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He started to walk, mainly to keep warm. In the main thoroughfare, with more traffic, it would be easier.
It did not take him long after that to find a hansom, and far too soon he arrived at Exeter’s door. He told the cabby to wait, in case there was no answer. It would not have surprised him, and he certainly would not blame Exeter if he refused to see anyone at all, least of all Monk.
But a manservant answered the door and let him in as soon as he gave his name. He paid the cabby and went inside. He dreaded this. He had no answers. It had happened to him before, this feeling of not knowing desperately important things, crucial things that people were going to ask him to explain. He was very aware of wearing clothes that did not fit him, the trousers coming to his ankles, not to his boots, the jacket slightly tight across his shoulders. But at least he did not carry the stench of the river with him.
He was shown into a study where a fire was roaring in the grate. Exeter stood in front of it, slightly to the side, leaning against the mantel as if unaware of its heat. Perhaps he would never feel warm right through again. He might burn his skin and not warm the bone. His face was gray, and the glass of whisky half drunk in his hand did not seem to have brought any blood to his veins. He attempted to smile and failed. It was like a leer on a death mask. It made Monk feel worse.
“Have you news?” Exeter asked, clearing his throat before he spoke.
“No,” Monk admitted. “Except that there is no other conclusion than that one of my own men betrayed us. Even if someone knew beforehand, we made last-minute changes. They knew exactly where to expect us.”
Exeter nodded slowly, as if it was only just making sense to him.
“I have no idea who, or why,” Monk went on. “Unless the man also had someone being held hostage, and they would kill them if he did not betray us.” It made sense, but it was no excuse.
Exeter’s eyes widened a fraction. “I can’t imagine anything that would make me consent to that,” he said hoarsely.
Monk thought he could. If it had been Hester, would he have gone ahead? He could not bear even to think of it. “One life for another?”
Exeter shuddered. “I suppose I can’t blame him,” he said quietly. “If they had said to me, ‘Kate’s life if you do your duty,’ I might have betrayed anyone at all—but not her. Let it be, Monk. If that’s what it is, the poor devil will suffer enough. Perhaps it was somebody’s child? Could you deliberately let your child die, to save some woman you did not even know?”
Monk knew that he could not answer that. He knew all the men had families of some sort, except Hooper. There was no one mentioned in his papers and he had never spoken of anyone. Monk identified with that, both the freedom and the loneliness.
There was a heavy silence in the room for several seconds.
“Somebody might know something that will help,” Monk said. “There’ll be word on the river. People might have friends, and more importantly to us, they’ll have enemies. I’ll find them. Not that it’s much comfort to you. I’m not pretending it is.”
Exeter gave something like a sob. “No,” he whispered. “Right now, I don’t give a damn if you find him or not. Later I will. Later, I’ll put the rope around his neck and pull the trapdoor myself.”
Monk could only agree.
Slowly Exeter looked up. “Talk to me about something—anyt
hing. Do you like working on the water? Do you like being a policeman? If you like the challenge, I can understand that…”
Monk sensed Exeter’s intense loneliness. He would be torn between wanting privacy, not to be questioned or probed in his grief, and yet needing human contact as well.
“Yes, I like working on the river,” he answered. “I find that now I’m used to it, I like the effort of rowing. I like the moods of the river and sense of space.”
Exeter looked as if he were, at least for the moment, actually listening. “Ever been to sea?” he asked.
Monk answered without hesitation. “Yes.” It was something he knew from evidence in a case not long ago, and from flashes of memory: bright, hard sunlight and the heave of the deck beneath him as the ship fought the open water.
Exeter’s face quickened with interest. “Where?”
“Barbary Coast,” Monk smiled. “Gold Rush days, ’48, ’49.”
“Round the Horn,” Exeter said, as if the words were an incantation.
Monk could only remember a few glimpses of that: the storm, the immense seas like rolling mountains, the vast rock face of Tierra del Fuego rising in the distance. The endless violence of the wind and water. Pitting yourself against an elemental force no man had ever conquered, only survived, and then not all.
“Me, too,” Exeter said softly. “If you’ve sailed round the Horn, you are a man—whatever you were before.” He put out his hand and Monk took it and gripped it hard. He did not add words. They only weakened a meaning that was beyond the reach of those who had not experienced it. He met Exeter’s eyes, and nodded.
CHAPTER
5
HOOPER WOKE UP THE next morning, stiff and still tired. His head ached and felt heavy. It was an effort to move his legs, and both shoulders were stiff, the right more than the left. His fingers would hardly move, they were so swollen. Memory of the previous day returned with a chill he felt through his entire body. His bare feet were ice cold even on the rag rug as he swung them out of bed and stood up. He was used to physical discomfort. Long years at sea had taught him to disregard it. He knew today that part of it was due to his reluctance to face the tragedy of this case and begin the long task of trying to untangle it. He washed and shaved in cold water and dressed in his regular, nondescript working clothes, both warm and comfortable.
