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Again Monk did not speak. He felt a deep sympathy for the man. He was caught in the horror of a dilemma that might be partially of his own making. He had acceded to the decision to take the case from the River Police and give it to the regular metropolitan force, although perhaps he had had little choice in that too.
“Yes, sir,” Monk said, not that his agreement mattered. He spoke to break the silence, and possibly even to indicate that he understood the burden, and the decision.
Ossett looked up at him. “You have a considerable loyalty to your men, I hear. Which is as it should be. A leader has no right to expect loyalty if he does not first give it.” His eyes were for a moment far away, as if he were thinking of other times, and other people. “The reputation of the Thames River Police, by implication, has been insulted. I know their history, and they are owed better.”
Monk looked at him questioningly, a sinking in the pit of his stomach warning him of something ugly to come.
“I regret taking this from Lydiate, but it has been too compromised for him to retain it.” His voice was tight, almost gravelly with his own dislike of what he felt forced to do. “But he is no longer in a position to handle the further investigation. I am handing it back to the River Police. It should never have been taken from you. It was a political decision, in light of the many foreign merchants and dignitaries who were lost on the Princess Mary. It is now painfully clear that it was a mistake.”
Monk had anticipated this news from the moment Hooper had told him Lord Ossett wished to see him. The whole issue was poisoned beyond any possibility of finding evidence uncontaminated by time, interference, emotion, or confusion. And—worse than that—when they failed, as they certainly would, the blame would rest with them, not the Metropolitan Police who had actually mishandled it. People would remember only that it was the River Police who had ended it in disaster, confusion, and injustice.
Ossett took a deep breath. “And now with this attack on Beshara in prison,” he went on, his face bleak with misery, “our reputation suffers even more. It was very severe. He is a sick man, and now he may not live. It will appear as if we deliberately allowed it to happen.” He lowered his eyes, no longer able to meet Monk’s gaze. “I wish I could be absolutely certain that that is not so.”
CHAPTER
7
HESTER KNEW THE MOMENT Monk came in through the door that there had been a major change. There was something more than tiredness in his face: a mixture of surprise, anger, and resolution. If he did not tell her what had happened, then she would press him. But first she would pretend that she had not noticed and allow him time to choose his words and tell her when he had caught his breath, and had a cup of tea.
Actually he left it until after they had eaten, and they were sitting by the door to the back garden, open to let in the summer breeze. He was sorely trying her patience. Even Scuff was aware that something was amiss. He looked at her, then at Monk, started to speak, and changed his mind. He excused himself and went upstairs.
“What’s the matter with him?” Monk asked as they heard Scuff’s feet on the stairs.
“He’s wondering what it is you’re not saying,” Hester replied. “He won’t ask you … but I will. What is it?”
He gave a bleak smile. “You know me too well.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to stop being so evasive. It was not a time for word games. But from the look in his eyes it was too serious even for that.
“Wouldn’t you ask me?” she said more gently. “If I were so troubled about something?”
“That’s different,” he started, then realized his mistake. “I was finding the right words. I’m still not sure that I have them.”
“Try anyway,” she said, controlling with effort the fear mounting inside her.
He had not told her about McFee’s evidence. He did so now. She had been at Beshara’s trial. She did not need to have any part of its importance explained to her. The evidence against him had been cumulative. It was like a house of cards. To remove any part of it would make it collapse on itself.
“Who have you reported it to?” she asked quietly, trying to assess the weight of the problem, and the potential damage.
“Lydiate. He deserved to know. He told Lord Ossett, who sent for me.” He gave a little grunt. “And Ossett has given the case back to me.”
“You’re taking it?” She made it a question, although she knew the answer. The only alternative was one Monk would never have accepted.
“I have to,” he said flatly, but he was searching her eyes, not for answer so much as understanding as to why he had to.
“Where do you begin?” She said “you” deliberately, not because she did not intend to help, but because she would do it her own way, and not necessarily discuss it with him until such time as she had learned something of use.
“Back to the beginning,” he answered. “Ever since that night there’s been something at the edge of my memory. I didn’t know whether it was important or just part of the general horror and sense of helplessness. But it came back to me when I was on the ferry. That evening Orme and I were rowing toward Wapping, but from the south. We were facing backward, as always, so we were looking directly at the ship, and she was faster than we were, and gaining on us. I was watching her, and I saw a man on the deck, and he jumped off into the water, just seconds before the explosion. Afterward I put it all together, as if he’d been part of the explosion, but he wasn’t. He leaped several seconds before.”
“Escaping …” she said slowly, realizing what it meant. “He set the fuse. Man? Just one?”
“Unless anyone went over the other side, away from us, yes, one.”
“Beshara did it alone?” she said doubtfully.
“I’m not sure now that he had anything to do with it at all,” Monk replied. “But whoever laid the explosives or detonated them in the first place, there are a hell of a lot more people involved now.”
She knew he was watching her, waiting to see if she understood all the things he had not yet said about the investigation and the trial, the commuting of the death sentence to life in prison, then the attack on Beshara in prison, which had so nearly been fatal.
