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Monk stopped abruptly. He saw what they all would, as soon as he moved out of the way. The body of a woman was sprawled on the floor, over on the far side against the wall. There was blood everywhere. And the dark outlines of rats were approaching her, curiously, scenting food.
Monk gagged, horror stopping his breath.
Behind him, Exeter let out a terrible cry and flung himself on the floor, touching her gently, sobbing her name over and over.
Hooper moved past Monk and went to Exeter. He did not try to lift him or move him away. A glance was enough to know
that he could not help her now.
Monk walked toward her, his stomach churning, his mouth dry. He forced himself to look beyond Exeter, at what was left of his wife. The only good thing was that she must have died quickly. There would have been no time to feel the pain of the terrible wounds. Please God, not even enough to realize what had happened to her.
He turned away. “Laker, go and get the police surgeon. You’ll have to head back through the tunnel and find Bathurst. Take Marbury. Don’t try that tunnel alone. Be quick. The tide’s coming in so you’ll have to return at the landward side.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I get some more men, sir?”
“There’ll be nothing to find tonight. Get the police surgeon, and…someone to see to…us. I don’t know who’s hurt, or how badly. God knows how many kidnappers there are, or if they’re still here.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get as many as I can…” Laker wanted to say something more, but there was nothing. He turned and ran back, as fast as he could go, with Marbury on his heels.
Monk looked at Exeter, crouched on the floor, his body shaking, crippled with grief. How could he help the man? What was there to say? He was locked in his own world of grief, and nothing else would matter to him now.
The only thing was to get him out of here, physically safe and dry, and not cold to the bone with shock. There was no comfort to offer.
CHAPTER
4
THE TIDE WAS STILL rising. There was nothing more Monk, or any of his men, could do on Jacob’s Island. The police surgeon had taken Kate’s body away. He would report to Monk sometime tomorrow, when he had something to say.
There was absolute darkness now. The tide had already risen high enough to fill the lower cellars and passages dangerously, and some of the men were hurt badly enough to need more than the temporary patching up that the police surgeon could do.
Monk himself ached in every bone, but how much was bruising and minor cuts and how much the torture of utter failure, he did not yet know. Fortunately, the men he had left guarding the boats, Bathurst and Walcott, were unhurt and could row them back up to Wapping.
They went in silence. There was no sound but the slapping of the water against the wooden sides of the boats and the rhythmic creak of the oars. Nobody spoke. Whatever their thoughts were, they were too raw and too complicated for them to find the words.
Monk sat in the stern while Bathurst rowed. It was a heavy task alone, and Bathurst was straining with the effort, but at least the flood tide was with him. Laker nursed his wounded arm and sat awkwardly with one bandaged leg straight out.
The other boat was ahead of them, its one riding light bobbing as they hit choppy water. Monk could see nothing more than that.
What had happened? They had followed the plan exactly, done everything the kidnappers had instructed, as to both time and place. Exeter might not know anything about Jacob’s Island, but he had followed the directions, and the more often Monk went over it in his mind, the more certain he was that they all had done so exactly. They had not been a yard out of place. What had gone wrong?
Or had the kidnappers done something wrong? Quarreled among themselves, perhaps? Fallen out as to shares of the money? Certainly, they had not killed Kate by accident. Injuries like that could not happen by mistake. As he pictured her, trying to force the image out of his sight and failing, it came to him again that her feet were still tied together. So she had not tried to run away. The slaughter was deliberate! Why?
There was hatred in it: deep, almost insane. What could Kate Exeter possibly have done to awaken such a feeling in anyone? Monk had assumed it was about the money. Heaven knew there was enough of it to account for any depth of greed. But obviously it was something far more visceral than that.
Was it even about her at all?
Exeter himself seemed a far more believable target. She was just a means to hurt him. Did he actually know who was behind this? He had affected to have no idea, and believe the ransom was the point. Was he lying to hide a reason he was ashamed of? Or was hiding it part of the price?
In that case, the kidnappers had not believed he would remain silent after Kate was returned to him. It would not be the end, as he had said, but only a hiatus.
That was pretense, too. He would hunt them now, until either he was dead, or they were.
There must be a very terrible story behind such a crime. Tomorrow, Exeter might tell them himself. If not, Monk would have to press him further.
He realized again how cold he was. Not only his face, exposed to the damp river air, but his body, deep inside his layers of clothing. His feet were numb. His hands ached, and he could not even feel the scraped skin on his knuckles where he had struck the man who attacked him.
Some of the others must feel worse. He had seen the ragged slash on Marbury’s shoulder and arm. Hooper’s face was dark with bruising. They were all splashed with mud and some were wet through.
