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Then the next moment it seemed as if he was in the water again. The fetid stink of the river mud choked him, clogged his throat and stopped him swallowing. He was drowning. Everything was dark. He could see nothing, touch nothing. This was what death was like. No lights, no comfort, just ice-cold, clinging, consuming darkness.
This was what it must have been like for those people on the Princess Mary. One moment they were laughing, drinking, dancing in the lights; the next they were alone in the dark, stifled, being sucked down and choked to death. Every one of them, one hundred and seventy-nine! And for the others dragged down also: the men in the small boats close to the explosion, as she went down. All of them! He was at one with them.
He beat his way free and sat up in his own bed. It was pitch-dark, but he could hear Hester breathing beside him, feel the warmth of her body. This was his life, and everything that mattered and made it sweet beyond words.
He reached out slowly, waiting for the bite of pain. It came, and he ignored it. He touched her gently, and relaxed back into the pillow again, holding her.
Then a preposterous thought came to him. All those deaths were acute, agonizing, totally individual, and final. Was it conceivable that someone had sunk an entire ship in order to kill one specific person?
CHAPTER
12
AT FIRST HESTER SLEPT out of exhaustion, but by about three in the morning she was awake again, listening to Monk turn restlessly, although he was clearly too sore to move much. Now and then she knew he was dreaming. Several times he cried out, and she reached across to touch him. But this seemed to make it worse, and she didn’t want to waken him.
Eventually there was one nightmare that seemed so bad that she shook him awake. She could hold him only awkwardly, because of his injuries, but she kept him in her arms until he slept again.
In the morning he was still tired and in considerable pain. She gave him the small breakfast he wanted, redressed the few wounds on his arms where the skin was broken, then gave him a little laudanum for pain. After that there was nothing else she could do for him except to instruct Scuff carefully how to care for Monk, since she had an errand to run. Scuff was to make sure that Monk rested all day and that he did not even think of going out.
“Now repeat that back to me,” she said gravely, when they were alone in the kitchen.
Keeping his eyes on hers, Scuff obeyed. “Lots o’ tea, but no more brandy in it,” he said. “No more laudanum.”
“I’ve put it away safely anyhow,” she answered.
“I’d not ’ave given it ’im!” he protested.
“I know, but he knows where it is.”
“Yer don’t trust ’im?” Scuff’s face was crumpled, his eyes sad.
“We’re not always ourselves when we’re sick, hurt, and had a very bad fright,” she explained. “We need those who love us to take care of us as well. That’s a big part of what loving is. Not just the good times, or the battles side by side, but the bad times too, and the battles we have to fight alone.”
“Where’re you going?” he asked anxiously.
“I’m going to look for Crow. I think he might be able to help us with this boat problem. He knows the river even better than the police do.”
“You can’t do that!” he protested, all kinds of dangers whirling in his mind. She was a woman. Anything could happen to her. And she was quite pretty, in a sort of way … maybe? Women were supposed to stay home where it was safe. They had to work hard, and having babies was dangerous—which was something he could not even think about. But they weren’t supposed to go out and get into trouble, and fights, and bad places.
r /> “You stay ’ome and look after Monk, an’ I’ll go an’ find Crow!” His voice was sharp and high, full of fear. “He might need you!” he added for good measure. “You’re the nurse. You’d know what to do. Anyhow, what if ’e won’t listen to me? What if ’e won’t do what I tell ’im?”
She smiled and gave Scuff a light kiss on the cheek, which took him utterly by surprise, and felt nice, very nice.
“He will,” she promised rashly. “He’s too sore to argue right now. Just make tea and toast for him. Get him anything else from the pantry that he wants, except more brandy. And I’ll be back when I’ve found Crow.”
“But you shouldn’t—” he protested.
“Don’t worry,” she said, moving toward the door. “No need to be bored. Get one of your schoolbooks to read!”
“But—” he began, just as she closed the door behind her.
IT WAS A CALM, sunny day. Yesterday’s sharp wind had fallen completely and the air was heavy, the smell of the river pungent. She was accustomed to it, but it was still unpleasant: a mixture of fresh salt and sour mud—mostly the latter, on a day like this.
In spite of the heat, she found herself shivering as she sat in the ferry going across to the north bank. The tide was low, showing the mud banks on either side. The water itself was gleaming and flat, tinged brown, almost as if one could walk across it. It was impossible to imagine yesterday’s rough, white-capped waves pitching a boat, tossing it.
Had the other boat really rammed Monk’s ferry by accident? Were their riding lights invisible? Could anyone ram another boat and not be aware of what they had done, or going at such a speed that they could not stop and turn to look for them, even in the near dark?
Her knuckles were white where she clenched her hands on the wooden edge of her seat. Was she afraid of the water too? Or was she just imagining Monk drowning, struggling, and believing that someone had deliberately tried to kill him?
