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She drew in a deep breath. “You pompous—” she began, then stopped, afraid she would say too much and let all her frustration and loss pour through. She would never be able to retract it because he would know it was true. She forced herself to smile at him instead. “Thank you for being afraid for me. It’s really very kind of you, but quite unnecessary. I shall be discreet.”
For a moment she thought he was going to lose his temper entirely. Instead he started to laugh, and then laughed harder and harder until he was gasping for breath.
“It is not all that funny!” she said waspishly.
“Yes, it is,” he replied, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“You’ve never been discreet a day in your life.” He took her by the shoulders, quite gently but with thorough strength that she could not escape.
“And you are not going to pursue Mary Havilland’s path finding proof that any of the construction machines are being used dangerously!”
She said nothing, but when she turned her attention back to the tea she realized that the kettle was almost empty; it had boiled nearly dry. She would have to refill it and begin again.
“William,” she said gently, “I’m afraid the tea will have to wait a little. I’ll bring it through to you when it’s ready, if you like.” If he wanted to think that was any kind of admission of defeat or of obedience, this was not the time to point out to him that it was nothing of the sort.
“Thank you. That is a good idea.” He turned and went back into the sitting room.
“Really!” she said under her breath, but glad it was over for the moment, and she could be alone to gain control of her feelings again.
FOUR
Monk was in the stern of the ferry next morning as it made its way across the choppy waters. Waves were slapping the sides of the small boat, and the damp, raw wind stung the skin, freezing the cheeks and arms. The boatman needed not only his strength but his skill to keep from “catching crabs” with the oar blades and drenching them both.
At least the wind had driven the fog away and the long strings of barges were going downriver on the tide, carrying goods from the Pool of London to everyplace on earth.
He had spoken to Hester last night as if he was afraid for her safety, and indeed that was his concern. He did not want to prevent her from doing what she believed was right, but when she became involved in a cause she lost all sense of proportion. More than once it had endangered her.
He looked at the choppy water, dark, turgid, and filthy. Perhaps if he could remember all his youth, his other experiences of women, of love, he would be more realistic. But he remembered nothing, and he wanted Hester as she was: naive, rash, stubborn, vulnerable, passionate, opinionated, loyal, sometimes foolish, always honest—too honest—never mean of spirit, and never, ever a coward. But he wanted her alive, and if she did not have the sense to protect herself, then he must do it for her.
He would find out what happened to Mary Havilland, and to her father, because Hester would despise him if he did not.
How had she felt seven years ago over her own father’s suicide? He had only just met her then, and they had scraped each other raw to begin with. She had found him cold and arrogant. Perhaps he had been, but he had also been bewildered by the unknown world around him because of his memory loss, increasingly aware he was disliked. It was Hester’s strength and courage that had constantly buoyed him.
Had she felt guilty that she was not in England and at home when her parents both so desperately needed her? Was that at least in part why she was determined now to fight for Mary Havilland and, through her, for her father?
He had not even thought of that before.
They were at the Wapping shore. He paid the ferryman, climbed the steps up into the harsher wind, and strode over to the door. It was warm inside, but it took several minutes before the heat thawed his numb flesh. It made his hands tingle as the blood circulated again, and he was aware of the men putting on heavy overcoats and then caps as they went out to begin the next patrol.
He spoke to them briefly, listening to the report of the night’s events: a couple of robberies and several fights, one ending in a knifing. The victim had died, but they had the man who had done it, and apparently it was the culmination of a long feud.
“Anyone else involved?” he asked.
Clacton gave him a sideways look eloquent of contempt, and Monk realized his mistake. He was treating Clacton as an equal, as he would Orme. Clacton was spoiling for a fight, inching around and around to find a weakness to jab. Monk held his temper with an effort. A man who loses his temper at a subordinate’s rudeness isn’t fit to command. No one must manipulate him. Nor must he be seen to need Orme’s help. He was alone. Orme wanted him to succeed. Clacton wanted him to fail. For none of them would he ever take Durban’s place. He did not mind that. He must make his own place, and none of them could admire Durban more than he did, for it was Monk who understood what he had done better than they, and who carried a far greater burden of guilt for it.
He would not correct himself and rephrase the question. He must retrieve the station another way. He turned to Butterworth. “Mr. Clacton seems unwilling to reveal their names. Friends of his, perhaps. Or informants. Perhaps you can be more enlightening?”
Clacton moved his mouth to protest, then looked at Monk’s face and decided better of it.
“Yes, sir!” Butterworth said, barely concealing his smile. “No one else injured, sir, far as we know. No witnesses admittin’, but we know ’oo they worked for. It was more likely personal. Been grumblin’ on for a couple o’ months since a scrap downriver a bit. Drink an’ bad temper, most like.”
“Do you expect any revenge?” Monk asked.
“No, sir, but we’ll keep an eye.”
“Good. Anything else?”
He dealt with a few other details and then the men went out—Butterworth with a grin, Clacton scowling, the other two noncommittal.
