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Monk waited.
“You’re back to which one of us did it, aren’t you?” Laker said at last. “If you think that I did, you’re wrong. I don’t know. I’ve learned a lot about the men, but it’s none of my business. Things I don’t want to know. Bathurst’s hard up because he gives everything he can to his mother. But I’d put my life in Bathurst’s hands any day. And Mr. Hooper. I’d be ashamed to think ill of him. He’s one of the best men I’ve ever known. He’d be killed himself before he’d betray the rest of us. Mr. Marbury’s got a bit of temper if you hurt an animal, but he’s decent enough. Share his food, or a mug of beer. A dry coat.”
Laker threw his weight against the oar and Monk had to dig deep to stop the boat from swinging off course.
“So, what are you saying?” Monk asked after a moment or two. “That it has to be Walcott? Just because he doesn’t fit in so easily with the rest of us? Everybody’s got secrets, Laker, vulnerable places, things they value too much to lose.”
“You…you thinking of anything in particular, sir?” The tone of Laker’s voice had changed. There was fear in it. Monk did not know exactly which words had caused it. Was Laker thinking he meant him? Or did he somehow know Monk’s own secret? It was too late to pull back now.
“I know what it’s like to have to face your worst fears, the ones you won’t name, even in the middle of the night,” Monk began again.
Laker pulled steadily on the oars, in silence but for the creak of the boat and the sound of the water.
“There’s one sort,” Monk went on. “Like when Hester was kidnapped, and I thought they would kill her. I know what Exeter was suffering.” The guilt chilled him again. He remembered Kate’s body. How would he have reacted if it had been Hester? He had nightmares even now, dreadful images of Kate’s body turning into Hester’s, of a loss that was far worse than being killed himself.
This could so easily have been him instead of Harry Exeter. Why had the woman Monk loved survived, and Exeter’s wife died horribly? Was it Exeter’s fault somehow, or just his hideously bad luck? Surely it could happen to anyone with money, power of some kind, knowledge that could be used?
When he looked into Exeter’s face he saw himself, the loneliness that robbed the meaning from everything. He felt guilty that he had not been able to save this man who had trusted him.
Laker dug his oar in and pulled at it so savagely it took all of Monk’s strength to keep them steady.
“And I know what it’s like to have your own past threatened, things you know you did and want to hide, dug up and displayed for everyone to see. It’s bad enough your errors show, but the thing you are afraid of the most is how your friends will feel. I know about your cashiering from the army, but nobody else needs to.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They rowed in silence for a space. Finally, it was Laker who broke it. “Are we going to find out who killed that poor girl?” he asked.
“We’re going to prove that Doyle did,” Monk replied. “We need to find who was in it with Lister. I don’t know how many men there are. What do you think?”
They discussed the subject most of the way back. Going over what each of them knew from their experience, there appeared to have been at least four.
“Do you think she was killed before we got there, or sometime after?” Laker asked.
“I don’t know,” Monk said quietly. He had been thinking about that on and off since the night it had happened. “Did they always intend to, or did something happen that made it necessary? What could that be? Other than that she recognized somebody?”
“She knew one of the kidnappers?” Laker said incredulously. “She’s acquainted with that kind of person?”
“If it’s Doyle, perhaps.”
Laker did not answer but dug the oar in deeply again and matched his stroke to Monk’s.
CHAPTER
16
MONK WAS WHITTLING IT down, one by one, all the time fighting against every thought that the traitor could be Hooper. And yet that fear was always at the edge of his mind—the unknown in Hooper, a man he realized he cared for as a friend more than anyone else he knew, apart from Rathbone, perhaps. But there was an unknown in everyone, even himself—especially himself. There had to be another answer, and yet what if there was not? How would he live with it? Hooper had not turned his back on him! Without knowing the details, he had accepted. Not even forgiven. Not judged.
He went over everything he knew about Marbury. He even went to see his previous commanding officer in the police, who expressed a profound regard for him.
“Why did you let him go?” Monk felt compelled to ask. They were sitting quietly in a public house in Shoreditch, well to the north of the river.
“Had to,” Reilly said with a sad smile. “He’d have had my job, else. I’m not ready to retire yet. Few more years before I can afford that.”
“So, he’s after mine!” Monk said with surprise.
“Doubt it. But he was due for a promotion, and I’d no place to put him. Couple of men ahead of him, and I’d find myself nudged into oblivion if I didn’t get rid of one of them. Marbury, I could do it fairly. Knew he’d be in the right place with you. Bit more active. Doesn’t sit behind a desk and tell other men what to do.” He gave a sharp little laugh. “Never got over losing his son. Wife took it even harder.”
That explained the loneliness Monk saw in Marbury, and perhaps his love of dogs. A man could touch a dog with affection, talk to it often, and not be thought odd.
