Blood on the Water (6 page)

CHAPTER
 

M
ONK TRIED TO WORK
as usual and put the atrocity of the pleasure boat loss at least to the back of his mind. Sometimes he succeeded for as much as half a day, but there was always something to remind him of it eventually. People were still talking about it. There was speculation in the newspapers and in fliers posted up on every wall and street corner, or passed from hand to hand. Even into June, wreckage was being washed up with each high tide: pieces of wood, broken furniture, waterlogged cushions, and the torn fabric of clothes. On the curved shore of the Isle of Dogs, three more bodies surfaced. A pall of grief hung over everything, in spite of the sunshine, and it was slowly hardening into anger.

Monk saw the Metropolitan Police on the banks, at the docks, even at times on the river itself, talking to lightermen and bargees. He did not envy them. At first they were resented, interlopers in an alien territory. Now they were being blamed because they seemed to have
no idea who they were chasing, or even why the tragedy had happened.

Who would do such a thing? Possibilities teemed in Monk’s mind. He could not think any ordinary river pirates or thieves could do anything so extreme. It would draw unwanted attention. But since the revolution that had swept Europe in 1848, some twenty years ago, London was full of refugees: people either fleeing the persecution that had followed the suppression of revolt, or simply looking for a different and better life. Occasionally old quarrels erupted into violence between groups; social change, overcrowding, strange languages and customs—all of it frightened people.

And yet standing on the quayside watching the river traffic passing, hearing the familiar shouts and clangs of men working their trades, Monk could not believe that any of the immigrants would commit such an atrocity. Apart from any morality involved, it would be pointless. All they wanted was a little space, and the chance to earn a living.

The speed with which Monk had been dismissed and Lydiate appointed smelled political, but to what end? Ships came and went from the Pool of London to every country on earth. Cargo included things as small as diamonds or as huge as timber.

Could the tragedy have to do with smuggling? The
Princess Mary
had been to Gravesend. Could it have met a coastal freighter there? The possibilities filled his mind. Smuggled goods deliberately sunk, to be plundered afterward? By whom? Pirates? Salvagers? Corrupt laborers, or even police?

Would Lydiate even think of that? Should Monk suggest it?

Or did Lydiate already know what or who was behind the explosion, but was keeping it quiet because it
was
political?

Whatever the reason, it had to be overwhelming for anyone to have committed such a horrific crime.

Years ago Monk had been in the regular Metropolitan Police himself. Whether he had resigned or been dismissed was an arguable point. Early in his career he had worked alongside a man named Runcorn, and they had trusted each other. Then Monk’s darker nature had
brought out the worst in Runcorn. Friendship had turned first to rivalry, later into something close to hatred.

The final straw came when Runcorn had been promoted, becoming Monk’s superior. Runcorn was by nature obedient, loyal, unimaginative, and often pompous. All these things considered, it was surprising how long it had taken him to dismiss Monk. It had occurred at precisely the same moment when Monk had completely lost his temper and resigned.

For some time Monk had worked as a private agent of inquiry, but the living was dangerous and irregular. When he had been offered the position of commanding the Thames River Police, little as he liked either the responsibility or the discipline, he had accepted it. Commanding men had taught him much, humbled some of his arrogance and given him an unexpected sense of loyalty to his work and the people he worked with. He had even found, to his amazement, a kind of friendship with Runcorn, who had mellowed much since his unexpected marriage to a woman he had imagined hopelessly beyond his reach.

Now, at the end of the day on the river, Monk found he had finished his work a little earlier than expected. On impulse, he took a hansom to Runcorn’s police station in Blackheath and asked to see him.

He had to wait about a quarter of an hour until Runcorn returned from some errand, but he did so with patience. He recognized Runcorn’s rather heavy step ascending the stairs and found himself anticipating the meeting with pleasure, something he could not have imagined a few years ago.

Runcorn came into the room smiling and with his hand held out. He was a big man, tall and solid with a long face and thick gray curling hair.

Monk stood and gripped Runcorn’s hand. The pressure expressed eloquently the strange mixture of memory and understanding that bound them.

Without asking Monk’s preference, Runcorn called over his shoulder
for two mugs of tea. Then he waved at the chair for Monk to resume his seat. He took off his jacket and sat down himself, crossing his legs comfortably, waiting for Monk to state his reason for having come.

“I expected to have to wait longer,” Monk remarked. “Or have you got something else on at the moment?” He knew he would not have to tell Runcorn what case he was interested in.

Runcorn sighed. “Something else,” he agreed. “Damn stupid knife fight in an alley. Lucky he isn’t up for murder. Seems idiotic, doesn’t it? Words! Man with the vocabulary of a pig insults you, and you risk spending the rest of your life in prison breaking rocks just to get back at him. And we’ve got a hundred corpses being hauled out of the river—and for what?”

“No idea yet, then?” Monk asked.

Runcorn sighed and answered the door as a constable arrived with the tea. He took it from him, thanked him, and then shut the door again. He passed one of the mugs over to Monk. “Take your pick. Theft, but there’s nothing to steal that wouldn’t have been taken a lot more effectively by half a dozen pickpockets, and sold on without anyone the wiser. Some sort of fraud?” He pursed his lips. “Can’t see how. Extortion? ‘Pay, or I’ll sink your boat?’ You’d have caught wind of anyone doing that sort of thing, on that level. Revenge seems to be the most likely scenario.” Runcorn’s face was sad, the anger in him unmistakable. “God knows for what.”

“But it’s puzzling,” Monk said. “If it was out of revenge, why would the person behind the bombing not claim the act? Is revenge satisfying if you can’t gloat?”

“Don’t know,” Runcorn replied. “Never hated anyone that much.” Then a bright, sharp light came into his eyes and he half smiled. “Not lately, anyway …”

Monk laughed. It was the first time he had done so since the boat went down. It was a mark of the peace between them that Runcorn could refer to it. There was no longer the need to step around their former enmity with unease, like it was a patch of thin ice on a pond, likely to crack at any moment.

“Maybe it’s something to do with all the talk of shipping changes,” Runcorn went on. “Because of this new canal they’re building between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea.”

“That was de Lesseps’s idea, not ours,” Monk pointed out. “We’re latecomers to that whole game. Why take revenge on us for it?”

Runcorn shrugged ruefully. “That’s true, but I’m not sure whoever did this was thinking logically. We’ve got a lot of men working over there.”

“But what could that have to do with the people on a pleasure boat on a day trip along the Thames? I could see it making sense if it were a freighter of some kind, perhaps,” Monk said.

“I don’t know,” Runcorn said unhappily. “But there were all sorts of toffs on the guest list. Investors with money to burn. At least that’s what Lord Ossett, the government adviser to the Home Office and the Foreign Office, told me. Not just British, but European, Middle Eastern, even American.”

“Is that what it is about?” Monk began to see a much uglier and more complicated picture than he had initially imagined. He had assumed it was an isolated incident, but perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps he should be grateful that Lydiate had been given the burden of solving it—and preventing any further attacks. If what Runcorn was suggesting was true, this wasn’t really a river crime. The fact that the first blow had taken place there might be incidental.

As if reading his thoughts, Runcorn spoke again. “Have you seen the papers? They’re screaming so loudly they’re getting in the way. All kinds of people are coming forward telling us things that don’t matter, and the people that might know something relevant are so frightened they’re hiding, lying, telling us whatever they think we want to hear. You’ve no idea how many one-eyed black dwarfs there are in the London docks …”

“What?” Monk was incredulous. Then he saw Runcorn’s face and understood. “Monsters—anyone but us,” he said, leaning back in his chair again. “Any real hope?”

Runcorn sighed. “A bit. We’ve spoken to a lot of people up and
down the river. Could be getting closer to who actually planted the stuff—which incidentally we are certain was this new Swedish dynamite—but we still don’t know why, or, more important, who is truly behind it.”

For the first time Monk heard the real strain in Runcorn’s voice. Monk knew what it was like to have those frightened demands for an answer ringing in your ears every day. You felt hounded. It was too easy to make mistakes, to tell your superiors anything just to make them go away. Every man would be doing his best, but there was just too little to grasp. It depended on luck, asking the right question at the right moment.

“Call if I can help,” he said impulsively. “It doesn’t have to be official.”

Runcorn nodded. “I will, if I think of anything. I don’t want to defy Ossett. He’s a decent enough chap, but he’s dead set on handling it his own way. I dare say a lot of people higher up are leaning on him.”

H
ESTER WALKED BRISKLY ALONG
Portpool Lane to the huddle of interconnected houses that had once been a thriving brothel run by one Squeaky Robinson. A few years ago, at the successful conclusion of a case, Sir Oliver Rathbone had tricked Squeaky and his silent backers out of possession of the place. Several of them had ended up in prison, but Squeaky had remained in the place, not as owner or manager anymore, but as a peculiarly gifted bookkeeper.

The property itself had, with minor changes, been turned into a clinic for sick or injured prostitutes. Hester, with her military nursing experience in the Crimean War, ran the place. She managed to obtain professional help from one or two doctors willing to give their time without charge. Funds for simple maintenance were obtained by different volunteers: ladies of a charitable nature who were prepared to ask their friends, acquaintances, and even strangers for help.

Margaret Ballinger, later Oliver Rathbone’s wife, and now his ex-wife,
had been one of the best at raising funds. It was a sadness to Hester that she no longer worked with them. However, Hester’s relationship with Margaret had suffered irreparable damage thanks to the tragedy that had struck Margaret’s family, and the way in which Margaret had reacted to it.

Now, as Hester went in through the door to the room turned into a reception hall, she was greeted by Claudine Burroughs, a woman in her middle years, plain of countenance but remarkable of character. Her success here had given her a sense of freedom from her restrictive marriage, and the friendships she had won at some cost enriched her in all manner of ways. Her face lit up when she saw Hester.

“How are you?” she asked warmly. “We’ve missed you since that dreadful event on the river.” She looked Hester up and down, assessing if she was really well enough, regardless of what she might say.

Hester smiled back. “Feeling totally useless,” she replied. She felt comfortable being completely honest Claudine, and had for some time now. It was inevitable, given the work they faced together. They had shared triumphs and disasters both in the clinic and beyond. They helped people, sometimes cured them, but the very nature of their purpose meant that they came late into every battle against death, and often lost. Sometimes all they could give was warmth, peace, and a little dignity, making sure a woman didn’t feel alone in the last days of her life.

Claudine frowned. “Come and have tea. The accounts are all done and we are in quite good shape. I didn’t ask Mr. Robinson where our latest funds came from. I don’t know if you care to know?” Her expression reflected her erratic opinion of and relationship with Squeaky. To begin with they had despised each other. He was a renegade in every respect, loathing the law and having little regard for women, particularly of the stiff, plain, middle-aged, and genteel variety—all of which Claudine so perfectly epitomized.

She saw him, in return, as devious, despicable, and personally repulsive. Experience had taught both of them their mistakes. Tolerance had very gradually turned into something almost resembling affection.

“Thank you,” Hester said drily. “I have sufficient troubles not to go courting anymore. I have to say I miss Margaret’s help in the funding.”

“You mean Lady Rathbone …” Claudine said with a slight rasp to her voice. She was intensely loyal to those who had offered her friendship, but she regarded Margaret as one who had betrayed them all.