AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“No!” Fortridge-Smith colored slightly. “I mean—we cannot comment on his health. The situation is very delicate.”
“So it would seem,” Monk observed drily. “Fortunately for me, it is Giles Witherspoon I have come to see.”
“Indeed,” Fortridge-Smith said stiffly. “I shall conduct you to the interview room.”
Monk had no grounds to argue and followed the governor’s rigid back along the stone-floored passageway, their footsteps echoing. However, he wondered if he might create the opportunity to deviate from the prescribed path and make an attempt to see Beshara, even if he were not able to speak with him. How ill was he really? Monk had never seen him. In the newspaper sketches of the trial he had looked sallow, a little too fleshy, black hair graying at the sides. What did he look like now? How badly had he been beaten? Was that why Monk had been refused access to him—because his injuries were more serious than they were saying?
If that were true, it was a serious dereliction of duty, of course. Or was it something they had deliberately allowed, for any number of reasons—at the worst, that they had been requested to do it?
He increased his pace and caught up with Fortridge-Smith.
“What happened to the man who beat Beshara?” he said abruptly.
Fortridge-Smith stumbled and regained his step awkwardly. “That is an internal prison matter, Mr. Monk. Not the concern of the River Police.” He kept his face forward and increased his pace along the corridor.
“In other words, you don’t know,” Monk concluded, continuing to match his stride.
Fortridge-Smith spun around, glaring at him. “That is an irresponsible conclusion, sir! You will repeat that at your peril. Do you understand me?”
“I think so,” Monk faced him with a very slight smile. “Beshara was questioned with some violence, and he refused to betray his associates, with the result that he was beaten very badly indeed, and still refused to speak.” He watched Fortridge-Smith’s eyes and the high color in his skin. “He will probably die here,” he went on. “A political martyr to the cause of whatever it is he believes in. Presumably that does not include Westerners cutting canals through his country and laying claim to the profits it earns. Or something like that.”
Fortridge-Smith was shaking with fury, his cheeks mottled. “Who the devil put you up to this? The idea is monstrous! No one has tortured the wretched man. He was beaten by other prisoners, because he is a devious, oily wretch who is guilty of being involved in the mass murder of almost two hundred innocent men and women. He should have been hanged for it! It is only by dint of some trumped-up diplomatic necessity that he was not.” He stood in front of Monk, stiff as a ramrod, shoulders square, hands clenched so his knuckles shone. His jaw was so tight he kept repeatedly raising and lowering his chin as if his collar restricted his breath.
“So either you do not know who beat him, or you do not care,” Monk concluded.
“I do not care,” Fortridge-Smith said briskly, snapping out the words. “But if you repeat to any man outside this prison that the damn man was beaten in anything other than a prison brawl, you will pay a very heavy price for your foolishness. Not to mention your betrayal of your own, which sin is beyond pardon. Do you understand me? I make no threat. I shall do nothing whatever. It is simply a warning, not because I care about you, but because I care very much about the damage you can do.”
Monk felt a chill as if the sky had suddenly darkened. This stiff, frightened man, with his bristling mustache, understood something he himself was only groping toward. He might seem absurd, but the danger he spoke of was perfectly real.
“I want to know the truth, sir,” Monk replied, his voice holding something resembling respect. “I do not necessarily intend to repeat it, and certainly not publicly, but the bereaved deserve better than lies.”
“Beshara may not have acted alone, but he had a part of it,” Fortridge-Smith insisted. “If he dies here, he deserves it.” He jerked his chin up again. “Now go and interview your wretched thief, or fence, or whatever he is!”
“Opulent receiver, sir. Thank you.” Had Monk been a military man, he might have saluted, but then he would feel just as ridiculous as Fortridge-Smith.
THE SKY WAS DARK when Monk left the prison and made his way to the ferry, even though it was July.
The ferryman was gray-haired and lean-faced. His powerful arms were built up by years at the oar. They spoke to each other casually, agreeable tones that meant nothing except that they had both worked a long day and were pleased to see the end of it.
The shadows stretched across the water and there was a hard edge to the wind. The warmth had gone and the ripples on the incoming tide were deeper, one or two with white edges.
There were other craft out, ferries from one bank to the other, strings of barges making the last trip on the incoming tide, a trifle late. No pleasure boats anymore, as it was too late in the day.
There was no sound but the rhythmic creak of the oars in the rowlocks and the hiss and splash of the water. Monk found himself lulled by it, his attention wandering. Giles Witherspoon had given him more information than he expected. Perhaps that was what he ought to be pursuing, instead of trying to pick up the pieces of Lydiate’s investigation. Whoever was responsible, apart from Beshara, had probably long since left the Thames, even left England. Monk’s continuing investigation of the case was not going to bring justice or peace, only more fear, more doubt and blame, more anger.
Out of nowhere another boat appeared and struck them hard. The weight of the bow and the impetus behind it drove the boat right through the ferry’s hull. Within seconds Monk was floundering in the water. It was ice-cold and filthy, soaking his clothes until they imprisoned him like ropes, stopping him from trying to swim. The waves were high and rough, closing over his face again and again.
He fought, lashing out for a moment blindly, panicking. He shot upward, feeling that he was torn apart by the current dragging at his legs. Something was grasping him from below while he fought for the air. He gulped, the water washed over his head, the sound of the water deafening him. Where was the ferryman? Was he unconscious somewhere in these churning, suffocating waves?
He tried to swim, to stay afloat, anything so he could breathe. One moment he gulped air, the next a length of wood struck him in the side so hard he almost lost consciousness with the pain. He could think of nothing else. The surface receded from him and he was dragged under the river, going down, blinded, deafened, his lungs bursting. Now he knew what it was like to drown, to be sucked into the belly of the tide and swallowed, knowing what was happening and helpless to stop it.
He must compose himself. Up! He must go up toward the light, the air—life! He kicked out with all his strength, thrashing his arms and legs. It seemed like forever before he broke the surface again, gasping hard. The water sloshed over his face, waves too high, buffeting him, washing him one way then the other.
He heard cries, a human voice, sharp and desperate. He could see a large shadow almost overhead, as if an enormous craft, six, seven feet high, were bearing down on him.
He had not the strength to claw his way out of its path—the waves and the current were too strong. He was going to be hit, knocked senseless, his head smashed. He had seconds! He could not move in the current. It was sweeping him into the ship’s path!
Down. Down was the only way to get out of its reach. He took as huge a gulp of air as he could and let the drag take him under the water again, his mind screaming out to defy it, not to go down.
