Anne Perry - Dark Assassin

"My dear, you should not repeat that," Applegate warned.

"I shan't," she promised. Apparently she felt that telling Hester was a matter of honor, a debt to Mary she had no intention of neglecting. "She did not take her own life, Mrs. Monk. Nor did she believe that her father had done so; for him, it would have been not only a sin against the Church, but far worse than that-a sin against himself. And if it was true for him, then it must be true for her. I don't know what happened, but I will do anything and everything I can to help you find out. Any information I can find, any door I can open, you have but to tell me. Perhaps we can still effect the reform she was working on, and save the lives of at least some of the men who would be killed if there were further accidents in the construction."

"Thank you," Hester said warmly. "I will call on you the moment I have a clearer idea of what to do." She turned to Applegate. "What information was Mary Havilland going to bring you? What do you need to know before you can act?"

"Proof that the safety rules are not being kept," he replied. "And I am afraid that proof will be very hard to find. Engineers will say that they have surveyed the ground and the old rivers and streams as well as is possible. Men who work with the machines are accustomed to danger and know that a degree of it is part of life. Just as men who go to sea or down into the mines live with danger and loss, without complaining, so do navvies. They would consider it cowardly to refuse or to show self-pity, and would despise any man who did. More than that, they know they would lose their jobs, because for every man who says he will not, there are a dozen others to take his place."

"And lose arms or legs, or be crushed to death?" Rose demanded. "Surely…" She stopped, looking to Hester for support.

Hester remained silent. What Applegate said was true. There were tens of thousands like the Collards: proud, angry, stubborn, desperate.

She stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Applegate. I will do all I can to find the proof Mary Havilland was looking for. As soon as I have something I shall return."

"Or if we can help," Rose added. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. Monk."

"No!" Monk said firmly when she told him that evening. "I'll pursue it until I find what happened to both Mary Havilland and her father."

"There's going to be a disaster if nothing is done, William," she argued urgently. "Do you expect me to sit by and let that happen?" She made no reference to giving up Portpool Lane, but it hung unsaid between them.

They were standing in the kitchen, the dishes cleared away and the kettle pouring steam into the air as Hester prepared to make the tea.

"Hester, Mary Havilland may have been murdered to prevent her doing precisely that!" Monk said angrily. "For the love of heaven, isn't that what you've just been telling me?"

"Of course I can see it!" she retorted as she yanked the kettle off the hob. "Are you going to stop your investigation?"

"Am I…? No, of course not! What's that got to do with it?"

"It has everything to do with it!" she answered, raising her voice to match his. "You can risk your life every day, but if I want to do something I believe in, suddenly I'm not allowed to?"

"That is completely different. You are a woman. I know how to protect myself," he said, as if it were a fact beyond dispute. "You don't."

She drew in a deep breath. "You pompous-" she began, then stopped, afraid she would say too much and let all her frustration and loss pour through. She would never be able to retract it because he would know it was true. She forced herself to smile at him instead. "Thank you for being afraid for me. It's really very kind of you, but quite unnecessary. I shall be discreet."

For a moment she thought he was going to lose his temper entirely. Instead he started to laugh, and then laughed harder and harder until he was gasping for breath.

"It is not all that funny!" she said waspishly.

"Yes, it is," he replied, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "You've never been discreet a day in your life." He took her by the shoulders, quite gently but with thorough strength that she could not escape. "And you are not going to pursue Mary Havilland's path finding proof that any of the construction machines are being used dangerously!"

She said nothing, but when she turned her attention back to the tea she realized that the kettle was almost empty; it had boiled nearly dry. She would have to refill it and begin again.

"William," she said gently, "I'm afraid the tea will have to wait a little. I'll bring it through to you when it's ready, if you like." If he wanted to think that was any kind of admission of defeat or of obedience, this was not the time to point out to him that it was nothing of the sort.

"Thank you. That is a good idea." He turned and went back into the sitting room.

"Really!" she said under her breath, but glad it was over for the moment, and she could be alone to gain control of her feelings again.

Monk was in the stern of the ferry next morning as it made its way across the choppy waters. Waves were slapping the sides of the small boat, and the damp, raw wind stung the skin, freezing the cheeks and arms. The boatman needed not only his strength but his skill to keep from "catching crabs" with the oar blades and drenching them both.

At least the wind had driven the fog away and the long strings of barges were going downriver on the tide, carrying goods from the Pool of London to everyplace on earth.

He had spoken to Hester last night as if he was afraid for her safety, and indeed that was his concern. He did not want to prevent her from doing what she believed was right, but when she became involved in a cause she lost all sense of proportion. More than once it had endangered her.

He looked at the choppy water, dark, turgid, and filthy. Perhaps if he could remember all his youth, his other experiences of women, of love, he would be more realistic. But he remembered nothing, and he wanted Hester as she was: naive, rash, stubborn, vulnerable, passionate, opinionated, loyal, sometimes foolish, always honest-too honest-never mean of spirit, and never, ever a coward. But he wanted her alive, and if she did not have the sense to protect herself, then he must do it for her.

He would find out what happened to Mary Havilland, and to her father, because Hester would despise him if he did not.

How had she felt seven years ago over her own father's suicide? He had only just met her then, and they had scraped each other raw to begin with. She had found him cold and arrogant. Perhaps he had been, but he had also been bewildered by the unknown world around him because of his memory loss, increasingly aware he was disliked. It was Hester's strength and courage that had constantly buoyed him.

Had she felt guilty that she was not in England and at home when her parents both so desperately needed her? Was that at least in part why she was determined now to fight for Mary Havilland and, through her, for her father?

He had not even thought of that before.

They were at the Wapping shore. He paid the ferryman, climbed the steps up into the harsher wind, and strode over to the door. It was warm inside, but it took several minutes before the heat thawed his numb flesh. It made his hands tingle as the blood circulated again, and he was aware of the men putting on heavy overcoats and then caps as they went out to begin the next patrol.

He spoke to them briefly, listening to the report of the night's events: a couple of robberies and several fights, one ending in a knifing. The victim had died, but they had the man who had done it, and apparently it was the culmination of a long feud.

"Anyone else involved?" he asked.

Clacton gave him a sideways look eloquent of contempt, and Monk realized his mistake. He was treating Clacton as an equal, as he would Orme. Clacton was spoiling for a fight, inching around and around to find a weakness to jab. Monk held his temper with an effort. A man who loses his temper at a subordinate's rudeness isn't fit to command. No one must manipulate him. Nor must he be seen to need Orme's help. He was alone. Orme wanted him to succeed. Clacton wanted him to fail. For none of them would he ever take Durban 's place. He did not mind that. He must make his own place, and none of them could admire Durban more than he did, for it was Monk who understood what he had done better than they, and who carried a far greater burden of guilt for it.