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“Was that the first he knew of it?”
“No, she was out walking with a cousin, a Celia Darwin, when she was taken. But apparently Miss Darwin is somehow disabled, and couldn’t do much about it. She called for the police, but of course the kidnappers and Mrs. Exeter were long gone by the time the police got there. I would guess almost certainly in a rowing boat, for them to disappear so completely and so quickly.”
“Does that make it our case?” Hooper asked.
“Not specifically, but they want the exchange at Jacob’s Island.” He saw Hooper’s mouth tighten. “Exeter asked Rathbone for help, and Rathbone came to me. I think that was Exeter’s hope, God help him.” He meant it. What was getting to Monk more than his dislike of any of the waterside slums, the alleys, the slack-water refuse on the tide, the rotting wood, the stench was putting himself in Exeter’s place, and imagining how he would feel if it was Hester, or anyone he knew. This was the price of caring, and caring is a driving force of life. He had discovered that slowly, step by step, in the years since his life had begun for a second time, when he had awoken from an accident without a past, except in other people’s memories. He seemed to have no family or friends who wanted to claim him. Day by day he had learned why, at least in part. He had lost none of his skills, physical or mental. He was still the best detective in the Metropolitan Police. But he was also a man with enemies, many of them perhaps deserved. He did not like much of what he had learned about himself.
Finally, the police had dismissed him. He had worked as an independent inquiry agent for a while, but it had been an erratic living. Then he had had a case that led him to the Thames River Police and, at the end of that affair, he had joined them.
Now he knew the pleasure and the pain of friendship, of love, of belonging. Without knowing anything of Harry Exeter, he imagined being in his place.
Many years ago, Hester had been a nurse with Florence Nightingale in the Crimean War. She was stubborn, brave, quick-tempered, and loyal. She had a fierce tongue that had got her into all kinds of trouble. She always kept her promises, however wild, and she cared about all sorts of people, mostly those the rest of society preferred to ignore.
If Kate Exeter was anything like Hester, her loss would leave an emptiness that nothing else would fill. If Monk was alone, he would hear nothing but silence, forever—and having known love, the loneliness would be vast enough to consume him.
“Sir…” Hooper broke into his thoughts. “Has anyone spoken to this cousin?”
Monk smiled bleakly. “Not yet. It’s a little early to call. Apparently, she was upset yesterday and the police didn’t think she’d be of much use. They hardly even believed her account at first.”
“Is there anything else to try?”
“No. Exeter only wants us to assist him in paying the money and getting his wife back. And on Jacob’s Island, that’s no foregone conclusion.”
Hooper’s face showed his disgust. It was only the slightest change from his normal expression, but the alteration was clear to anyone who knew him as well as Monk did. He was certain he understood what was in Hooper’s mind.
“I don’t know if she’s still alive,” Monk said. “The thought occurred to me, too, and I daresay it has to Exeter.”
Hooper looked at him quickly.
“Of course,” Monk went on, “they may have no intention of handing her over. She could already be dead. But they want the money, so it’s not likely. If she’s not alive, we’ll have to take the kidnappers, whatever Exeter says. But if she is, getting her back is our priority. It’s what we’re there for.” He said the words slowly, as if he thought Hooper might misunderstand, though he knew better. He was repeating them to himself. He was afraid that his own emotions might override his judgment, and he would make choices he would regret. “But once Kate is safe…” He did not need to finish.
“Jacob’s Island,” Hooper said. “There is a score of ways in and out of that place, ’specially at low tide. We’re taking no risks.” It was not a question but a reminder that they would easily lose their own men if they were trapped in the low-lying passages as the incoming tide swirled through the ruins, eddying in places, carrying away more timber, shifting mud, and debris.
“I know!” Monk said sharply. He did not need reminding. He was not the only man to have nightmares about being trapped by a newly fallen timber below the high tide just as the filthy water rose.
“Who are we taking?” Hooper included himself without question.
Monk had been considering it since Rathbone had left the previous evening. Each time he had woken in the night, the question had come back. “You, me, Bathurst,” he began. “Laker…”
Hooper looked at him steadily. Laker was young, cocky, ambitious, far too often flippant when he should have been serious. On the surface, he seemed pretty full of his own opinions. But ever since Monk had seen his courage in the gunfight on the smugglers’ ship three years ago, and his loyalty and grief over Orme’s death, he had not doubted Laker’s worth. None of which stopped him from criticizing him, or slapping back his occasional insolence, but the trust was there, and Laker knew it. And, of course, Hooper knew it, too. He had been as much a part of that dreadful night as Monk himself.
“We’ll need more than that,” Hooper reminded him. “Even if we knew where we’re going to meet them, there are at least six ways out of any part of the place. And I don’t suppose we know how many kidnappers there are?”
“No idea,” Monk replied. “We could manage four or five of them.”
“I’d say we need as many as…six. Judiciously placed, they should be able to stop any escape,” Hooper said thoughtfully. “Two more.”
“Marbury…?” Monk made it more of a question. Hooper had worked with Marbury more than he had. Marbury was a lean, quiet man from the Kent coast. He had worked the marshes of the estuary and was used to the vast skies and tangled waterways, with their interconnecting rivers. The flight paths of birds fascinated him.
Hooper smiled. “Yes, sir. He watches things. Good at observing the smallest differences. Good on tides, too.”
“Jones?”
Hooper hesitated.
“What?” Monk asked.
“Not yet,” Hooper replied. “He’ll be good in a couple of years. Too green now.”
