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“There are dark places in everybody,” he said in the silence. “People you believe you know have violence and ugliness it is hard to accept, and impossible to understand.” There was anger in his voice and a pain she heard only too clearly. She wished to ask what he had discovered that he had not told her, but she knew from the angle of his body, the part of his face she could see, half turned away from her as it was, that he would not tell her.
She stood up to clear away the dishes and carry them through to the kitchen. She would not mention it again, at least not tonight.
Monk went to bed early. He was tired, but far more than that he wished to avoid speaking with Hester. He had shut himself out, and he did not know how to deal with it.
In the morning he woke early and left Hester still asleep. At least he thought she was. He was not certain. He wrote a hasty note telling her he had gone to the river again to pursue the matter of the guns, the money, and anything he could learn about the company who dealt with the pirates, then he left. He would find something to eat, if he felt like it, somewhere on the road. There were plenty of peddlers around with sandwiches and pies. The general mass of working people had no facilities to cook, and ate in the street. He did not want to risk Hester’s waking and finding him in the kitchen, because he would have to give some explanation, or openly avoid it, and he was not ready to face so much inward pain.
From the very moment he awoke in the hospital his past had been an unknown land which carried too many areas of darkness, too many ugly surprises. He should have had the sense, the self-restraint, to have guarded his feelings more. He had known then that marriage was not for him. Love and its vulnerabilities were for those with uncomplicated lives, who knew themselves and whose darkest recesses of the soul were only the ordinary envies and petty acts of retreat that affected everyone.
He had not been prepared for someone like Hester, who forced from him emotions he could not stifle or control, and in the end could not even deny.
He should have found the strength to! Or at least the sense of self-preservation.
Too late now. The wound was there, wide open.
He went out of the house, closing the front door softly, and walked as quickly as he could along Fitzroy Street and into Tottenham Court Road. He had no choice but to examine the blackmail issue more closely. His revulsion against the idea was no excuse; in fact, it impelled him to do all he could to test it against the facts, and if possible disprove it.
It was too early to obtain permission to examine Alberton’s finances. Rathbone would not be at his offices in Vere Street at this hour. However, Monk could write a note asking for the necessary authority, and leave it for him.
Then he would pursue Baskin and Company, who had been named as the intermediary for the pirates’ guns.
The river was busy in the early morning. Tides waited on no man’s convenience, and already dockers, ferrymen, bargees and stokers were busy. He saw coal backers, bent double under their heavy sacks, keeping a precarious balance as they climbed out of the deep holds. Men shouted to one another, and the cries of gulls circling low in hope of fish, the clatter of chains and metal on metal, were loud in the air above the ever-present surge and slap of water.
“Never ’eard of it, guv,” the first man answered cheerfully when Monk asked for the company. “In’t now’ere ’round ’ere. Eh! Jim! Yer ever ’eard o’ Baskin and Company?”
“Not ’round ’ere,” Jim replied. “Sorry, mate!”
And so it continued down as far as Limehouse and around the curve of the Isle of Dogs, and again across the river at Rotherhithe. He had been certain the ferrymen would know if anyone did, but even the three he asked had never heard either name.
By midafternoon he gave up and went back to Vere Street to see if Rathbone had obtained the necessary permission to go through Daniel Alberton’s accounts.
“There’s no difficulty,” Rathbone said with a frown. He received Monk in his office, looking cool and immaculate as always. Monk, who had been traipsing up and down the dockside all day, was aware of the contrast between them. Rathbone had no shadows in his past that mattered. His smooth, almost arrogant manner came from the fact that he knew himself, better than most men. He was so supremely confident in who he was he felt no need to impress others. It was a quality Monk admired and envied. He had come to understand himself well enough to know that his own moments of cruelty came from self-doubt, his need to show others his importance.
He recalled himself to the present. “Good!”
“What do you expect to find?” Rathbone was looking curious and a trifle anxious.
“Nothing,” Monk replied. “But I need to be certain.”
Rathbone leaned back in his chair. “Why didn’t you ask me to look?”
Monk smiled thinly. “Because you may not want to know the answer.”
Humor flashed for an instant in Rathbone’s eyes. “Oh! Then you had better go alone. Just don’t leave me walking into an ambush in court.”
“I won’t,” Monk promised. “I still think Shearer is the one who actually committed the murders.”
Rathbone’s eyebrows rose. “Alone?”
“No. I think it would have taken more than one, even holding a gun. They were tied up before they were shot. But he could have hired help anywhere. He certainly lived and worked where he would be able to find plenty of men willing to kill a man, for a reasonable price. The price of those guns would be enough to buy nine decent-sized houses. A small percent of the profit would give him sufficient to obtain all kinds of assistance.”
Rathbone’s fastidious face expressed his distaste.
“And I suppose we have no idea where Shearer is now?”
“None at all. Could be anywhere, here or in Europe. Or America, for that matter, except it’s not the best place to be, unless he has designs on making more money in the armaments business.” He debated with himself whether to mention the whole blackmail affair, and his failure to find any trace of Baskin and Company, and decided against it for the moment. It might be easier for Rathbone if he did not know.
“He could well do that,” Rathbone said thoughtfully, leaning back and placing his fingertips together, elbows on the arms of his chair. “He might have bought more guns somewhere with the money from Breeland, if what Breeland says is true. There’s a very murky area in arms dealing, and he would be in a position to know more about it than most.”
