Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

He was bitterly cold by the time he crossed the river to the north bank again at Wapping Stairs and the River Police station. He found Durban looking tired and pale, sitting at his desk with a mug of hot tea in his hands.

He regarded Monk curiously, seeing the relief in him and not knowing what it was.

Monk walked across to the chair opposite him and sat down. “It’s all right at the clinic,” he said, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. “No new cases in days, and it’s three weeks now since Hodge’s death. Hester came home last night.”

Durban smiled, a sweet, gentle expression. “I’m glad.” He stood up and walked over to the window, away from Monk.

“I know we haven’t finished with Louvain,” Monk conceded. “What he did to the people in the clinic was inhuman. So many died, and it could have been all of them. And if they hadn’t been prepared to sacrifice their own lives to stay there, the devastation could have been to all London, all England, and God only knows what beyond.”

Durban pursed his lips. “I think he knew who he was dealing with,” he answered. “Mrs. Monk’s reputation is not unknown. It was the best gamble he had, other than to kill Ruth Clark and bury her somewhere. I’m not surprised he couldn’t bring himself to do that, if she was actually his own mistress.” His voice dropped. “He wouldn’t be sure she had plague then; it was only a danger. She might simply have had pneumonia.”

“She wasn’t his mistress,” Monk replied. “She was his sister; her real name was Charity Bradshaw. She and her husband were coming back from Africa. He died at sea.”

Durban’s eyes widened. “I’m not surprised Louvain wanted her cared for, but he should have told Mrs. Monk what the illness could be. Although I daresay he believed she’d refuse her if she knew.”

“You think Clement Louvain, the hard man of the river, couldn’t kill his own sister if she carried the plague?” Monk asked, his voice grating with the dreadful irony of the idea now in his mind.

Durban blinked; his eyes were pink-rimmed with exhaustion. “Could you?” he asked. “Wouldn’t you have to try every last thing you could to save her?”

Monk brushed his hands over his face. For all his joy at Hester’s return, he too was physically drained. “If she was going to spread the disease, I don’t know. But Mercy Louvain went there to help in the clinic as a volunteer.”

“To nurse her sister?” Durban’s face was gentle, his eyes shining. “What sublime devotion.”

“She went there to nurse her,” Monk replied. “But she killed her rather than let her leave carrying the plague with her.”

Durban stared at him in growing horror. He started to speak, then stopped, still incredulous. “Oh God!” he said at last. “I wish you hadn’t told me!”

“You can’t do anything,” Monk said, looking up at him. “If you could, I wouldn’t have said it. She’s dead, too.”

“Plague?” The word was a whisper, said with fierce, hurting pity; it seemed to be torn from somewhere deep inside him as if all his passion were in it.

Monk nodded. “They buried her properly.”

Durban turned his back to Monk, staring out of the small window, the cold light picking out the gray in his hair.

Now was the time Monk had to speak, no matter how preposterous, even if Durban thought him insane.

“I went to see Mrs. Hodge today.”

Durban was puzzled. “What for? Did you think she would know anything about the crew?” He smiled very slightly, hardly a movement of the lips. “Did you think I hadn’t thought of that?”

Monk was momentarily embarrassed, but the idea in him overrode everything else. “I’m sorry. Did you see the copper saucepans in the kitchen?”

“I didn’t go, Orme did.” Durban was frowning. “What about them? What does it matter? I can’t afford to care about petty theft now.” Again the fraction of a smile touched his mouth and disappeared.

“They weren’t stolen, so far as I know,” Monk answered. “She saw me looking at them and said her brother gave them to her.”

“I’m too tired to play games, Monk,” Durban said wearily. He looked gray-faced, close to collapse.

“I’m sorry,” Monk said quickly, and he meant it. He liked Durban as much as anyone he had known in years, more instinctively than he did Oliver Rathbone. “She told me she has only one brother and he gave them to her in August. She said she could prove that.”

Durban blinked, frowning harder. “She can’t! He was off the coast of Africa in August. Are you saying the Maude Idris was here then? Or that Newbolt wasn’t on her?”

“Not exactly either,” Monk said very quietly. “We checked the names of the crew.”

“Of course.”

“But not their appearances.”

Durban steadied himself, leaning back against the sill. “For God’s sake, what are you saying?” But the hideousness of it was already in his eyes. He shook his head. “But they’re still there-on the ship!”

“You told your men to keep them there because it was typhoid,” Monk reminded him. “Maybe Louvain told them the same, or close enough?”

Durban rubbed his hand over his face like a man trying to dispel a nightmare. “Then we’d better find out. Can you use a pistol?”

“Of course,” Monk replied, with no idea whether he could or not.

Durban straightened up. “I’ll get Orme and half a dozen men, but I’m the only one going below.” He stared very levelly at Monk, his eyes seeming to look into his brain. “That is an order.” He did not elaborate but walked past him and through the outside office, calling for Orme as he went.

He gave his orders concisely and with a clarity no man could misunderstand, like a commander going into a last battle.

The rain had cleared away and the water was bright and choppy with a knife-edge wind blowing from the west when they rowed out.

Monk sat in the stern of the boat, cradling his loaded gun as they plied between the ships and the Maude Idris came clearly into view.

Durban sat in the bow, a little apart. He glanced at each of his men, then gave a barely discernible nod as they drew alongside and he stood up, balancing easily even in the pitching boat. He hailed the ship, and Newbolt’s head appeared over the railing.

“River Police!” Durban called out. “Coming aboard.”

Newbolt hesitated, then disappeared. The next moment the rope ladder came pitching over, uncurling to fall almost in Durban’s hands. He caught it and climbed up-it seemed to Monk, watching from below-less agilely than before.

Two of the River Police went up after him, Orme and another man, guns tucked in their belts, and lastly Monk, leaving only the oarsman in the boat. Monk climbed over the rail onto the deck where three River Police faced Newbolt and Atkinson. There was no sound except the whine of the wind in the rigging and the slap of water against the hull below them.

“What d’yer want this time?” Newbolt asked, staring sullenly at Durban. “None of us killed ’Odge, and none of us ’elped anyone take the bleedin’ ivory.”

“I know,” Durban replied steadily. “We don’t think anyone killed Hodge; he died by accident. And we know that Gould stole the ivory because we have it back.”

“So wot d’yer want ’ere then?” Newbolt said irritably. “If yer wanter do summink useful, get bleedin’ Louvain ter unload this ship an’ pay us off!”

“I want to see below deck, then we might do that,” Durban replied, watching him curiously, his face intent. “Where’s McKeever?”

“Dead,” Newbolt said tersely. “We got the typhoid. Still wanna go below?”

“I know you have,” Durban replied. “That’s why you’ve not berthed. Now open the hatch.”