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MONK WORKED FOR THE rest of that day with Runcorn. He found it both a pleasure and, at times, a strain. Runcorn did not mention it directly again, but his remark about finding out which of Monk’s men had betrayed them stayed with Monk. He recognized that he had been avoiding the issue, always putting it off for something more urgent. The murder of Bella Franken had distressed him deeply. If he had stopped at her desk and insisted they meet at some safer place, she might have been alive now. He had liked her and admired her courage. He could not get the sight of her wet, bruised face out of his mind.
Should he? Should he have enough self-control to be able to dismiss it and get on with the job? Kate Exeter had been slashed to pieces! Although it didn’t haunt him constantly as Bella’s death did, that did not leave his mind for long either. The sound of dripping water took him straight back to Jacob’s Island and the darkness, the bone-chilling cold.
Did it affect all the men like that? Even whoever had caused it to happen? Did the betrayer mean to do that? Or had he intended something else, something that ended only in the kidnappers escaping? Well, they had escaped, all but Lister. Why not him? Had he been greedy and wanted more than his share?
Or was he destined for death anyway, as soon as
his purpose was served? Whoever had done that, it was not Hooper. It could not be. They had been together at the time Lister must have been killed.
He had checked on the other men. None of them was accounted for beyond doubt. Laker had said he was with Bathurst, but that was a lie. Bathurst said he had met with his sister and had supper with her, but he was supposed to be on duty. His sister was in some kind of difficulty and needed his help.
He knew Laker’s secret because Hester had told him, and he no longer suspected Laker or, honestly, Bathurst either.
“Don’t blame Laker, sir,” Bathurst had said urgently. “I took too much time off. He did that to cover for me.”
“Why did your sister need you so urgently?”
Bathurst blushed. “She’s only fifteen, sir, but she’s very pretty. She doesn’t know how to say no to her boss like she means it. And she can’t afford to lose her job. There’s too many to feed…” His voice trailed off. He did not want to tell Monk about his family’s poverty. It seemed a private thing, so telling would be like breaking a confidence, like looking at someone when they did not realize they were naked.
Monk was angry with himself for being so clumsy. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “Would an inquiry from the River Police trim his ambitions a bit?”
Bathurst’s eyes widened. “Please don’t, sir. She’ll learn. She’ll have to. My older sister, Edith, she’s pretty good at making people…cool off. Only Lizzie doesn’t like to admit she can’t do it herself. Laker was looking out for me.”
“Someone told the kidnappers which way we were coming.”
Bathurst’s expression reminded Monk how young he was. He looked like a schoolboy at the age when loyalty was everything. “Then it must be Walcott or Marbury, sir,” he said. “It isn’t any of the rest of us.” He looked straight at Monk, his eyes unwavering.
Monk did not argue. That was his own feeling. He needed to trust the men he knew. It was the safety of the familiar. That was why it was so hard to be a stranger too many times, the person unknown, the first to be suspected. It had nothing to do with your behavior or your inner self. It hurt to remake the ties, try all over again to adopt new patterns with people: new things to understand, to laugh at, to feel comfortable with.
“I believe you,” Monk said. It was at least partially true, but he said it because he knew Bathurst needed to hear it. Something inside you dies, some source of courage, when you know you are not trusted. It is a loneliness of the soul. “Be careful,” he said then. “Don’t let anybody think you don’t trust them. That would—”
“I know,” Bathurst had agreed, before Monk could finish. “That could make them turn on me. I just find it hard to go into anything first, trusting them to watch my back, if you know what I mean.”
“You’ve got to get it over with,” Runcorn said, when Monk confided he was still looking for the traitor among his men. “You owe it to the rest of them to find the one that’s bad. It’s not fair to—”
“I know!” Monk said sharply. “You don’t need to tell me again. I’m protecting one at the price of the others. Who’s Fisk? What did he do before he joined you?”
“Fisk?” Runcorn’s eyes widened. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“What was he? Merchant seaman?”
Surprise rippled across Runcorn’s face. “Yes. How did you know? It was twenty years ago. And what has it to do with this?”
Monk clenched his teeth. He hated having to explain this to Runcorn. “I’ve seen him looking at Hooper as if he’s trying to remember something.”
“You suspect Hooper? I thought he was your best man?” There was surprise and sadness in Runcorn’s face.
“He is. One of the best men I’ve ever known. He should be the first one I clear.” He hated saying the words, especially to Runcorn. They had been such enemies and, he thought now, that had been more his own fault than Runcorn’s. His upbringing had made him cautious, not quick or naturally able to explain himself in words. He understood rules and was confident with them. They were like armor: restricting, but also protective. Monk had been a natural renegade, mercurial, easy with words, and with a wry humor. Runcorn hid his insecurity by clinging to the rules. Monk hid his by carving his own path and trying to be right every time. He had not even looked for the best in Runcorn, until circumstances had forced him to.
“Do you want me to ask?” Runcorn said with surprising gentleness. “Or would you rather speak to Hooper and let him tell you himself? It probably has nothing to do with this.”
“Anything could have something to do with this,” Monk replied miserably. “Whatever a man can be pressured over, blackmailed for, or have taken from him makes him a hostage to fortune, in the right hands.”
“And whose hands are the right ones, Monk? Who’s behind this? The bank manager, Doyle? He’s a master blackmailer? How on earth would he know something about Hooper from twenty years ago? You think Fisk told him something?”
“I’ve no idea. Maybe people who knew about other men’s debts and fortunes hear a lot of things.” He sounded bitter, and he knew it. One touch in the right place and so much could unravel: things he had taken for granted. He felt as if he had looked down at his feet for the first time in years and found that he was walking along the edge of a precipice. Perhaps a degree of blindness was the only bearable way to live.
