Anne Perry: Blood on the Water

But why? That was the difficulty, and the key. The motive for whoever had committed such an act of barbarity, and the means by which they had done so.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost bumped into the man coming toward him. The man stopped abruptly to avoid the collision.

“Sorry,” Monk said. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.” He stepped to the side but the man did not move. Instead, he held out his hand as if to introduce himself.

Monk was in no mood for conversation, but glancing at the man’s face, he thought he seemed vaguely familiar, as if they might have met casually at some point. He had mild, almost sensitive features and a considerable gravity to him. Perhaps he had lost someone he cared for in the disaster. He deserved civility at least.

“Monk?” the man asked, but with the tone of voice as if he knew.

Monk forced himself to be responsive. He was exhausted, cold from the dive, and heartsick from what he had seen. He could not remember when he had last eaten anything except the heel of bread.

“Yes?” he said calmly, meeting the man’s eyes and seeing pain in them. Yet, the look was not one of personal grief.

“John Lydiate,” the man replied.

Monk was startled. He remembered him now. Sir John was commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police. Had he come here to find out the progress on the case so soon?

“Good morning, sir,” Monk replied. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you. I’ve just come up from the wreck.”

Confusion on his face, Lydiate looked over toward the engines, which were now beginning to haul out the sunken hulk of the boat. “Do you mean you were diving?” he asked curiously.

“Need to see it before everything shifts as they get it out of the water,” Monk explained. “Explosives were placed in the bow. Blew it right out. It went down in less than five minutes.” He had meant to control himself, say it factually, but his voice shook as he saw it again in his mind’s eye, the darkness as the ship plunged and the lights went out, then the screaming, the people he couldn’t help.

Lydiate was pale. Perhaps he, too, had been up all night, even if not on the river. “You saw it?”

“I was on the water, about a hundred yards away,” Monk replied.

“God in heaven!” Lydiate said quietly. It was a prayer, not a blasphemy. “I … I’m sorry.”

Monk stared at him. It seemed an odd thing to say.

“It’s an atrocity,” Lydiate went on, now a very faint flush on his face. “Apparently there were quite a few very important people on board, foreigners. The government has …” He hesitated then started again. “They’ve said that because of the international implications we need to be seen to do everything we can. That’s why I am here. They’ve put me in charge. You can stand down; go back to your normal responsibilities on the river.”

Monk was stunned. He must have misheard what the man said. “It happened on the river!” he said sharply, too tired to be courteous. “The damn thing’s in the river right now!” He waved his arms toward the half-submerged chains, which were dripping as they moved inch by inch, hauling the wreckage up.

“I know,” Lydiate agreed. “Nevertheless, you are relieved of command. Home Office orders. I’m sorry.”

Monk started to speak, and then realized he had nothing whatever to say. The decision was numbing, absurd, and also unarguable. If the government had made that decision for political reasons, no matter how idiotic, how unjust or self-serving, it was pointless to argue. And ultimately, it was certainly not Lydiate’s fault that Monk was being relieved of command.

“I’ll give you a written report of what I saw,” Monk said, his voice rasping. “Whatever they find now you’ll see for yourself. No doubt you’ll speak to my men who interviewed people on the shore … and the survivors.”

“I will. Thank you. You should go home and get some food, and some sleep,” Lydiate said unhappily. His embarrassment was clearly acute and he did not seem able to add anything more.

Monk nodded and walked on up the incline and into the street. He barely saw the buildings around him or the people. His misery settled into a hard, white-hot rage inside him. This was his river, his responsibility. The people who had been killed had been in his charge. And now there was nothing he could do to keep his promise to find the truth, and exact whatever kind of justice there was to exact.

Hester heard the explosion from their home in Paradise Place, which was about a quarter of a mile from the riverbank on the south side, opposite the Wapping Police Station. Like everyone else along the small street, she went outside immediately and stared across the rooftops of Greenwich and the darkening expanse of the river toward the Pool of London. The flames were brilliant orange, illuminating everything around them for a few terrible seconds, and then they were gone. All along the street there was only silence.

The woman next door stood paralyzed, a dish towel in her hands, her face contorted with horror. Farther down, where the street turned into Union Road, there were a couple of men, also motionless, shoulder to shoulder, staring toward the river. Then a youth came running up the cobbles shouting something.

Hester realized that Scuff was beside her and she had not even heard his feet on the stones. He was sixteen now, taller than she was, unrecognizable as the urchin she and Monk had befriended when he was, by his own estimation, roughly eleven. Then he had been narrow-shouldered, undersized, and frighteningly streetwise. Children did not survive in the London Docks alone if they were not. It was debatable whether they had adopted him, or he had adopted them. It was not discussed, but tacitly accepted, that his home with them had become permanent.

He touched her hand. “What ’appened?” he said huskily.

She did not hesitate to put her arm around him. “I don’t know. A very big explosion and fire, and then it went out completely.”

“Ship,” he answered. “Must ’ave gone down like a stone. Monk won’t … be …” His voice choked off with fear.

“No, of course he won’t,” Hester said firmly. “But he’ll be going to it. I expect we won’t see him again until tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, not absolutely.” She had never lied to him. He was too much of a realist to have believed her if she had tried. Perhaps if she had known him since he was a baby there would have been a time when she would have offered only comfort, and let reality come later. But he had been a survivor when they met. His trust in them had grown slowly, and they must honor that trust with honesty, no matter how crushing the truth might be for him.

“I’ll go …” he started.

“No you won’t,” she replied. “You’ll stay here. I’ll go down to the wharf and ask. I have the right to know, and, believe me, I won’t take any soothing answers. I’ll come back and tell you. Promise me you’ll stay here?” She turned to face him. “I mean it, Scuff. I need to be able to trust you. And if it’s bad, I’ll need you to help me.”

His eyes widened and he caught his breath, understanding filling his eyes. “Yes …” he nodded. “I’ll stay ’ere, I promise. But … yer’ll come back, won’t yer?”

“Of course I will, as soon as I know anything. I promise that.”

He sighed. “All right, then.”

She returned a little before midnight.

Scuff was asleep in front of the remnants of the fire, but he woke as soon as she came into the room, fear stark in his face.

“He’s all right,” she said immediately. “It was a pleasure boat that sank. Almost everyone on it was lost.” She came in and sat on the chair opposite him. In the dim light of the gaslamp he looked crumpled and terribly vulnerable, like any child woken from sleep.