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“How are you?” he asked, his voice sounding unnatural. She was trying to remember the last time he was here, in fact if he had ever been here before. What should she say to such a question?
“The day has gone by heavy and slow as a steamroller,” she replied to him.
He looked at her with surprise. “I didn’t know you had such a turn of phrase. It has, hasn’t it?” He gave the ghost of a smile. “I told myself I came to see how you were, as if I could do anything about what you must feel. But in truth I came because I can’t stand being in the house anymore. Every room is filled with memories of Kate. I expect her to come in through the door any moment. And as each moment goes by, she doesn’t. I had to get out, even if only to remind myself that the rest of the world is still there. Does everyone bereaved feel like this?”
“I expect so,” she replied. “It seems just like that to me.”
He leaned forward a little in the chair. “I knew it would,” he said softly. “I came for my own sake. Does that sound brutal? I don’t mean it to. I’m sorry.”
“No,” she said quickly. “There is no need to apologize. I feel…I feel the same. There is a great hole in the middle of everything. It’s…it’s good to speak to someone who feels the same. It’s a terrible loneliness when you can’t share it.”
“You’re very understanding, Celia. I can see why Kate loved you like a sister…” He stopped suddenly and bowed his head, as his voice choked with tears.
“I’ll get us a cup of tea,” she said, rising to her feet and leaving the room to offer him a little privacy until he could compose himself. This was a side of him she had never seen. It made it all better…and worse.
* * *
—
MONK SET OFF FOR home that night tired, filthy, and bruised. However, none of his men was seriously hurt, and they had captured the thieves and most of the stolen goods. Only one crate had been lost. It was no doubt deeply settled in the mud at the bottom of the river.
It was a good result, but not the one Monk had been looking for. He was no further along in d
iscovering which of his men had betrayed them, was ultimately responsible for Kate Exeter’s death. He definitely had seen a more emotional side of Marbury, who was clearly another lonely man, in spite of having a family. Perhaps they were not close? Or perhaps the loss of a son had driven them apart, exposed the gaps between them that had been carefully concealed before. It happened. People blamed each other out of anger and the belief that someone had to be at fault. Anger could be easier to bear than grief. Perhaps the dog had offered him trust and an unjudging love that he had badly needed.
It shed no light that Monk could see on the kidnapping.
How could he have worked with these men, some of them for years, and yet apparently known them so little that this could happen?
He was walking up the hill from the ferry, toward Paradise Place. It was one in the morning. He was tired and the road was steep and icy in places. His body ached. He was bruised from fighting, but the hurt inside him was more insistent. He liked Hooper. He had always liked him. Only now did he realize that the trust did not go as easily the other way. Hooper trusted him as an officer—he knew that—but not as a man. Monk knew very little about him. He seldom spoke of himself, and Monk was only just becoming aware of this. He vividly remembered sitting in one of the boats and talking to Hooper about his own amnesia, the utter silence in the stretch of years before waking in the hospital after the accident, as if he had been born that instant.
Bits of the past came floating back. The sudden flashes had stopped quite a while ago, but every so often events occurred, other people knew him, liked him or disliked him, and he had no idea why. He had discovered painfully why some people hated him. He had had to tell Hooper because one of those threats had been real, and very serious. He could remember every moment of that time: the light on the water, the gentle rocking of the boat in the current, the whisper of water around the hull, Hooper’s face.
Hooper had understood and not blamed him, certain of his innocence, even when he was not himself. And yet, he knew nothing of Hooper. Monk felt bitterly alone as he leaned forward in the steepest and last few yards of the road. He did not know himself. How did Hester trust him? Or didn’t she? Was she biting back suspicions now and then, and too gentle to tell him?
He reached the front door and took out his key. Hester would have locked the door at dusk but not yet shot the bolts, until he came home. He opened the door, closed it, bolted it, and stood in the hall. It was warm and smelled faintly of lemon and beeswax.
She must have heard him because she appeared at the top of the stairs in her dressing robe. Her eyes widened when she saw his appearance, and she came down the stairs quickly.
“William, are you all right?”
He wanted to say, No, I’m not. I hurt inside so I can hardly bear it, and I don’t know what to do to make it stop. Instead he said, “Yes,” far more calmly than he felt. “Just a bit bruised…and wet.”
She walked up to him quietly and put her arms around him, disregarding the mud and water on his coat.
He hugged her hard, almost hard enough to hurt, he knew, but it didn’t stop him. It was several moments before he let her go—too long to avoid having her feel his emotions.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is it Exeter? Have you found anything more?”
She did not ask if he knew who had betrayed them. Was she being tactful, or had he forgotten to tell her the full extent of it? Now he could not remember. She would be so disappointed in him. He searched her face and could read the concern, but not the reason.
She was always loyal, wasn’t she? But what was she thinking? That he couldn’t hold a command? That he was clever with facts, but he had learned nothing about people in all the years they had been together? He could not judge men, because he did not know himself, and they sensed that and did not trust him. Hooper was the perfect example.
He moved away from her and took his coat off. He hung it up. There was no point in cleaning it. The mud would come off better when it was dry anyway.
“A little,” he answered the question. “We know how many men were involved, and we’ve got our eyes on one of them. Follow it tomorrow. This evening, we got half a dozen thieves for robbing a warehouse.”
She looked at him for a moment or two, waiting for him to continue. Then, realizing he wasn’t going to, she turned to go into the kitchen. “I’ve a hot lamb stew on, and mashed potatoes, if you’re hungry?”
