Blood on the Water (3 page)

They were there. He could see the men on the bank and make out the shape of the engines that would slowly haul what was left of the boat up to where it could be examined, and where it would no longer be a danger to the river traffic.

It was time to pay attention to the task, to listen, to climb into the suit, and let them bolt the glass over his face, then get into the water, sinking down while it closed over his head. Both his own life and that of his diving companion might rest on his remembering the instructions he was given exactly.

Obediently he climbed into the suit. He had rehearsed it mentally enough that he moved automatically, almost easily. Only when he felt the cold of the river and the weight of his boots pulling him down did it suddenly shock his senses in a way no nightmare could.

The darkness was almost immediate. Everything around him was brown, closed in, at once both swirling and shapeless; it was as if he were drifting in mud. The lamp in his helmet seemed absurdly feeble. Then his feet reached the bottom, sinking down as if he had landed on sludge, not stones. He struggled for a moment to keep his balance, arms out like a tightrope walker.

He moved his head so the light struck the murk around him. He
felt a touch on his arm, and there was another grotesque figure beside him, lumbering and globe-headed like himself. It pointed forward. Awkwardly he obeyed.

It was only moments before he saw jagged ends of the wreck emerging in the gloom. It gaped like the jaws of some gigantic fish, and where the bow should have been there was nothing. At that instant he would have given almost anything to have backed away and gone up into the light.

He took a deep breath of the air coming to him through that fragile pipe, and stepped forward.

He had already visualized what he would see, but nothing prepared him for the reality. The hull had buckled. The floors lay at strange angles. In some places doors hung open. In others they were jammed fast shut. There were eddies of current where the tide was funneled unnaturally. More than once Monk was swept off balance, and realized with something close to panic how easy it would be to fall and become entangled in the debris and his own equipment.

Everywhere there were bodies, some lying on the decks, some piled on top of each other. Several were jammed in doorways as if they had rushed together to escape, and it had cost all of them their lives. A few here and there—mostly women with skirts floating around them—drifted with the current, bumping blindly into buckling walls. Their dead faces were ghostly pale in the beam of Monk’s lamp.

Would he find anything here that could tell him what had happened? Any evidence that could implicate someone? The explosion had left the whole front end of the boat raw and wide to the river, flooding the decks and sweeping people off their feet and back into the prison of the lower rooms. The only ones with any chance of escape were those on the top deck. Those at the fancy party below, dressed in their best and smartest clothes, champagne glasses in their hands, were probably dead even before the boat plunged to the bottom. Was that chance, or intention?

The bodies would be taken out, identified where possible, and given decent burial. Several would be washed out by the very act of
raising the boat. Some were already gone and would drift up on the banks in the days and weeks to come. And a few perhaps would never be found, washed out to sea, or snagged forever in the detritus of the deeper channels, eventually to be swallowed by the mud.

Monk moved forward very carefully, testing his footing, as far into the bow as he dared go. Once he slipped and was yanked back by his fellow diver. His heart was pounding and he forced himself to control his breathing before he choked. As he looked around, he could see what they had already suspected: the explosion had been caused by something placed in the bow deliberately. There were no boilers or other mechanical equipment anywhere near the heart of the destruction. But there was no evidence of what had caused the explosion either, at least in the area they were able to safely walk.

He signaled to his companion that it was time to go back up again. He had to force himself not to hurry as he made his way back toward the light, and finally up into the air and the day. When he reached the surface he was heaved back onto the deck of the boat and eager hands unfastened his face plate. He breathed in clean air in grateful gasps. When the helmet was unscrewed and lifted off, the width of the sky could have been heaven itself. For all the horror of what he had seen, he was smiling, gulping, almost wanting to laugh.

“Seen enough, sir?” his diving companion asked, struggling out of his own suit.

“Yes.” Monk forced himself back to the moment. “Yes, thank you. We’ll tell them to begin getting her up.” He put the corpses out of his mind and concentrated on the fabric of the boat, the hole where the bow had been. The explosives must all have been there. Thinking about it coldly, it was the perfect place to put them. There was nothing dangerous or valuable there, so no reason for any of the crew to be on watch. No chance of an accidental ignition of the charge. It had been not only deliberate, but also clever and very carefully planned.

But why?

The exhilaration of surfacing passed and Monk found anger overtaking him again. He thanked the diving crew and asked them to put
him ashore at the nearest steps. He made his way back to where Orme was standing with the overseer of the crew that was to raise the wreck. Orme looked exhausted, his face pale, the stubble of his beard adding to his crumpled air. But as always he stood straight, eyes narrowed against the light, pink-rimmed with weariness.

“Bow blown out, as we thought,” Monk said quietly. “Pretty clean job. Couldn’t see any other damage. People trapped below never had a chance.”

Orme nodded but did not speak. He was a man who never forced words in where they had no meaning.

“It’ll take a fair time to get her up,” the overseer said grimly, giving Monk a slight gesture of acknowledgment. “Get the bodies off as we can. Bound to lose some of them as everything shifts inside. Send men after the rest. You just catch the bastards that did this.”

“We will,” Monk replied, knowing full well that it was a promise he might not be able to keep.

He watched a few moments longer, then nodded to Orme and turned away. He should not have said they would succeed, but how else did one answer to such an atrocity? “We’ll try”? It would sound as if he thought it ordinary, just another case. It wasn’t. Possibly a hundred and fifty completely innocent people had been drowned in the dark, filthy waters of the Thames. Some of them might never even be found for their relatives to bury. And for what? What end could it possibly serve?

But someone had to have planted the bomb. Perhaps they had even been paid to do so. And there were avenues along which to search for such a person. There were expert dealers in explosives, such as nitroglycerin. Amateurs did not handle it; it was far too volatile. There was always somebody who had seen something, heard something, who could be pressured to talk.

Monk walked across the open space toward the street. All around him were warehouses, cranes, men beginning the day’s work of loading and unloading. It was May and the sun was already bright. Six weeks and it would be the longest day of the year.

One of the first things to look for was opportunity. Who had had
the chance to place explosives in the bow of the ship? And nitroglycerin was the most common explosive, but in the last year or two there was also the new Swedish invention of dynamite. It was easy to carry, and needed an ignition device to set it off, so was far less prone to accidents. A few sticks of it would blow almost anything to kingdom come. So that was something to look into as well.

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.

CHAPTER
 

H
ESTER 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.