit Alberton fitted in, if it was her leaving home that precipitated it.”
Lanyon grunted. “I’d like to know her part in it too. How much idea had she as to the kind of man Breeland really is? What is she now—lover or hostage?”
“She’s sixteen,” Monk replied, not knowing really what he meant.
Lanyon did not answer. They were back at the water’s edge. On both sides of the river tall chimneys spewed out black smoke which drifted upwards, staining the air. Massive sheds had wheels vaulting up through their roofs like the paddles of unimaginably huge steamers. Monk remembered from somewhere in the past that the London docks could take about five hundred ships. The tobacco warehouses alone covered five acres. He could smell the tobacco now, along with tar, sulfur, the saltiness of the tide, the stench of hides, the fragrance of coffee.
All around were the noises of labor and trade, shouts, clanging of metal on metal, scrape of wood on stone, the slap of water and whine of wind.
A man passed them, his face dyed blue with the indigo he unloaded. Behind him was a black man with a fancy waistcoat, such as a ship’s mate might wear. A fat man with long gray hair curling on his collar carried a brass-tipped rule, dripping spirit. There was a stack of casks a dozen yards away. He had been probing them to test their content. He was a gauger—that was his work.
A whiff of spice was sharp and sweet for a moment, then Monk and Lanyon were negotiating their way around a stack of cork, then yellow bins of sulfur, and lead-colored copper ore.
Somewhere twenty yards away, sailors were singing as they worked, keeping time.
Lanyon stopped a brass-buttoned customs officer and explained who he was, without reference to Monk.
“Yes, sir,” the customs man said helpfully. “Wot was it about, then?”
“A triple murder and robbery from a warehouse in Tooley Street last night,” Lanyon said succinctly. “We think the goods were loaded onto a barge and sent downriver. Probably got this far about one or two in the morning.”
The customs man bit his lip dubiously. “Dunno, meself, but yer best chance’d be to ask the watermen, or mebbe even river finders. They often work by night as well, lookin’ fer bodies an’ the like. Never tell what the river’ll fetch up. Not lookin’ fer bodies too, are yer?”
“No,” Lanyon said grimly. “We have all the bodies we need. I was going to try the watermen and river finders. I thought you would know of any ships bound for America from the Pool, especially any that might have gone this morning.” There was a wry expression on his lugubrious face, as if he were aware of the irony of it.
The customs man shrugged. “Well, if there was, I reckon your murderer and thief is long gone with it!”
“I know,” Lanyon agreed. “It’ll do me no good. I just have to be sure. He may have accomplices here. It took more than one man to do what was done last night. If any Englishman helped him, I want to catch the swine and see him hang for it. The American might be able to find some justification, although not in my book, but not our men. They’ll have done it for money.”
“Well, come with me into my office, an’ I’ll see,” the customs man offered. “I think the Princess Maude might have gone on the early tide, and she was bound that way, but I’d ’ave ter check.”
Lanyon and Monk followed obediently, and found that two ships had left, bound for New York, that morning. It took them until early afternoon to question the dockers, sackmakers, and ballast heavers before being satisfied that Alberton’s guns had not gone on either vessel.
With a feeling of heavy disappointment they went to the Ship Aground for a late lunch.
“What in hell’s name did he do with them, then?” Lanyon said angrily. “He must intend to ship them home. There’s no other use he would have for them!”
“He must have taken them further down,” Monk said, biting into a thick slice of beef and onion pie. “Not a freighter, something fast and light, especially for this.”
“Where? There’s no decent mooring along Limehouse or the Isle of Dogs, not for something to sail the Atlantic with a load of guns! Greenwich maybe? Blackwall, Gravesend, anywhere down the estuary, for that matter?”
Monk frowned. “Would he take a barge that far? I know it’s late June, but we can still get rough weather. I think he’d get it into a decent ship and up anchor as soon as possible. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Lanyon agreed, taking a long draft from his ale. The room around them was packed with dockers and river men of one sort or another, all eating, drinking and talking. The heat was oppressive and the smells thick in the throat. “I suppose that leaves us nothing to do but try the watermen and the finders. Watermen first. Anyone working last night might have seen something. There’ll have been someone around; there always is. It’s just a matter of finding him. Like looking for a needle in a haystack. Customs man had a good point. Why bother?”
“Because Breeland didn’t do it alone,” Monk replied, finishing the last of his pie. “And he certainly didn’t bring a barge over from Washington!”
Lanyon shot him a wry glance, humor in his thin face. He finished his meal as well, and they stood up to leave.
It took them the rest of that afternoon and into the evening to work their way as far as Deptford, to the south of the river, and the Isle of Dogs, to the north, going back and forth in the small ferryboats used by the watermen, questioning all the time.
The following morning they started again, and finally crossed from the West India Port Basin in Blackhurst, just beyond the Isle of Dogs, over the Blackwall Reach to Bugsby’s Marshes, on the bend of the river beyond Greenwich.
“Ain’t nuffin’ ’ere, gents,” the waterman said dolefully, shaking his head as he pulled on the oars. “Yer must ’a bin mistook. Jus’ marsh, bog, an’ the like.” He fixed Monk with a critical, sorrowful eye, having already examined his well-cut jacket, clean hands and boots that fit him perfectly. “Yer in’t from ’round ’ere. ’Oo tol’ yer there was anyfink worth yer goin’ ter the Bugsby fer?”
“I’m from right around here,” Lanyon said sharply. “Born and raised in Lewisham.”
“Then yer oughter ’ave more sense!” the waterman said unequivocally. “I’ll wait for yer an’ take yer back. Less yer wanter change yer mind right now? ’Alf fare?”
Lanyon smiled. “Were you out on the river the night before last?”
“Wot of it? Do some nights, some days. Why?” He leaned on the oars for a minute, waiting till a barge went past, leaving them rocking gently in its wake.
Lanyon kept his smile half friendly, half rueful, as if he were an amateur experimenting at his job and hoping for a little help. “Three men were murdered up on Tooley Street, beyond Rotherhithe. A shipload of guns was stolen and brought in a barge downriver. Don’t know how far down. Beyond this, anyway. We think they may have been loaded on board a fast, light ship somewhere about here, bound for America. If they were, you would have seen them.”
The waterman’s eyes widened as he started to pull again. “A ship for America! I never saw no ship anchored ’ere. Mind, it could ’a bin around the point, opposite the Victoria Docks. Still, I’d ’a thought I’d see the masts, like.”
Monk felt disappointment unreasonably bitter. How far down the river could they go? There were no watermen in the estuary. Unlikely to be anyone at all around before dawn. Although if Breeland had gone that far, negoti
ating a heavily laden barge through the Pool of London at night, along Limehouse Reach, around the Isle of Dogs and past Greenwich, it would have been well into the early morning by then, and full daylight by the time he reached anything like open water.
“Did you see anything?” he pressed, aware of how the urgency in him was making his voice harsh.
“Saw a barge come down ’ere, big black thing it were, low in the water,” the man replied. “Too low, if yer ask me. Lookin’ fer trouble. I dunno why fellas take risks like that. Better ter ’ire another barge than risk losin’ the lot. Greed, that’s wot it is. Seen some o’ the wrecks ter prove it. Ask some o’ them finders! More men drowned through greed than anyfink else.”
Lanyon stiffened. “A heavy-laden barge?”
“That’s right. Went on down the river, but I never saw no ship.”
“How close were you to it?” Lanyon pressed, leaning forward now, his face eager. Gulls wheeled and circled overhead. The heavy mud smell of the water was thick in the air. The low marshes lay ahead of them.
“Twenty yards,” the waterman replied. “Reckon they ’ad yer guns?”
“What did you notice? Tell me everything! It’s the men I’m after. They murdered three Englishmen to get what they took. One of them anyway was a good man with a wife and daughter; the other two were decent enough, worked hard and honestly. Now, describe that barge!”
“Do you wanter go ter the Marshes or not?”
“Not. Tell me about the barge!”
The waterman sighed and leaned on his oars, letting the boat drift gently. The tide was on the turn and he could afford to allow the slack current to carry him. He was concentrating, trying to picture the barge in his mind again.
“Well, it were very low in the water, piled ’igh wi’ cargo,” he began. “Couldn’t see what it were ’cos it were covered over. It weren’t proper light, but there was streaks in the sky like, so I could make out the shape of it plain. an’ o’ course it ’ad riding lights on it.” He was watching Lanyon. “Two men, I saw. Could ’a bin more, but I jus’ saw two at any time … I think. One were tall an’ thin. I ’eard ’im yell at the other one, an’ ’e weren’t from ’round ’ere. Mind, I got proper cloth ears w’en it comes ter speech. I dunno a Geordie from a Cornishman.”
Neither Lanyon nor Monk interrupted him, but they glanced at each other for an instant, then back at the waterman sitting slumped over his oars, his eyes half closed. The boat continued to drift very gently in the slack water.
“I don’ remember the other one sayin’ much. Tall one seemed ter be in charge, like, givin’ the orders.”
Lanyon could not contain himself. “Did you see his face?”
The waterman looked surprised; his eyes suddenly opened very wide and he stared past Lanyon at the river beyond. “No—I never saw ’is face clear. It were still afore dawn. They must ’a come down the river pretty good if they was from north o’ Rother’ithe. But ’e ’ad a pistol in ’is belt, I can see that clear as if ’e were in front o’ me now. An’ ’e ’ad blood on ’is hands, smeared like.…”
“Blood?” Lanyon said sharply. “Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure,” the waterman replied, his eyes steady, his face set grimly. “I saw it red w’en ’e passed under the riding light, an’ summink dark on ’is shirt an’ trousers, splattered. I never took no thought ter it then.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Yer reckon it were ’im as killed your three men in Tooley Street, then?”
“Yes,” Lanyon said quietly. “I do. Thank you, you have been extremely helpful. Now I need to find out where the barge went back to, whose it is, and what happened to the other man. Someone took it back up the river again.”
“Never seen it come back. But then I were gorn ’ome by then, mebbe.”
Lanyon smiled. “We’ll go back too, if you please. I’ve no desire to get out at Bugsby’s Marshes. It looks disgusting.”
The waterman grinned, although his face was still pale and his hands were clenched tight on the oars. “Told yer.”
“Just one more thing,” Monk said quietly as the man leaned his weight on the oars to turn the boat. The tide was beginning to run the other way, and suddenly he needed to put his back into it. Monk could almost feel the pull on his own muscles as he watched.
“What’s that?”
“Did you see any sign of a woman … a young girl? Or she could even have been dressed as a boy, perhaps?”
The waterman was startled. “A woman! No, I never seen a woman on one o’ them barges. What would a woman be doing out ’ere?”
“A hostage, perhaps. Or maybe willingly, going to board the seagoing ship farther down the river.”
“I never saw ’er. But then them barges ’as cabins, sort o’. She could ’a bin below.… Gawd ’elp ’er. Wish I’d ’a known. I’d ’a done summink!” He shook his head. “There’s river police!” His expression betrayed that that would have been a last resort, but in times of extremity he would have abandoned his own principles and turned to them.
Lanyon shrugged ruefully.
Monk said nothing, but settled in his seat for the journey back to Blackwall, and then eventually to the city, to tell Mrs. Alberton that Breeland had got away and there was nothing he and Lanyon, or anyone else, could do about it.
Monk arrived at Tavistock Square early in the evening. He was not surprised to find Casbolt there. And in truth he was relieved to see him. It was easier to tell him such bare facts as he had, simply because his emotion could not possibly be as deep or his bereavement as dreadful as Judith’s.
He was shown into the withdrawing room immediately. Casbolt was standing by the empty hearth, the fireplace now covered with a delicate tapestry screen. He looked pale, as if his composure cost him great effort. Judith Alberton stood by the window as if she had been gazing out at the roses just the other side of the glass, but she turned as Monk came in. The hope in her face twisted inside him with pity, and with guilt because he could do nothing to help. He brought no news that was of any comfort.
The atmosphere was electric, as if the air even inside the room were waiting for thunder.
She stared at him, as if to guess from his face what he would say, trying to guard herself from pain, and yet she could not let go of all hope.
He cleared his throat. “They put the guns on a barge and took them downriver as far as Greenwich. They must have had a ship waiting, and loaded them there.” He looked at Judith, not at Casbolt, but he was acutely conscious of him watching, hanging on every word. “There was no sign of Merrit,” he added, dropping his voice still further. “The last witness we spoke to, a waterman near Greenwich, saw two men, one tall and upright with an accent he couldn’t place, and a shorter, heavier man, but no woman. Sergeant Lanyon, who is in charge, won’t give up, but the best we can hope for is that he finds the barge owner and proves his complicity. He could prosecute him as an accomplice.”
He thought of adding something about there being no evidence that Merrit had come to any harm, then knew it would be stupid. Nothing would have been easier than to take Merrit along and dump her body as soon as they were clear of the estuary. Judith must surely have thought of that too, if not now, then she would soon, in the long days ahead.
“I see …” she whispered. “Thank you for coming to tell me that. It cannot have been easy.”
Casbolt moved toward her. “Judith …” His face was gray, twisted with pity.
She held up her hand quite gently, but as if to keep him from coming any closer. Monk wondered whether if he touched her she would not be able to keep her control. Sympathy might be more than she could bear. Perhaps any emotion would be too much.
She walked forward very slowly to Monk. Even in this state of distress she was remarkably beautiful, and quite unlike any other woman he had ever seen. With that large mouth she should have been plain, but it was sensuous, quick to smile in the past, now tightly controlled on the edge of tears, speaking all her vulnerability. Her high,
slanted cheekbones caught the light.
“Mr. Monk, where do you believe Lyman Breeland has gone?”
“To America with the guns,” he said instantly. He had no doubt of it at all.
“And my daughter?”
“With him.” He was not so certain, but it was the only possible answer to give her.
She kept her composure. “Willingly, do you believe?”
He had no idea. There were all sorts of possibilities, most of them ugly. “I don’t know, but none of the people we spoke to saw anything of a struggle.”
She swallowed with an effort. “She may also have been taken with him as a hostage, may she not? I cannot believe she would have had any willing part in her father’s death, even if she did not disapprove of stealing the guns. She is hotheaded and very young.” Her voice cracked and nearly broke. “She does not think things through to the end, but there is no malice in her. She would never condone … murder.” She forced herself to use the word, and the pain of it was sharp in her voice. “Of anyone.”
“Judith!” Casbolt protested again, his agony for her naked in his face. “Please! Don’t torture yourself! There is no way we can know what happened. Of course Merrit would not willingly have any part in it … in violence. She almost certainly knows nothing of it. And she is obviously in love with Breeland.”
He was standing very close to her now, but he refrained from making any attempt to touch her, no matter how slightly. “People do many extraordinary things when they are in love. Men and women will sacrifice anything at all for the person they care for.” His voice was husky, as if he spoke through continual fear so intense it had become physical. “If Breeland loves her, he will never harm her, no matter what else he may do. You must believe that. The most evil man can still be capable of love. Breeland is obsessed with winning his war. He has lost all sight of the morality you and I would hold a necessity of civilized life, but he may still treat the woman he loves with tenderness and consideration, and even give his life to protect her.” At last he did touch her, gently, with trembling hands. “Please, do not fear he will harm her. She has chosen to go with him. She almost certainly has no idea what he has done. He will keep it from her, for her sake. She will never know. Perhaps when she reaches America she may even write and tell you she is well and safe. Please … don’t despair!”
