AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He soon realized that each time they had told their stories to others the words had been exactly the same. They were remembering not what had happened, but what they had said about it.
“Did you see the Egyptian?” he said casually to a lighterman called Bartlett, who hadn’t been questioned extensively or called to the witness stand. “You were there, weren’t you?”
Bartlett looked at him narrowly.
“I’m not looking for evidence,” Monk said. “It’s all over. Doesn’t matter now.”
“It’s not bleedin’ well all over,” Bartlett snarled back at him, swaying slightly as he kept his balance on the stern of his barge. “Damn Egyptian’s still alive! An’ goin’ ter stay that way, looks like.”
“You saw him?” Monk said quickly.
“Saw him? How the hell do I know? I watch wot I’m doin’, not a couple o’ dozen Egyptians, lascars, Levantines, Africans, or ’oo ever comes an’ goes. This is London, mate. The ’ole world’s got its business ’ere, one time or another. You think I’ve got time ter sit ’ere an’ watch ’em?”
Monk thanked him and walked away, turning his words over and over. A man passed by him carrying a load. Monk looked at him, but knew he would not have remembered his face a moment later, or differentiated him from the next man ten seconds after that.
Was any of the evidence that had been given worth a conviction? A man’s life?
There was a frustrating lack of factual evidence here, of details that could be examined as many times as needed and were the same to everyone who looked at them later. Not memories. Not things affected by emotion, by loss and the need to settle on some truth and move on.
And he still hadn’t been able to recall that fleeting memory from the night of the explosion, which bothered him. Every time he thought he had it, it was replaced by the horror of the ship exploding and then the bodies thrashing around in the water. He had woken in the night with his muscles clenched, his throat aching almost intolerably with the strain of shouting, and trying to be heard above the noise of the rushing water and the oars, the cries of the drowning. And then he was awake, and the silence was worse. The only thing that made it bearable was being able to reach out and touch Hester beside him, move closer to her, feel her breathing and the warmth of her body.
How often had she been awake already, disturbed by him but pretending not to be? Sometimes she had moved and her hand had found his. He had held on to her until he went to sleep again. There was nothing to say. No words were needed.
AT THE END OF the week, Orme came in pale-faced, his usual brisk color faded. He looked tired, even though it was not yet eight in the morning.
“Found another body, way down Greenwich Reach,” he said quietly. “Just a girl, less than seventeen, by the looks of ’er. Just started ’er life.” He stopped abruptly and shoved the side office door open hard so it banged into the wall to the side of it.
Hooper was standing at the entrance, the sounds of the river drifting behind him, and the warm, dusty salt air off the dock.
“Feelings are running high,” he said, coming in and closing off the sounds. “Thought we had ’em all, an’ now she turns up. Must’ve been snagged on some wreckage, or she’d have turned up days ago. Papers’ll make it worse.”
“There’s bound to be more bodies for a while,” Monk replied as levelly as he could, but his voice grated as if his throat were tight. “Even if they’re as far off as Gravesend. I suppose it’s just harder when it’s someone so young.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Hooper walked slowly across the floor. He had a very slight swagger, as a man might have who had grown up at sea. “Comes the same day as they’ve officially commuted Beshara’s sentence to life in prison.”
Monk jerked his head up, staring at Hooper to see if he was serious, although he was not a man known for an irresponsible sense of humor. He saw nothing in his face but a brooding anger.
Around the room other men shifted position, muttering half-swallowed words of fury or disgust. There were several blasphemies that Monk did not often hear from them. He felt they had a right to feel doubly betrayed, first with the loss of the case, now with the commuting of the sentence.
“What are you going to do, sir?” one of them asked, looking at Monk.
Monk realized that they were all looking at him, even Hooper. He had no idea what answer he could give that made any sense. The case was finished. He had never had the power to do anything, from the moment they had taken the case from him. But to say so was to make himself helpless, a figure of submission, a follower.
But did he want to lead what amounted to a mutiny, in effect if not in law? He felt the rage swell inside himself, fueled by his own knowledge of what it was like to be cornered and weaponless.
It was Hooper who saved him from an immediate answer.
“They’d ’ave been better to leave the case with us,” he remarked, leaning against one of the desks. “We’d ’ave solved it so the whole world would ’ave known he was guilty, an’ no one who valued their own skin would ’ave gone back on the sentence. Or maybe we could ’ave managed to let ’im drown as we were bringing ’im in. Dangerous places, rivers …” He let the suggestion linger in the still air of the room.
Before the commuting of the sentence Monk might have argued. But who could have foreseen that? Like everyone else, he had believed that the death sentence was final.
The men were waiting for his reaction. He knew their trust in him depended on his response, not only for the next few days, but in the weeks and years to come. All sorts of ideas raced through his mind. He knew of no one on whom to model himself! He was alone, and the seconds were ticking by. If he did not answer he would be effectively abdicating his leadership, and he would never get it back again.
He took the plunge.
“I know a politician called Quither is saying that it’s mercy to do with his illness and Lord Ossett is saying more discreetly that there are diplomatic reasons also, to do with Suez and the canal. And I expect the Egyptian embassy has had something to say.”
They stared at him, no one speaking or moving.
