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“Maybe he lied?” Marbury suggested. “Perhaps he knew perfectly well who they were, and he felt guilty. Or perhaps saying he didn’t know them was part of the price?”
“For what?” Hooper asked. “Getting her back alive? Then why keep silent now? He didn’t get her back, and he lost all the money as well. If he knows who they are, he should be the first to say.”
No one argued with him.
Monk thought about it. He forced himself to remember Exeter’s face, his voice, and the agony in it. And the horror when he saw Kate! That cry would stay in Monk’s ears forever, as if the silence had only just closed over it.
Hooper was looking at him. Was that pity in his face? They had really failed this time and, as the leader, it was Monk’s failure. It could not be put right now. Even if by some fluke of luck they got the money back, it was Kate Exeter they wanted. Harry Exeter was willing to pay—that much and anything else—to get his wife back. Monk would have felt the same. Had that made him timid? Robbed him of decisiveness?
But what could they have done differently? They had done exactly what the kidnappers had asked, to the letter: time, place, amount of money, sending Exeter in with it alone.
“Someone hated Exeter enough to rob him of everything,” Monk said slowly. “They had the money. We were no threat to them if they simply took it and went. It was nearly dark, and the tide was rising. It was the perfect situation for them. They had every advantage.”
“Why didn’t he tell us that there are people who hate him to this degree?” Hooper wondered. “There’s more story to this.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Laker said bitterly. “The poor woman’s dead, and they have got the money. But on the other hand, since they’ve got all he cares about, there’s nothing left to lose in going after them. And when he’s absorbed what’s happened, and got over the first shock a little, he’ll be furious, and take the edge off his grief with anger. A lot of people do.”
The rest of them turned and looked at him. Their faces reflected a range of emotions: agreement, pity, suspense, even fear of what that anger might bring. No one disbelieved it.
Monk had been too immersed in his own reactions to think about that. He did not want to imagine how Exeter felt. It was too painful, too all-encompassing to face. But Laker was right.
What he had not said, and what weighed on Monk’s mind with further pain, was the thought that the kidnappers had known so much about their plans. There were five or six different ways the River Police could have got in, but the kidnappers had known precisely which ones they were going to use, how many men, and where they were along those tunnels and passages. What he forced himself to wonder was, who had told them?
It hurt even to think the words, and yet they were there, whether he said them or not. Some changes had been made to their plans at the last minute. One had even been made as they reached Jacob’s Island in the fading light. It could only have been passed along at that time. So the traitor had to be one of his own men. The knowledge closed around him like a thick mist, blinding, close as the air he breathed, and knotting inside him with a rising nausea.
He could not face it tonight. He had other, wretched things he had to do, starting with telling Rathbone what had happened.
Then he should go to Exeter, but with some sort of plan. At the moment, he had nothing in mind. He could not tell him anything that would help, and yet he could not blame the men, as if he were not the cause of it all. He could not let Exeter think he did not care, or did not realize that it was his fault. And it was. One of the men Monk had chosen, and trusted, had betrayed them.
He looked at them all, sitting and standing awkwardly, aware of at least some of the depth of the disaster. They were cold and filthy and, above all, hurt. The physical pain was there; some of the emotions were beginning to show. They were all looking at him, not at each other. The suspicion was taking hold.
“All right,” Monk said quietly. “There’s nothing more we can do. Go home. Get as much sleep as you can. Look after yourselves. Unfortunately, those that are fit are going to have to start again tomorrow. Good night.”
* * *
—
MONK TOOK A HANSOM to Rathbone’s house. It was late enough that Rathbone was likely to be home. Since his remarriage, he did not go out to social events unless required. He was happy in Beata’s company. They often found much to talk about, but silence was also companionable. So many of life’s necessities could be conveyed by a glance, a smile, or even a touch. Heaven knew, Rathbone had waited long enough for that kind of happiness. Monk knew it himself. He had imagined Rathbone would find it with his first wife, never foreseeing the tragedy ahead. He also knew that Rathbone had found it in the very beginning, when he had been in love with Hester, but she had chosen Monk.
It was not particularly cold in the hansom, and yet Monk was knotted up inside, clenched too tight, as if he were frozen.
They arrived and Monk got out of the hansom awkwardly, his foot sliding a little on the black ice of the pavement. He paid the driver and walked up to the front door. He pulled the bell rope and stepped back.
The door was answered almost immediately by Rathbone himself. He took one look at Monk and his face tightened. There was no need to speak. He stepped back to allow Monk inside.
Monk followed him, engulfed immediately by the warmth. Somehow, the sheer comfort made him feel worse.
“You look perished,” Rathbone said quietly. “You need some dry clothes. Come in to the fireside. I’ll get you a whisky.” He turned and led the way into the withdrawing room.
Beata was already standing. She was a beautiful woman, in a quiet, serene way. Her hair was so fair as to be nearly silver, but it was the calm within her that overrode everything else. It was not the absence of pain that filled her, but the overcoming of it. Rathbone never told Monk what was behind her brave serenity, except that it was rooted in her first marriage to a powerful and vindictive man.
Now she came forward. “Oh, William, you look frozen, and…and wounded! What would you like? Hot soup? A brandy? To speak privately with Oliver?” She looked him up and down. “Dry clothes? I am sure I can find something of Oliver’s that would fit you, at least well enough for now.”
It was instinctive to decline, to avoid putting her to trouble, and perhaps even more to avoid admitting needing help. That was foolish. It must be perfectly obvious to her that he ached for help of every sort. “Thank you. And soup would be excellent. I am tempted by the brandy, but I have more to do tonight, and a clear head is needed.”
“I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes. Give me that wet coat and I’ll set it by the fire,” she instructed.
He obeyed, and when she was gone he stood by the fire. He realized he was too wet and too muddy to spoil the armchair by sitting in it.
