Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

Newbolt’s eyes flickered and his head came up as if at last he was paying real attention. “Right! Wot d’yer wanter see?”

“I’ll find it for myself,” Durban said grimly. “You stay up here.”

“I’m coming wi’ yer,” Newbolt insisted.

Durban took the gun out of his belt and glanced at Orme, who did the same. “No you aren’t.”

Newbolt looked startled, then suspicious. “Yer no better than the bleedin’ Revenue men!” he snarled. “Bloody thieves, the lot o’ yer!”

Durban ignored him. “Keep them here!” he ordered his men. “Shoot them if you have to.” There was no possibility whatever of doubting his intent. He took a bull’s-eye lantern from Orme and walked over to the hatch. Monk followed after him. As Durban reached the hatch he yanked it open, and the stench of the enclosed air caught in Monk’s throat, turning his stomach. He had not remembered it being so strong.

“I’m going down,” Durban said, his face pinched with revulsion. “You stay here. I’ll tell you if I find anything.”

“I’m coming-” Monk started.

“You’re doing as you’re told!” Durban snapped at him. “That’s an order! Or I’ll have Orme hold you at gunpoint!”

Monk saw in Durban’s eyes that there was no point in arguing, and no time. He stood back and watched as Durban swung over the edge, found the ladder, then took the lantern in his other hand and started down. He saw him reach the ledge and look up, his eyes dark in the small circle of yellow light. He knew as well as Monk did that had any of the jury seen the hold of the Maude Idris , they would have known that a man who slipped off the ladder would not land on the ledge, injure his head fatally, and then lie there. His body would have pitched off and gone on down, probably breaking his neck or his back when he hit the bottom.

Then Monk turned and held the lantern out so he could see as much as possible of the stacked wood and the boxes of spice. As far as Monk could remember, peering down from the top, it all seemed exactly the same as when he had been there approximately three weeks before with Louvain.

Durban went on down. At the bottom he stood still. He was directly above the ship’s bilges.

Monk could not wait. He threw his leg over the edge of the opening and started down. Durban shouted at him, and he ignored it. He could not leave Durban alone with what he now dreaded they would find.

Below him Durban knelt, holding the light only inches from the boards. The marks of a crowbar were clear.

“Go back up,” Durban ordered as Monk reached the ledge above him. “It doesn’t need two of us.”

Monk found himself shaking, and he had trouble swallowing the nausea from the sickening smell in the air. He ignored the command.

“Do as you’re told,” Durban said between his teeth.

Monk stayed exactly where he was. “What’s under there?”

“The bilges, of course!” Durban snapped.

“Somebody’s taken them up,” Monk observed.

Durban’s eyes flashed. “I can see that! Get out!”

Monk was frozen, unable to move even if he had wanted to. His skin crawled with the horror he imagined.

“Get out,” Durban said, looking up at him, emotion naked on his face. “There’s no point in both of us being here. Pass me the crowbar from over there, then go back to the deck. I’ll not tell you again.”

Somewhere in the darkness a rat dropped onto the floor and scuttled away. At last Monk obeyed, climbing up hand over hand until he reached the air and gasped it, freezing and clean, into his lungs.

“What is it?” Orme said hoarsely. “What’s down there?” He put out his hand and half hauled Monk over the hatchway and onto the deck.

“I don’t know,” Monk replied, straightening up. “Nothing yet.”

“Then what are you doing back here? Why ’ave you left ’im down there? Smell o’ bilges got to yer, ’as it?” There was infinite contempt in Orme’s voice and in the curl of his lip, not for a queasy stomach but for a man who deserted another in the face of trouble.

“I came back up because he ordered me to!” Monk said wretchedly. “He wouldn’t move until I did.”

Orme stared at him coldly.

“What’s ’e doin’?” the other officer asked.

“You’ll find out when he wants to tell you,” Monk retorted.

They looked at each other but remained silent. Newbolt and Atkinson were standing near the rail, sullen and anxious. Neither moved because the policemen’s pistols were at the ready, and there was enough firepower to stop both of them.

The wind was whining more shrilly in the rigging. A large schooner passed going upriver, tacking back and forth. Its wake rocked the ship slightly.

Finally, Durban’s head appeared above the hatch opening. Monk was the first to move, striding over towards him, clasping his hand and hauling him out. He looked paper-white, his eyes red-rimmed and shocked, as if he had seen hell.

“Was it. .” Monk said.

“Yes.” Durban was shuddering uncontrollably. “With their throats cut, all eight of them, even the cabin boy.”

“Not. .”

“No. I told you-throats cut.”

Monk wanted to say something, but what words could possibly carry the horror that was in him?

Durban stood on the deck breathing slowly, trying to gain control of his limbs, his racing heart, the trembling of his body. Finally he looked at Orme. “Arrest these men for murder,” he commanded, pointing at Newbolt and Atkinson. “Mass murder. If they try to escape, shoot them-not to kill, just to cripple. Shoot them in the stomach.

“The third one is down below, possibly dead. Leave him. Just batten down the hatch. That’s an order. No one is to go below. Do you understand me?”

Orme stared at him in disbelief, then slowly understanding came, at least partially. “They’re river pirates!”

“Yes.”

Orme was white. “They killed the whole crew?”

“Except Hodge. I suppose they left him because he was married to Newbolt’s sister.”

Orme rubbed his hands over his face, staring at Durban. Then suddenly he came to attention and did as he was commanded.

Durban walked over to the rail and leaned against it. Monk followed him.

“Are you going to arrest Louvain?” he asked.

Durban stared ahead of him at the churning water and the shoreline where the tide was rising against the pier stakes and washing ever higher over the steps. “For what?” he asked.

“Murder!”

“The men will no doubt say he ordered them, even paid them,” Durban replied. “But he’ll say he didn’t, and there’s no proof.”

“For God’s sake!” Monk exploded. “He knows these aren’t his crew! He has to know they murdered everyone, except Hodge! It doesn’t matter whether he knows it was because they had plague, or because they simply wanted to take the ship!” He gulped.

Durban said nothing.

“If Louvain paid these men,” Monk went on, turning to face Durban, the knife-edge wind stinging his face, “he must have been aboard the ship to do it. Someone would have taken him, seen him. There’ll be a chain of proof! We can’t let him get away with it. I won’t!”

“There are a dozen arguments he can come up with,” Durban said wearily. “These are the men who killed the crew. We won’t be able to prove that Louvain even knew about it, much less ordered it. We can’t tell anyone his reason, and he knows that.”

“I’m going to find him,” Monk said, rage almost choking the air out of his lungs.

“Monk!”

But Monk would not listen. If Durban would not, or could not, make Louvain answer for what he had done, then Monk would, no matter what it cost. He strode along to the ladder, swung over the rail, and scrambled down towards the boat, not caring if he skinned his knuckles or bruised his elbows. Louvain had cost Mercy her life-and seven other women theirs. It was only by the grace of God that Hester and Margaret had not died as well. It could have been half of London-it could have been half of Europe. Louvain had gambled that Hester would be prepared to give her own life to prevent it.