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Monk turned back. “There’s no other way, come on.”
A rat scuttled along a beam and fell off into the water with a heavy slop somewhere ahead of them.
Monk held the lantern up. The light shone on Exeter’s white face.
“Let me go over it again,” Exeter said hoarsely, clearing his throat for the umpteenth time. “We go together as far as what must be the next set of stairs. You wait there, I take the money up, and the very first turning to the right leads to another few steps down. A bigger room. They’ll be there. I should give them the money, but make sure Kate’s there and all right. Hooper will be waiting to come from the other side, if…if…she’s not.”
“Right,” Monk agreed. “Don’t go anywhere else, or you’ll get lost.”
Exeter’s face muscles tightened and he winced at the thought. “I know! I know. The tide is rising. Can we get on with it? I can’t bear the waiting. I must see her! Hear her speak…”
Monk nodded. “Go!”
Exeter hesitated only an instant, then squared his shoulders. Without looking at Monk again, he moved forward into the darkness, the wavering lantern in one hand and the Gladstone bag in the other. He reached the steps and began to climb them slowly, making sure not to slip on the wet surface. They had been covered with water only an hour ago, and in another hour would be again. Then the light disappeared and Monk was left alone with the creaking wood, the dripping water. Something above him moved. Bats? They were almost invisible. The air could be full of them.
He knew his men were not far away, and yet he felt utterly alone. The bone-aching cold settled in, the dampness on his skin as if nothing was dry, not his hands, not his face, not his body, at once sweating and chilling.
Minutes ticked by. The building settled as if it were surrendering to the tide and the mud. There was no wind down here, no rattling breath, but he imagined he could hear the tide creep higher.
How many men were involved in the kidnapping of Kate Exeter? There had to be at least three, more likely four, to be sure of guarding her all the time. They would keep it to a minimum. Fewer ways to split th
e money.
Monk shifted his weight to keep from cramping. What was happening? If they were there, as they said they would be, Exeter must have reached them by now. Maybe they weren’t! But only a fool would play games here. If they lost him, he could be anywhere. If he went the wrong way, slipped and fell, dropped the case with money, they might never find him. The tide would drown them just as easily as it would Exeter or Monk, and any or all of his men.
Why could he hear nothing? No, that was wrong. He could hear the rats, the water creeping. The tide would be well into the flow now! Rising inch by inch. More than two or three feet deep and it would be strong enough to pull a man off balance. Three feet and it would drag him along, or break a rotting log, blocking the way out, or carry him into the darkness, like being eaten. The stench was appalling. Who knew what dead creatures the mud contained, reduced to bones and stew? Something moved in the water.
There was a cry ahead of him, a hoarse, grating sound of surprise and pain.
Monk was galvanized into action. Holding the lantern high to light the way as much as possible, he ran forward and stumbled up the slippery steps. He fell on his knees and only just saved the lantern from smashing. He reached the top and an open space. It was the wreck of a room, one wall gone and looking out on the black water about ten feet below them and the tangle of wreckage breaking through the surface.
There was a sound behind him. He swiveled to face it, and the lantern was knocked out of his hand. A heavy blow struck him on the chest, and another on the jaw. He fell hard, splayed on the filthy floor. He avoided a third blow, but now without the lantern he could not see who had attacked him. He judged where the next blow might come and kicked hard. He judged right, and he felt his foot land on flesh. There was a cry and a curse. Another blow just missed his head, and the weight of a man’s upper body fell across his chest. He struggled to free his other leg and kicked at air.
A blow landed on his shoulder. Now he had a better idea of how the man fought and was able to land a hard punch on the other’s throat. He heard the satisfying groan, and the next moment the man’s weight went slack. Monk rolled from beneath it and dived for the lantern, now covered with mud. He grasped it and set it upright. The other man was already moving. Monk could see him more clearly now. He was dressed in working clothes, such as any waterman might wear: thick, warm, browns and grays, a woolen hat pulled over his head and part of his face.
Before he could get his balance, Monk hit him with all his weight and he went down again, but one foot caught Monk on the shin. In trying to keep his balance, Monk dropped the lamp. There was the high, thin sound of breaking glass, and then complete darkness. Monk moved back and to the left, moments before the man passed where he had stood. There was no point in trying to find him. He must go forward and find Exeter, or at least some of his own men.
He pressed on in what he thought was the direction Exeter had gone. He could hear sounds ahead, but all he could see were shadows here and there, a break in the darkness as the outside light was reflected off water. Everywhere there was dripping. He stopped again, to see if he could hear movement. Nothing! He took a few more steps. Still nothing.
Then, ahead of him, the sound of someone limping. He moved as softly as he could toward it. Then a light, a bull’s-eye lantern, and the dark form of a man carrying it. There was something familiar in his step.
“Laker!”
“Is that you, sir?” The figure lurched toward him eagerly, holding the bull’s-eye up.
“Are you hurt?” Monk demanded.
“Not much. You, sir?”
“No. Any idea how many there are of them? Did you see Exeter?”
They were only a yard apart now. In the lantern light, Monk could see a bruise on Laker’s face, rapidly darkening.
“Did they miss you, sir?” Laker asked.
“No. Exeter’s ahead of me. Behind you!”
“Then he must have taken a wrong turn,” Laker replied. “We’ll have to go back for him.” He sounded terrible.
