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“That was the truth,” Monk pointed out. “Even if not the whole truth. I imagine his family would far rather know only that much of it than the rest.”
“It was still a mutiny,” Hooper argued, “and I sided with the men.”
“The men were right.” Monk was perfectly aware of the enormity of what he was saying. There was no proof of that. It was only Hooper’s word that the captain had made the first error, then lie after lie to cover it, but Monk believed it absolutely. “Wouldn’t Fisk back you up?”
“I don’t know. I never asked him. If we were not believed, it would be his neck for the rope as well.”
“In Runcorn’s office, he recognized you.”
“I think so.”
“And the other men of the crew?”
“I don’t know. It was twenty years ago; they could be anywhere.”
“Your name?”
Hooper hesitated.
“Your name?” Monk insisted.
“Jacob Abbott.”
“Maybe if I had a memory, it would mean something,” Monk said wryly. “But I don’t. You’re John Hooper to me. What about Fisk?”
“Twist. Joe Twist.”
Monk wondered if that was why Hooper had never married. He would not risk visiting that disgrace on any woman he loved. Possibly his family had had to be abandoned the same way.
“It’s a high price,” he said. “Don’t pay any more for it.” He held out his hand. “You did the only thing you could, given the circumstances.”
Monk looked at Hooper steadily. His eyes were such a clear blue, Monk felt as if he could look into his head.
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’re off duty,” Monk said slowly and distinctly. “Commander Monk knows nothing about this and will continue to know nothing. William Monk, whoever he is or was, is proud to know you.”
Hooper clasped Monk’s hand and held it so hard he all but crushed his fingers.
CHAPTER
17
MONK SLEPT BETTER THAT night than he had done for some time. He believed Hooper’s account of the incident. Apart from the honesty that Monk had known in Hooper the entire time they had served in the Thames River Police together, it fitted in with the facts he knew of maritime discipline, and with Fisk’s apparent recognition of Hooper. And clearly he had not told Runcorn anything about it. It seemed he had no intention of betraying Hooper.
Had anyone else known? The enemy of Exeter who might be behind all this, whether it was Doyle or someone else? Monk did not believe so. Hooper had not been blackmailed into betrayal. That person they had yet to find.
Monk went the following morning to see Exeter in Newgate Prison, near the Old Bailey, where he was being held. He walked along the stone floor with the heat of rage inside him. It was almost enough for him to ignore the icy chill in the air and the occasional clang of iron on stone as a door slammed.
“There you are, sir. I can only give you a few minutes, like, since you’re not his lawyer,” the warder said. He knew Monk and held the River Police in some regard.
“Thank you. I’ll contact his lawyer and let him know.” Monk stood back for the door to be unlocked.
Inside the cell, Harry Exeter was standing. He must have heard the footsteps in the passage stopping outside, so he was expecting someone. His face lit with relief when he saw Monk. Some of the tension knotted inside him seemed to relax a little. “Thank God you’ve come,” he said immediately. “This is a nightmare! You’ve got to help me!”
The door closed behind Monk, and he was aware of a lock turning and the steel flanges going home.
Monk looked at Exeter. He was wearing an old pair of trousers and a comfortable shirt. It was made of flannel but hardly enough to keep him warm in this unheated stone room. Exeter was wretched, and it showed in every line of his body. Monk made a mental note to bring him fresh clothes—warmer ones. But Monk knew nothing would banish the ice inside him, except practical help. He might already have asked someone to bring him extra clothes himself, but he looked stunned by shock and horror. The grief of his wife’s death was only two weeks behind him.
