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“He’s one to watch,” Monk said. “He’s good with oars. Guide a boat anywhere.”
“Too quick,” Hooper said. “Needs to take a second look before he acts.”
Monk was unconvinced. He was interested to see if Hooper would stick with his view. “Sometimes you need quick action, or the chance is lost. We’ll be fighting the darkness and the ris
ing tide, as well as the kidnappers. We can’t afford to wait while someone makes up his mind.”
“What none of us can afford is a man who jumps before he looks,” Hooper argued. “You asked me, sir. I say take Walcott. He’s a stubborn little bastard. Snappy, like a terrier. Got no fear, once he’s on the scent.”
Monk smiled in spite of himself. The description was a good one. “Right! Then Marbury and Walcott it is, with Bathurst, Laker, and you and me. We should be on the water by half-past three, and at Jacob’s Island before four.” He took a chart out of the wide drawer that held them and spread it over his desk. It showed the part of the river where Jacob’s Island was, with mud-banks and tidal ebb and flow marked very clearly. Made that spring, it was the most up-to-date chart available.
Hooper studied it wordlessly and Monk followed his gaze, noting the half-sunken slipways, the mooring posts that emerged from the mud like rotting teeth, the channels where the water was deeper and the current correspondingly swifter, the wharfs that were still usable.
Of course, one extra-high tide could alter them considerably. The late September neap tide this year had been very high indeed.
“No time to check it,” Hooper said, thinning his lips as he spoke. “And we can’t afford to ask now. Word would get around. Did they ask Exeter to go alone? Make any threats about bringing in police?” He looked troubled.
“No. Exeter said as long as they got the money, that was it. He begged me to come, with men. All he cares about is getting his wife back. He’s afraid they’ll double-cross him at the last moment.”
“The kidnappers may kill her anyway, if they see us,” Hooper pointed out. “Has he really thought this through?”
“I don’t know. He’s just terrified of going in there alone and not being able to get out again. I’ll go in with him, up to just short of the meeting place, and then they can make the exchange. Six of us armed and dressed like off-duty merchant sailors or dockers should be enough,” Monk continued.
“More like river pirates or beggars,” Hooper replied. “Seamen can do better than Jacob’s Island. If I was sleeping rough, I’d rather be somewhere the tide doesn’t reach.”
Monk was annoyed with himself. He knew the river well enough to have thought of this. Not that the outward appearance would be so different, but the way of moving or holding one’s head, sheltering from the wind or hiding from sight, would. Think like a thief and you would have the best chance of looking like one.
He stood up. “Right. We’ll tell the men and decide where they’ll go in. We’ll have to do some careful positioning to block every way out. You go and see if you can find Celia Darwin. I’ll give you her address. She may have noticed something. It’s not much of a chance, from what Exeter said of her, but we’d be stupid to overlook it. Whatever happens, be back here at three.” He wrote down the address Exeter had given him and handed it to Hooper.
Hooper looked at it. “Ceylon Street. Where’s that?”
“Just off the Battersea dock road. Not so far from where Kate Exeter was taken, but nothing like Southwark Park, where the Exeters live, even though it’s close. Exeter said Celia was the cousin from the side of the family that married down. He didn’t say his side married up, but the fact that he said anything at all suggests he’s…” He looked for the word.
“Jumped-up,” Hooper supplied for him.
“Yes,” Monk agreed. “Doesn’t make him any less a victim. Or his wife. Apparently, she liked the cousin enough to be close to her. They were friends. Be patient with her, Hooper. She may be…”
“Upset. She’s not worth much if she isn’t, sir.”
Monk smiled again. “Yes. Doesn’t mean she won’t remember something.”
* * *
—
CELIA DARWIN HAD BEEN at home in her very modest house on Ceylon Street when Harry Exeter had called upon her. The previous day had been the worst of her life. All past pain or disappointment was swallowed up by the loss of Kate, the cousin who was like a younger sister to her.
She ran to the door to answer it herself, not giving her one maid the chance. She flung the door open and saw Exeter on the step. For a moment hope surged up in her; then she saw his face, and it died.
He came in, almost pushing her out of the way.
“What is it?” she asked. “What has happened? You’ve heard something?” She followed him into her small parlor and closed the door behind them.
He turned to face her immediately. He looked terrified. His skin was drained of all color.
“They want money,” he said. “More than everything I have…or they’ll kill her.”
He already knew that she had nothing, not even anything to sell. The few pieces of jewelry her mother had left her were worthless. He had pointed that out, in one of their more unpleasant exchanges.
