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Today Maurice looked very grim, as she would have expected. How could anyone smile in the face of current events?
“Good morning, Maurice,” she said quietly. “I have sent for another cup, if you wou
ld like tea. It is fresh.”
“How can you be worried about such trivialities at a time like this?” he said tartly. “Really, Celia, there is no use hiding from the truth. You can deny it as much as you like! It will change nothing. We are facing tragedy, and the most appalling crime. No doubt the newspapers will plaster it all over their front pages.” His mouth was tight, unusually bleak, even for him. He might have been quite good-looking if years of uncertain temper had not marked the lines of it downward.
Celia felt the warmth drain from her. She tried to keep it from showing but knew he read it in her. “If we get her back it will not be a story the newspapers will be interested in,” she replied. “And good manners are a habit. It is natural to ask you if you wish for anything.” She meant it as a rebuke.
He ignored it. “Harry has asked me, as trustee of Katherine’s funds, for permission to withdraw them entirely from Nicholson’s Bank, and hand them over as ransom payment. It is a major responsibility, but I feel I have no alternative. Obviously, it is what she would wish.” He gave the ghost of a smile. “It is of no use to her if she is…not alive.”
“Of course not,” Celia agreed sharply. “There is no question. You must do so immediately.”
“It is only right that I tell you!” he replied, equally sharply. “Should Katherine die before she inherits the money, it is split between the surviving cousins—which, as you are aware, are you and me. If she dies, it is yours and my future that is being paid…”
Celia could hardly believe her ears. Surely, he was just being pedantic? “Maurice, it is her money! It is inconceivable that either of us should refuse to save her life with it.”
“Of course it is. I still should tell you. After all, should she die, for some reason, you would come into an enormous amount. It would alter your life entirely. You would be a rich woman—even with your half of it. It would alter your prospects even more than mine. I have my own profession. To you…for a start, it would make you marriageable. Even a man of a background suitable for you to accept would not turn his nose up at that kind of a fortune.”
She felt the color flame up her face. The remark was true, and it hurt. She wanted to tell him that no fortune on earth would make him marriageable to a woman of any taste, but it was not true. More to the point, it would only show how deep the knife had cut.
“I am more than willing to give it up for Kate’s safety,” she said coldly. “It was never mine, nor did I ever think it so. I thank you for the courtesy of informing me. Harry has already done so.”
“He is not trustee of it,” Maurice said with a tight smile. “I am. Grandmama ensured that he had no access to it whatever. That was her intention. I grant this because I have no moral choice, and because the police are handling the affair.”
“Precisely. Then if you do not wish for tea, I won’t keep you. Thank you for your…courtesy.”
He gave her a cold look, suspicious of sarcasm, but took his leave all the same, saying he had much to do.
When he had gone, she stood alone in the room, suddenly aware of being colder, as if the fire had gone out. She had not expected or wanted the money, but it made her aware of how alone she was. She would miss Kate unbearably. All the money Celia would ever have would be a small price to pay for Kate’s release.
CHAPTER
3
WHEN HOOPER ARRIVED BACK at the station, Monk went over the plans again with all the men concerned, apart from Bathurst, who had not yet arrived.
With difficulty, Monk refrained from second-guessing himself. He knew from experience that altering plans in the last hours could lead to mistakes, especially when the pressure was intense. Obedience must be instinctive. There might not be time for consideration, weighing, and judging.
Bathurst came at last. He had the scrubbed look of a schoolboy woken too early in the day: bright-eyed, but not quite awake; still slightly bemused, but ready for anything. Monk saw Hooper take him aside and tell him his part in the plan. Even from across the room he could see the moment Hooper mentioned Jacob’s Island. The smile died from Bathurst’s face, and his body stiffened, but he nodded.
Monk wondered if he had ever been that young, and keen. He had no idea, that time lost along with all his other memories. He would like to think he had, but he doubted it. Bathurst had been born in the south, and had known the river all his life. Monk knew that he himself had been born in Northumberland, almost on the Scottish border. He had no accent. He must have worked hard to get rid of it, lose the lilt in his voice. How badly he must have wanted to belong!
Exeter came five minutes earlier than they had agreed the day before. He was wearing old clothes and a heavy jacket, such as dockworkers wore to keep out the cold. He was carrying a very battered-looking Gladstone bag. Seeing Monk glance at it, he nodded, his brow puckered.
“I’ve got it all,” he said. “You ready?” His voice was unsteady, and his face was pale. Even the bitter wind off the water hadn’t whipped color into it.
“Yes, sir,” Monk replied. He didn’t know why he added the “sir.” He did not usually, but he felt a profound sympathy for Exeter. No degree of regard was adequate to assure him of Monk’s dedication, professional and personal, to recovering Mrs. Exeter alive. “We will leave in half an hour, perhaps a few minutes less. The tide is with us, although it will be low water at about four.”
“And dark,” Exeter added, then looked as if there was something else he wanted to say, but he could not think of the right words for it.
Laker walked over to them. “Excuse me, sir, would you like a cup of tea? It’s pretty strong, perhaps not what you’re used to, but it’s hot.” He was looking at Exeter.
“No, thank you,” Exeter said a little sharply.
“Sir?” Laker turned to Monk.
“Yes, please,” Monk accepted. There was all the difference in the world between strong, stewed tea on the potbellied stove, too sweet, and often with no milk, and the tea at home, fresh, fragrant, subtle-flavored, and definitely without sugar. But this served its purpose.
