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Even memory could be torn from you. He could not remember his accident, all those years ago, or who he had been before that. All he could recollect was waking up in the hospital with no idea even who he was, let alone the life he had built. He had lost both the good and the bad, the dreams and the nightmares. No one knew what lurked in that long silence before he woke up.
He vividly remembered everything since then, the things he wanted to and the things he would prefer not to: mistakes, discoveries about his own nature, including the reasons why some people feared or hated him. Better than that were the good things, and like a strong thread through all of it was Hester, in all her roles. They had fought like cats in a bag at one time, each trying so hard not to be vulnerable, not to care. Always she had been loyal, believing in his worth even when he did not.
Thinking, even for an instant, how he would feel if she had been lost in that dark water was horrifying; it gave him a deep empathy for the grief the survivors and the victims’ families lived with, day and night. It was not like someone dying from a long illness, when you know to prepare yourself and have the time to do it. This was sudden and brutal, total, like an amputation of part of you.
He came to the further shore, paid the ferryman, and alighted. He walked up the hill in long, swift strides, far faster than usual—eager to be home.
MONK CONTINUED WITH THE search, going through all the reports from Lydiate’s men, comparing each with the others. He found no reference to the man he had seen dive overboard. Did that mean they had not found him? Or that they had, and he was of no importance? Or that they just weren’t aware of his existence?
He read them all again, to be sure of his impressions. There was a pattern of interference from various officials working for a politician, Mr. Quither, who appeared to report directly to Lord Ossett himself. They had steered the police away from the whole subject of shipping. The suggestions had apparently been discreet, but quite firm. A man of Lydiate’s political sensitivity would not have misunderstood. Why had they done that? To protect specific interests—friends, supporters, men who would reward them amply? Or because it was genuinely irrelevant to the sinking? But that raised the question as to how they could know such a thing, unless the government also knew far more about the sinking than they had told the police, or the court.
Comparing police notes with instructions from Lydiate, it was increasingly clear that certain pieces of evidence to do with eyewitness accounts had been buried within irrelevant testimony. Because they were actually irrelevant? Or because such accounts would be inconvenient to officials such as customs and excise men, port authorities, one or two members of the Home Office? One testimony was labeled as interfering with a current investigation into smuggling, a case Monk knew nothing about. He suspected it was fictitious.
Similarly, with very careful reading of what was left of the guest list, the numbers of survivors and dead did not tally with the list. The guest list had been difficult to get hold of, and then suddenly it had reappeared from being mislaid. Had it been altered, names erased, because some people who should not have been there were listed originally? But why would someone have to hide being on a pleasure boat? Perhaps if they had lied about their whereabouts, or were keeping company with the wrong people?
Some people had not been questioned at all, let alone investigated. Or had they been discreetly not mentioned because their presence was found to be irrelevant?
Or maybe this was merely the degree of error one might expect in a highly emotional case pushed to the limit for quick results, castigated by the press, interfered with by politicians.
The atrocity had been monumental. The shock waves had spread throughout the country, and no doubt to neighboring countries, particularly France. Perhaps it was inevitable that a government minister like Lord Ossett should have kept his finger on the pulse of the investigation. He had to have feared the possibility of something like it happening again.
Nevertheless, cumulatively all these directions and enquiries had failed to encompass all the evidence and come up with an accurate picture. There seemed to have been considerable misinterpretation, due to ignorance of the river and its people. And there had been a foreseeable prejudice against the regular police by those who resented them usurping what they viewed as a Thames River Police job. They were only small lies, withholding of information, but together they added up to larger error.
Above all, what was striking was the general weakness of the accounts by eyewitnesses. They were swayed so easily by horror, fear, loss, pressure, or simply the wish to please those who were questioning them. Not to mention some clearly desired attention, hoped for reward, or saw the tragedy as an opportunity to take a little revenge here and there.
WHEN HE HAD COMPLETED his review and compared his conclusions with those of Orme and Hooper—who largely agreed with him—Monk went to see Lydiate at his home.
It was a very pleasant house in Mayfair, a highly fashionable area. It was set in a Georgian terrace with elegant façades and rows of white columns in a gentle arc between the pavement and the steps up to the front doors. Monk found number 72, and pulled the shining brass lever for the bell.
A few moments later a butler answered and welcomed him in. Monk followed the servant across the marble floor and to the door of a comfortable, book-lined study.
Lydiate rose from the desk, told the butler to leave the decanter of whisky and glasses. The man inclined his head and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
“Please sit down.” Lydiate indicated the other beautifully upholstered captain’s chair with its polished woodwork and leather seat. He looked tired, as he had the last time Monk had seen him, and no more at ease, in spite of being in his own home.
He offered Monk whisky, which Monk declined. Lydiate’s tension was palpable; he wasn’t hostile, but rather more like a patient waiting for bad ne
ws from his doctor.
Was the quick blow more or less merciful than careful explanations? This would not be easy for either of them.
“We’ve been over all the reports,” Monk began. “Thank you for giving me access to them. I don’t believe that any of my men have seen anything in them that your men didn’t.”
None of the tension in Lydiate relaxed. In fact, if anything, it increased. There was a tiny muscle twitching in his temple.
It was time for honesty.
“It was the omissions that were interesting, the people you chose not to speak to, or were instructed not to.”
“Such as whom?” Lydiate was not defensive so much as confused.
“Some of the survivors …”
Lydiate bit his lip. “That was a cruelty I was advised against, and I admit I was happy to obey. The few we did speak to could tell us absolutely nothing useful. It was brutal to ask them to relive such a nightmare.” There was pain in his face, and a soft note of disappointment in his voice.
“Investigation is often painful,” Monk said in reply. “Most of it is also useless, but sometimes memory returns and something comes up.”
“Such as what?” Lydiate sounded dubious.
