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In the end he turned to pleasanter things to force the darkness out of his mind and let the peace of the night take over. He wondered about Celia Darwin. There was a grace, a calm dignity about her that even the grief of Kate’s death could not take from her. She was a woman who could stand with peace of mind in the middle of other people’s chaos. The more he thought of it, the more it seemed like a kind of beauty now complete, more lasting than perfection of face or charm of coloring.
The thought was gentle and only too easy to believe. He went to sleep with a smile on his face.
* * *
—
HE WOKE IN THE morning and made breakfast. He had no need of a landlady, and he was a very passable cook himself, although a woman came in to clean and do the laundry during the day. She had a key, and he seldom even saw her. The arrangement suited him well.
He had just begun to eat when there was a knock on the scullery door. He got up reluctantly and opened it, ready for a possible attack. He relaxed when he saw Laker in the light from the kitchen lamp. He stood back.
Laker was dressed in very ordinary working clothes, but he still managed to look neat. “Morning,” he said casually, stepping in. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast.” He sniffed and looked at the kippers on the table.
Hooper closed and relocked the scullery door, then returned to the stove. “Want a cup of tea?”
“Please,” Laker accepted. He sat down. “And a slice of toast, if you can spare it?”
“I suppose you want a kipper, too,” Hooper observed. “What are you here for, apart from breakfast?”
“My landlady doesn’t do breakfast at this hour,” Laker said with a shake of his head. “And I’m here to watch Lister with you, of course. Couldn’t catch up with you yesterday because I had no idea where you were. Thought it better to get a decent night’s sleep and start when I knew you were here. Did he do anything interesting yesterday?”
“Spent a lot of money,” Hooper replied, and told Laker what he had seen. While he was recounting the day, his mind was at least half occupied wondering why Monk had sent Laker in particular. Was it possible he had found something to prove Laker’s innocence? If so, Laker would be watching Hooper as much as he was watching Lister.
He took another kipper out of the pantry and fried it for Laker. Then he gave it to him, along with a slice of toast and a cup of tea.
He considered asking Laker about what Monk had said to him, but there was no way he could word it so that he would not sound suspicious. He was not sure that being so open about it would help. Laker was just frank enough to challenge him on the past he never spoke about. It was so very easy to feel suspicion, and lose sight of all the times they had been there to help each other, to share a risk, a triumph, a disaster, a joke, even a single cup of tea. He decided to keep silent. If this turned dangerous, neither of them could afford open enmity, whether it was based on an actual betrayal or just the psychological betrayal of thinking the other capable of such a thing.
Did he think Laker capable? Not the man he thought he knew. But then, how many layers were there that he did not even imagine? There was so much in his own past that no one knew; not even Monk, and certainly not Laker.
They spent the early part of the morning waiting for Lister to come out of his house. He took until half-past ten to get over the amount he had drunk to celebrate the previous evening. But then he left the front door at a brisk pace and walked down the street to find a cab on the main road. Hooper and Laker were fortunate to find a vacant cab to follow him. Twice they nearly lost him in traffic, and were surprised when he got out in South Kensington. He walked three blocks before going into a very nice restaurant and immediately over to a corner table, which had apparently been reserved for him.
Hooper glanced at Laker. Of the two of them, he looked more likely to be at home in such a place.
Laker simply nodded and went in. Hooper crossed to the opposite side of the street and waited. Did Monk have some idea where Lister might go that he had chosen Laker, who of all of them could most easily pass for a gentleman? Excepting Monk himself.
It was only just over forty minutes later that Lister came out, accompanied by a balding man, of middle age, discreetly dressed and carrying an attaché case. He looked nervous. He glanced around, as if to see who else might be in the street, then spoke quickly to Lister and shook his head with something that looked like distaste.
Lister smiled and, turning cheerfully, walked away.
Laker came out of the restaurant, glanced across at Hooper. Then without making any sign, he followed after Lister.
Hooper went after the man with the case, who walked rapidly, crossed the next street in the same manner, and only just missed being struck by an omnibus. Hooper had to stop for the vehicle to pass and then run to catch up with his quarry.
Eventually, they came to a small private bank and the man went in at the side entrance. Hooper waited nearly half an hour, but the man did not appear again. Finally, Hooper went inside and picked up a book off one of the tables. It advertised the financial services available. He looked over the top of it at the tellers and clerks going about their business. None of them resembled the man he had followed, except in the sobriety of their dress.
Finally, he asked if he might see the manager.
“Mr. Doyle is extremely busy, sir,” one of the clerks told him. “May I ask what it is concerning, and give him your name, sir?”
Banking was something Hooper knew very little about, and he did not wish to draw attention to himself and his ignorance. It might warn the man who had met with Lister, and who he now was almost certain was Roger Doyle, the manager. He noted the bank’s name and address and would report it to Monk. Could it be the bank that had helped Exeter finance the ransom?
He had no idea where Laker had followed Lister, and no way of knowing. He decided to return to Wapping and report the connection between Lister and Doyle. He was halfway there when he realized he was reporting to Monk directly, because he didn’t trust Laker to do it after they had met up again and reported to each other their findings. It was a sharp and painful thought. He had doubted some men’s competence before, but never their honesty. He fought a hard knot of anger against the man who had betrayed them, not only for the act of betrayal and what it had cost Kate Exeter and those who had loved her, but what it had cost the men at Wapping regarding their trust in each other. He had taken it for granted for so long that he had not realized how much it made up his view of the world, and his part in it.
It was Monk’s opinion that mattered to him the most. He had had to work to earn it. Monk had not doubted his abilities for long, as no man had before him, since Hooper was a young man. His trust came later and was much harder to earn, because Monk did not trust easily. Only when Hooper had learned of his accident, the loss of memory, and the whole reinvention of himself did he understand why. His isolation had been complete. He had had to build his relationships one at a time, trusting no one until tested and proven.
Hooper would not say that he knew Hester more than instinctively, but he would trust her with anything, more even than Monk. She was fierce at times, opinionated certainly, always loyal to the oddest people, but there was a gentleness in her, a willingness to forgive, to pick up the lost, to heal, that he would trust beyond the loyalty of any man. Would he lose that with the loss of Monk’s trust?
He would like to think not, but he did not want to put it to the test. It would hurt too deeply if he was wrong. Was that cowardly? If it was, so be it. There were some wounds one knew would be too deep, because of all the other things they meant.
