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Laker went off and returned a moment later with two mugs, giving one to Monk, and offering the other to Exeter.
“Thank you,” Exeter answered, and took it. He smiled bleakly over the rim of the enameled mug. “Is he always so persistent?”
“I daresay he’s been along the river on a winter dusk more often than you have,” Monk replied.
“On kidnaps?” Exeter asked.
“No, thank God. But on other cases.”
Exeter took a sip of the tea and tried not to grimace, but failed. “How often do you drink this stuff?”
Monk smiled at him. “You get used to it.”
Exeter gazed back, quite openly searching Monk’s face. What was he looking for? Assurance? Courage? A promise?
Monk could not give him that. He turned aside and offered instead a rough plan of Jacob’s Island, and the ways they intended to enter so as to reach the spot indicated on the piece of paper Exeter had shown him.
“Is that what it looks like?” Exeter asked. “I can see why they chose it.” He looked back up at Monk. “You’re not going to try to catch them first, are you?” His voice wavered between certainty and doubt.
Monk had already given his word. “No. But if the chance arises after we have Mrs. Exeter safely out of there, then we’ll take it. We don’t want them to take the money before we’ve got her back.”
Exeter breathed out slowly, and something like a smile returned to his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I apologize.”
“In your place, I would have, too,” Monk replied.
They drank the tea slowly, watching the hands of the clock move round its face. Marbury arrived, and three minutes after him, Walcott. Quick words were exchanged.
Exeter did not move at all, except to take the mug to his lips. His knuckles were white.
At twenty-five minutes past three, Monk gave the signal to leave and they went out without speaking again. The wind was rising in the open space across the dock, and the last of the sun stained the sky to the west with color, lending the scene an unnatural beauty. The tide was nearly at its lowest. Stretches of mud glistened smooth, almost like flesh in the brief, lurid glow. To the east, where they were headed, a pall of darkness was rising swiftly.
They climbed down the steps to the boats, three to one, four to the other, leaving one behind in case there should be an emergency elsewhere. One other boat was already on patrol. There was no sound but the scrape of boots on the stone and the slurp of the water against the dock.
Hooper went ahead with Marbury and Walcott. Monk took Laker and Bathurst and directed Exeter to sit beside him in the stern.
They pushed out into the current, following after the others, rowing in long, even strokes, each man holding his single oar. They could go on like that for hours, and frequently did.
Monk tried to think of something to say to Exeter that would reassure him, but nothing came. Conversation seemed artificial, as if he did not understand the fear and apprehension Exeter must feel. What had been the last thing he had said to her? Something trivial? If it was something critical, what would he pay now to take it back? Had he ever told her all that she meant to him?
The light was already graying, losing color. There was no wind, but the cold was penetrating. Monk’s face felt stiff with it, and he missed being able to pull on the oar and warm himself with the effort. There were times when he felt his whole body ache with it, but he also found a comfort on the river.
They moved swiftly. There was no resistance from the tide. The water was already slack. Not much light was left, but he could still see the other boat ahead of them quite clearly. The bigger ships at anchor had their riding lights lit. It was strangely still, almost as if they were painted onto the darkness, with the skyline of the city drawn behind them. Lights along the shore blinked on, chains of them where there were roads on the bank. A few moved: carriage lamps; on the water, ferries.
It was quarter to four in the afternoon, but too late to work, as it was too easy to make a mistake because you couldn’t see.
Ahead of them, Monk saw Hooper’s boat turn toward the bank. Laker rested on his oar, and Bathurst rowed harder, bringing the bow round.
“Aren’t we going the other direction? Downriver?” Exeter spoke for the first time. “The other way in? That’s what they’re expecting.” He turned sideways in the seat. “We’ve got to stick to the plan!”
“We are doing,” Monk assured him. “We’ve got to stop in the lee to light the lamp.”
“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry.”
“We’re going to do exactly what they told us. The other men are going in upriver of us, as we planned.” He put out a hand on Exeter’s arm, and felt it rigid beneath his fingers.
“Are we late?” Exeter demanded.
“No, nor are we early. If they’re any good at this, they will have been here long before us.”
