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‘And what did she tell you?’ Hamilton snapped, cutting across her.
‘Very little, other than that you used what sounded from her description to be a syringe.’
‘Go on! Go on!’
‘I touched Charlie,’ she replied, refusing to be hurried. Charlie was what mattered, and the other children, not what Hamilton Rand thought of her. ‘He was lying still, breathing shallowly and did not appear to be aware of us. I pinched his skin, to see if it came away from his flesh easily, in order to judge if he was lacking moisture. He had vomited recently and had not urinated for a time. He was very seriously lacking moisture. I sent the girl for water. I propped Charlie up and gave him a few sips as often as he would take them. It was four glasses in all, by morning.’ She did not look away from him but met his eyes steadily. Now she was not alarmed, only angry that he should have let it come to this point.
Hamilton let out his breath slowly, pursing his lips. He did not look at his brother.
‘Indeed,’ he said almost without expression. ‘You showed some initiative.’ At last he looked at Magnus. ‘That explains her absence satisfactorily.’
‘Of course it does,’ Magnus said impatiently. ‘Thank you, Mrs Monk. We are obliged to you. We shall take care of the matter now, and get a full report on poor Wilton from Miss O’Neill. We had great hopes that we could save him.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Hamilton, do you think—’
‘No,’ Hamilton said instantly. ‘Not yet. It would not be wise. I must speak to you further.’ He lifted his hand slightly without turning to Hester. ‘You may go, Mrs Monk. Thank you.’
Hester wanted to know more, but Hamilton had forgotten her already. He was picking up a bundle of papers off the desk in his part of the office as if she were no longer present. ‘Magnus, I think we should consider this. I assume you have read it?’
Magnus turned to respond.
Hester went out of the door, closing it behind her, and walked straight-shouldered, head high, along the corridor to the entrance hall and way out. She was annoyed, but that was personal and of no importance at all. What mattered was the men she nursed . . . and Charlie, and for the moment she had done all she could.
Chapter Two
MONK WAS sitting at his desk at the Thames River Police Station at Wapping. Outside the river sounds were muted: the whisper of water as the tide rose, slurping against the stone steps up to the quayside. Now and again came the voices of lightermen calling to each other, or the clank of metal as a chain was hauled through a winch, and the cry of gulls fighting over food.
Sunlight came in through the open door, pooling in bright patches on the floor, the desk, and catching the pallor in Orme’s face. He looked tired, and the white in his hair was more pronounced than it had been even a few months ago.
Orme had served on the River Police all of his working life and he was now nearing seventy. He had been Monk’s mentor since his coming here, the one who had taught him without lecturing or criticism, and never in front of the other men. It was Orme who had rescued him from the few serious errors he had made, without ever referring to them again. But he was growing tired. He did not need to tell Monk that he wanted to retire; it was there in the tone of his voice, the stiffness in the way he climbed the steps up from the water’s edge to the dock, and the frequency with which he spoke of his daughter and his new grandchild. Quietly, in his own way, he was desperately proud of them.
‘Is Laker back yet?’ Monk asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Orme replied immediately.
‘Send him in,’ Monk told him.
Orme nodded and went out silently.
A moment later the door opened again and Laker came in, closing it behind him. He was young, just over thirty, and he stood almost to attention, facing Monk impassively. He was totally unlike Monk in appearance. He was fair-skinned with vividly blue eyes and the sort of hair that the sun bleached flaxen blond on the top. He was good-looking by any standard, and he was aware of it.
Monk was both amused and uncomfortable. There was something in the quiet arrogance of Laker that, he gathered, was like he himself had been a few years ago, before the accident that had robbed him of all memory, except occasional, disturbing flashes. People had spoken of him in just the words he would have used to describe Laker. Laker had all the quick wits that Monk had, the self-assurance before the total amnesia had taken away his safety.
He identified with Laker. He was arrogant, often funny, and sometimes right when others who were slower saw only part of the picture.
‘Yes, sir?’ Laker said politely, but with no deference.
‘What did you find in Mr Derby’s warehouse?’ Monk said, leaning back a little in his chair and looking up at Laker, still standing. ‘Any trace of the guns?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Nothing whatever altered in Laker’s attitude. He still stood gracefully, not quite to attention.
‘Well?’ Monk demanded.
‘Just one, sir, but very nice, very smooth. A good marksman could probably hit a man on the other side of the river with no trouble. I tried the action and it was like silk. Not a mark on it. I’d guess it was a sample, sir. But it had definitely been fired. Tried out.’
‘Did you see any paperwork?’ Monk asked without much hope. Derby was too clever to leave evidence. He was one of the best smugglers in Europe, but as far as Monk was aware, he was fairly new to the arson trade. Usually he dealt in brandy and tobacco.
‘Yes, sir. It read like it was the usual stuff he was supposed to deal in: Spanish steel from Toledo, and exotic woods. So many cases of ebony, so many engraved swords, plates and so on. Probably weighs about the same.’
‘Dates, amounts, money?’ Monk prompted.
