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Exeter did not move, but he seemed to crumple; he looked smaller. “You’re right,” he said hoarsely. “I want to know that…I need to know. I think you know me as well as anyone could. You’re a good man.”
Outside in the street, Hooper and Monk did not speak for a long time. Hooper was filled with his own thoughts, and he guessed Monk was, too. There were many emotions stirred, memories of love and pain, regret, mistakes that could not now be undone, maybe never could have been.
* * *
—
FORESEEING LISTER’S ATTEMPT TO escape both the police and whoever it was that had attacked him the previous night, Monk organized a search party of six men, including himself, to apprehend him. He could not spare more. The fog had lifted and it was a much milder evening with a three-quarter moon. They began along the docks beside the Limehouse Reach, trying the public houses Lister was known to frequent. The streets were still damp and the tide was flowing upriver, carrying the smell of salt on the wind.
Monk and Hooper walked separately, so as not to appear to be together. Neither of them doubted that Lister would now be very wary indeed of police, or of anyone who seemed to be following him.
It took two long, tedious hours to find him, beyond Limehouse and into the Isle of Dogs, much further east than expected. He was enjoying himself greatly in one of the dockside public houses when Hooper went in, wandered around, and saw Lister with a full tankard of ale and a group of dockers and watermen around him, all with tankards in their hands. He looked set to stay for some time: not only enjoying himself, but safe. As long as he paid the bill and kept the company, no one was going to attack him—kidnapper, thief, or police.
Hooper went out again into the street and found Monk in the shadow of a wall, looking bored.
“He’s inside,” Hooper said quietly. “Just got a fresh pint of beer. He’s treating half a dozen heavyweights. Didn’t stay long, in case he recognized me, but I reckon we’ll have to stay outside until he comes out, and then follow him until his ‘escort’ takes its own way. We’ll not do any good in there. Didn’t want a roughhouse we couldn’t win. We could say we’re police, and he’ll say we’ve come to kill him. They’ll attack first, and then if they realize we really are police, they’ll have to get rid of us, or face the consequences. One guess what that’ll be!”
“We’ll move up the street a bit.” Monk shifted his weight a little. “Out of the wind,” he added. “Feel it in your bones when the tide turns!”
They walked slowly away from the public house and turned the corner into the next alley. They turned again along the back entrances of the houses opposite and passed backyards grimy with coal dust, fallen garbage, and here and there broken slates. It was some time before they discovered a passageway that looked out on the street almost opposite the public house, with a decent sideways view of the back door.
“Give me a leg up onto the roof of that shed, and I’ll be able to see the back door,” Monk said. “We’ll be out of his line of sight, if he’s looking.”
Hooper obeyed and accepted Monk’s arm to haul himself up. It was hardly comfortable, but it did afford an excellent vantage point from which to see the public house.
They remained silent, watching. Every now and then one of them changed position. Hooper’s mind began to wander. Who was Lister waiting for? Was Kate’s kidnap and murder done out of hatred of Exeter? If so, did Exeter really have no idea who it was? Were there so many possibilities?
And which of Monk’s men had he corrupted, too? Hooper knew it was not himself. He had never suspected Monk. And for no concrete reason, he did not believe it was Laker. That left Marbury, Walcott, and Bathurst. Why? Money? Blackmail over some weakness? He shivered momentarily, as if a cold wind had arisen. There, but for the grace of God, went he! No one knew about his past to blackmail him. But if they did? Would he have the strength to say go to hell, and do your worst? Would he escape, make a run for it? Were his actions on the Mary Grace still a hanging offense, after all these years? Was there anyone left alive who knew the truth, the real truth, behind the apparent stories?
What would Monk make of that? Hester would understand—or would she? She was sort of an army person, in a way, an army nurse.
What about Celia Darwin?
Why was he thinking of her? He would probably never see her again. Were it not for the past and the Mary Grace, would he? Would he deliberately go and find her?
He was still thinking about that, how good it would be, when a hand reached up from the paved ground below and grabbed his ankle. He lost his balance and slid down, only just righting himself before he fell off the roof and landed awkwardly. He was immediately struck a hard blow across the face and fell sideways. A moment later, another man moved across in front of him and struck Monk, only Monk had already moved forward, and t
here was a grunt of pain and a curse. Hooper stumbled to his feet and struck the man with a short, hard punch to the gut. Almost immediately he himself was hit from the side, a hard blow to the head. He felt sick as the darkness opened up and smothered him. Then there was a stinging pain in his thigh.
Careless. He had been thinking when he should have been listening, watching, nerves stretched for anything out of the usual pattern.
He took a deep breath and then lashed out at the sound of a man stopping close to him. He had no idea who he was. But it was not Monk’s elegant boots he kicked as hard as he could.
Someone gave a shrill cry and lost his balance, swearing savagely.
Then Monk was in front of him. “Come on!” he shouted. “Lister’s gone. Come—” He broke off as the first man climbed to his feet, ready to fight again. There was no time to chase after Lister. Hooper and Monk needed to save themselves and get out of this without serious injury.
Ten minutes later, they were at the far end of the road looking into the main street and the public house.
“We’ve lost Lister,” Monk said bitterly. “Our own fault. Weren’t paying attention. We’re slipping, Hooper. Where the hell did he go? And who were the other men?”
“More kidnappers?” Hooper suggested.
“If they were all together, why did Lister run off?” Monk asked. He swore, then turned around slowly. There was no way to tell in the darkness which direction Lister had gone, or might continue to go, or whether he might double back or even cross the river.
Hooper was suddenly aware of how cold he was, and how his bones ached and his flesh hurt where he had been struck. He would feel far worse tomorrow morning.
“Where did he go?” Monk asked. “It was only a few moments. He could still be around.”
