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He moved his head so the light struck the murk around him. He felt a touch on his arm, and there was another grotesque figure beside him, lumbering and globe-headed like himself. It pointed forward. Awkwardly he obeyed.
It was only moments before he saw jagged ends of the wreck emerging in the gloom. It gaped like the jaws of some gigantic fish, and where the bow should have been there was nothing. At that instant he would have given almost anything to have backed away and gone up into the light.
He took a deep breath of the air coming to him through that fragile pipe, and stepped forward.
He had already visualized what he would see, but nothing prepared him for the reality. The hull had buckled. The floors lay at strange angles. In some places doors hung open. In others they were jammed fast shut. There were eddies of current where the tide was funneled unnaturally. More than once Monk was swept off balance, and realized with something close to panic how easy it would be to fall and become entangled in the debris and his own equipment.
Everywhere there were bodies, some lying on the decks, some piled on top of each other. Several were jammed in doorways as if they had rushed together to escape, and it had cost all of them their lives. A few here and there—mostly women with skirts floating around them—drifted with the current, bumping blindly into buckling walls. Their dead faces were ghostly pale in the beam of Monk’s lamp.
Would he find anything here that could tell him what had happened? Any evidence that could implicate someone? The explosion had left the whole front end of the boat raw and wide to the river, flooding the decks and sweeping people off their feet and back into the prison of the lower rooms. The only ones with any chance of escape were those on the top deck. Those at the fancy party below, dressed in their best and smartest clothes, champagne glasses in their hands, were probably dead even before the boat plunged to the bottom. Was that chance, or intention?
The bodies would be taken out, identified where possible, and given decent burial. Several would be washed out by the very act of raising the boat. Some were already gone and would drift up on the banks in the days and weeks to come. And a few perhaps would never be found, washed out to sea, or snagged forever in the detritus of the deeper channels, eventually to be swallowed by the mud.
Monk moved forward very carefully, testing his footing, as far into the bow as he dared go. Once he slipped and was yanked back by his fellow diver. His heart was pounding and he forced himself to control his breathing before he choked. As he looked around, he could see what they had already suspected: the explosion had been caused by something placed in the bow deliberately. There were no boilers or other mechanical equipment anywhere near the heart of the destruction. But there was no evidence of what had caused the explosion either, at least in the area they were able to safely walk.
He signaled to his companion that it was time to go back up again. He had to force himself not to hurry as he made his way back toward the light, and finally up into the air and the day. When he reached the surface he was heaved back onto the deck of the boat and eager hands unfastened his face plate. He breathed in clean air in grateful gasps. When the helmet was unscrewed and lifted off, the width of the sky could have been heaven itself. For all the horror of what he had seen, he was smiling, gulping, almost wanting to laugh.
“Seen enough, sir?” his diving companion asked, struggling out of his own suit.
“Yes.” Monk forced himself back to the moment. “Yes, thank you. We’ll tell them to begin getting her up.” He put the corpses out of his mind and concentrated on the fabric of the boat, the hole where the bow had been. The explosives must all have been there. Thinking about it coldly, it was the perfect place to put them. There was nothing dangerous or valuable there, so no reason for any of the crew to be on watch. No chance of an accidental ignition of the charge. It had been not only deliberate, but also clever and very carefully planned.
But why?
The exhilaration of surfacing passed and Monk found anger overtaking him again. He thanked the diving crew and asked them to put him ashore at the nearest steps. He made his way back to where Orme was standing with the overseer of the crew that was to raise the wreck. Orme looked exhausted, his face pale, the stubble of his beard adding to his crumpled air. But as always he stood straight, eyes narrowed against the light, pink-rimmed with weariness.
“Bow blown out, as we thought,” Monk said quietly. “Pretty clean job. Couldn’t see any other damage. People trapped below never had a chance.”
Orme nodded but did not speak. He was a man who never forced words in where they had no meaning.
“It’ll take a fair time to get her up,” the overseer said grimly, giving Monk a slight gesture of acknowledgment. “Get the bodies off as we can. Bound to lose some of them as everything shifts inside. Send men after the rest. You just catch the bastards that did this.”
“We will,” Monk replied, knowing full well that it was a promise he might not be able to keep.
He watched a few moments longer, then nodded to Orme and turned away. He should not have said they would succeed, but how else did one answer to such an atrocity? “We’ll try”? It would sound as if he thought it ordinary, just another case. It wasn’t. Possibly a hundred and fifty completely innocent people had been drowned in the dark, filthy waters of the Thames. Some of them might never even be found for their relatives to bury. And for what? What end could it possibly serve?
But someone had to have planted the bomb. Perhaps they had even been paid to do so. And there were avenues along which to search for such a person. There were expert dealers in explosives, such as nitroglycerin. Amateurs did not handle it; it was far too volatile. There was always somebody who had seen something, heard something, who could be pressured to talk.
Monk walked across the open space toward the street. All around him were warehouses, cranes, men beginning the day’s work of loading and unloading. It was May and the sun was already bright. Six weeks and it would be the longest day of the year.
One of the first things to look for was opportunity. Who had had the chance to place explosives in the bow of the ship? And nitroglycerin was the most common explosive, but in the last year or two there was also the new Swedish invention of dynamite. It was easy to carry, and needed an ignition device to set it off, so was far less prone to accidents. A few sticks of it would blow almost anything to kingdom come. So that was something to look into as well.
But why? That was the difficulty, and the key. The motive for whoever had committed such an act of barbarity, and the means by which they had done so.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost bumped into the man coming toward him. The man stopped abruptly to avoid the collision.
“Sorry,” Monk said. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.” He stepped to the side but the man did not move. Instead, he held out his hand as if to introduce himself.
Monk was in no mood for conversation, but glancing at the man’s face, he thought he seemed vaguely familiar, as if they might have met casually at some point. He had mild, almost sensitive features and a considerable gravity to him. Perhaps he had lost someone he cared for in the disaster. He deserved civility at least.
“Monk?” the man asked, but with the tone of voice as if he knew.
Monk forced himself to be responsive. He was exhausted, cold from the dive, and heartsick from what he had seen. He could not remember when he had last eaten anything except the heel of bread.
“Yes?” he said calmly, meeting the man’s eyes and seeing pain in them. Yet, the look was not one of personal grief.
“John Lydiate,” the man replied.
Monk was startled. He remembered him now. Sir John was commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police. Had he come here to find out the progress on the case so soon?
