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Hooper could see the moment of compassion in Clacton’s eyes. And he liked him for it.
“Yes, sir,” Clacton said. “I’ll make sure they’re all safe and accounted for. I may not get it all done today, if they aren’t exactly where they ought to be.”
“Just be thorough. I’ll see Mrs. Monk’s all right, and Scuff…sorry, Will.” He could not help a bleak smile at his own correction. Scuff was a mudlark, a child who survived by scavenging in the tidal mud at the Thames bank—at least he used to be. He did not know exactly how old he’d been at the time Monk first met him, but he claimed to be eleven, which made him about twelve when Monk had adopted him. Actually, he had adopted Monk. He had been street-smart, and river-wise. At eleven, he had known about the tricks of the eddies and tides, of the sudden weather changes, and certainly more of the various kinds of people who survived on the river’s margins than Monk did. He had also known that Monk was a soft touch for a ham sandwich and a hot cup of tea. Hooper thought Scuff must have been closer to nine than eleven. But that was years ago…what did it matter now?
Scuff had gone reluctantly to live in Monk’s house, at first very nervous of Hester. Women were an unknown quantity, and he was afraid of her gentleness. He would not expose his vulnerability by needing anyone. Over the years he had adapted, even gone to school. Monk had expected he might become a River Policeman like himself. Instead, Scuff had chosen very firmly to be a doctor, or at least as far along that way as he could…like Hester. After her experience as a nurse with Florence Nightingale in the Crimean War, she knew as much as many doctors. Scuff was now apprenticed to a man named Crow who had practiced unlicensed medicine among the poor for years. Recently, he had qualified officially with Hester’s help and on her insistence. Scuff, who had no idea what his real name was, had decided that “Scuff” was not a name for a doctor. He would not be William, like Monk, but he would be Will.
Clacton had learned all this by listening. He would begin the task Hooper had given him. Anyone who cared was vulnerable. He said very little, but it was there in his face. He would understand what torn loyalties were about. “Yes, sir,” he said to Hooper.
Hooper smiled, satisfied, as much as was possible in the circumstances.
It took Hooper most of the morning to make sure Hester was safe. He ascertained that she was at the clinic she ran in Portpool Lane, and left it at that. It took him longer to find Scuff…Will, but he, too, seemed safe.
He found him assisting Crow, the doctor who was training him, with a street accident.
Hooper was pleased, but not without a twinge of envy. There was no one he had influenced so well, no one who trusted him, no…“love” was the word. No one who loved him as completely as this young man loved Monk. What opportunities had Hooper wasted by being so self-contained? Had he allowed the past to close him off? He knew the answer even as he framed the question. Monk’s past was a shut book. He himself had no idea what ghosts, good or bad, it might hold. But he had not denied the present.
Hooper had. Perhaps it was time he changed that.
Except that the past lay across him like a shadow, and he was afraid that it heralded the coming of the night. He had escaped the mutiny so thoroughly he had almost forgotten it. Now, with Monk needing to know about the vulnerabilities of all his men, it loomed large again, filling the horizon. Hooper had kept his silence for so long it amounted to a lie. It was a burden that would prevent him from getting any job at all, let alone as a River Policeman, which he loved and was good at. One reason he had not sought promotion was to avoid the attention and the exhumation of the past that it would bring.
So why was he going even now to see Celia Darwin for information about the Exeters? Because she was the only source they had on a personal level? Or
because he wanted to see that strange, gentle, quiet woman who seemed to have so much more to say, if only she was asked? And because he found himself smiling at the thought of seeing her again?
It was a painful conflict of feelings inside him, high up in his chest, where it choked his throat, but he went anyway. His feet seemed to take him there, without his conscious direction. He was still turning over the weight of it when he stood at the door and she answered it.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hooper,” she said in surprise. “Have you some news already?”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid not.” He felt guilty for raising her hopes falsely. It occurred to him only now to wonder if Exeter had even told her of Kate’s death. Damn! He should have thought of that. She did not look as grieved as she surely would had he done so. There was no choice open to him but to be honest. “Has Mr. Exeter not spoken to you today?”
She stared at him, and the color drained from her face. Her eyes were clear, gray, like the evening sky, and filled now with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said in little more than a whisper. It was not the time to express the fury he felt that Exeter had not told her himself. She should not hear of Kate’s death from a stranger.
She shook her head slowly, not denying what he implied, but perhaps denying the hope inside her.
“Would you like to go inside and sit down?” he suggested. “If you have no maid present, I can make you a cup of tea. Tell me where the kitchen is.”
“No…I…I can…Mary is out on an errand. She’ll be back soon.” She was fumbling for words. “If you didn’t mean to tell me about Kate, then you came for some other reason.” She backed away from the front door and found her way to the parlor, accidentally catching her elbow on the corner of the doorframe. She winced, but said nothing, as if she barely felt it.
Hooper closed the front door.
Celia went into the parlor and sank into one of the chairs.
“Kitchen?” he asked.
She looked up at him, puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll find it,” he replied, and turned away. Poor woman. She looked devastated. Was it for Exeter, or Kate, or because she had lost perhaps the only family and the best friend she had?
He found the kitchen quite easily, and there was a teapot on the table. He pulled the kettle over onto the hob and made sure there was water in it. He had lived alone all his adult life and was used to such things. Like many men in the Merchant Navy, he could cook a little, sew, and generally look after himself.
Ten minutes later he carried the tray of tea into the parlor. His intention had served not only to bring her tea, but to give her a little time to compose herself. She sat upright now, her hands folded in her lap and her face so white she looked as if there were no blood in her.
“Mr. Hooper, will you tell me what happened, please? Was Mr. Exeter hurt? I don’t think I want the details. He may not find me of any use at all, but I must be aware. Kate would have wished it.”
Her choice of words gave away perhaps more than she thought.
