The Shifting Tide (28 page)

“Yes . . . I see,” Durban answered. “She probably came off the ship. Maybe Hodge knew that, in which case his death could have more to do with plague than with theft. Either way, we have to know. God in heaven! Once plague gets hold it could sweep the country! The question is who on the
Maude Idris
knows? And what about Louvain?”

“I don’t know that,” Monk admitted. “I . . . I promised Gould I’d do what I could to see he didn’t hang, if he was innocent of Hodge’s death.”

“Hang?” Durban said with dawning disbelief. “Great God, man! If what you say is true, the whole world could die, in a far worse way than hanging—which is brutal, but it’s quick. What’s one man, compared with that?”

“We aren’t going to let that happen,” Monk replied between his teeth, his voice uneven because his body was beginning to shake. “Hester will stay locked in the clinic with them. No one will ever come out, except after it’s all over, if there’s anyone left alive. The world will go on exactly as if nothing had ever happened. And justice will still matter.”

The wash of a string of barges slapped against the stones. “You and I will be the only ones concerned with Gould’s life or death or know anything about it,” Monk went on. “Do we hang an innocent man? If we do that because we’re frightened sick, then why not two, or ten, or a hundred? How many innocent men are worth trying to save?” He could hear the sharp anger in his words, and he knew it was relief because this was something bearable to think about, something they could address. “We have to know the truth anyway.”

Durban nodded very slowly, his face bleak, then he walked to the top of the steps and spoke to Orme. Monk could not hear what he said, but he saw Orme acknowledge it, frowning in concern, then go back down towards the other men in the boat. Durban came back.

“Who did Louvain say the dead woman was?” he asked.

“The cast-off mistress of a friend,” Monk replied.

“Is it true?” Durban looked sideways at him.

“I’ve no idea. Might be, or she could have been his own mistress.”

“Do you think he knew what was wrong with her?”

“If she was the first one he’d seen, no. When Hester took her in, she thought it was pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia kills,” Durban pointed out.

“I know it does. It’s still better than the plague.”

“Don’t keep saying that word!” Durban snapped. “In fact, don’t ever say it again!”

Monk ignored the stricture. “On the other hand, if someone had died of it on his ship, he may well have known,” he went on. “But if it happened at sea, and the crew buried him over the side, he might, and he might not. Similarly, if that’s what Hodge died of . . .”

Durban stared at Monk. “What are you saying? Hodge was in the pneumonic stage, an’ someone killed him to stop him from going ashore? Or that he died of it, an’ they couldn’t dispose of the body at sea because they were here on the river, an’ they bashed his head so no one would look too closely at the rest of the body?”

“Probably the second,” Monk replied. “Louvain could be innocent or guilty of knowing what happened.”

“We have to find out whose mistress she was.” Durban’s voice was urgent, edged with fear. “Whoever he is, he could have it too. But worse than that, what about the rest of the crew?”

“Louvain told me that he paid off three, and there are three men left, now Hodge is dead. You’ll have to have a boat of men to keep them there. Shoot them if you have to,” Monk answered. “There’s not much point in sending a doctor to them. There’s no cure.”

“We can’t let them unload either,” Durban said thoughtfully. The muscles in his face tightened, his mouth pulling into a thin line. “I hate lying to my men, but I can’t tell them the truth.” There was a question in his eyes, no more than a flicker, as if he still hoped there was another answer and Monk would give it to him.

“Sutton told his men it was cholera,” Monk replied. “Maybe that’s what the crew think it is as well?”

Durban nodded slowly. “Then we’d best be about it. We’ve no time to waste.” He started for the steps again and led the way down, Monk on his heels.

Orme was waiting. He regarded Monk with patient curiosity but little liking. He did not know what to make of him, but he was suspicious.

Durban did not prevaricate. “The
Maude Idris
has cholera,” he stated quietly, his voice without a tremor as if it were the exact truth he was telling them. “We must stop them from unloading, or anyone at all from coming ashore, until they’re cleared of quarantine. Doesn’t matter what you have to do; shoot them if it comes to that, but it shouldn’t. It’ll be easy enough to see they don’t get a wharf. I’ll do that. We’re going there now, once, to warn them. After that keep your distance—get that?”

“Yes sir.” They spoke as one man.

“You’ll get a relief—eight hours on, eight hours off. Don’t let anything distract you. Keeping the disease in is the most important. If you doubt it, just think of your families,” Durban went on. “Now let’s get back upriver and do it.” He took his place in the boat and motioned Monk to follow him, and almost immediately the oarsmen bent their shoulders and dug the blades deep.

Durban did not speak again, but the other men had an obvious camaraderie, jokes and good-natured insults we swapped all the way. But when the
Maude Idris
was in sight, suddenly their concentration was complete, as if they were already in the presence of illness.

They came alongside and Orme hailed her. Newbolt’s shaven head appeared over the rail. “River Police!” Orme called back, and the rope ladder came over a moment or two later. Durban glanced at Monk, then went up it hand over hand. Monk followed and heard Orme come up behind him.

Newbolt stood on the deck waiting for them. A heavy coat made him look even more massive, but he was bareheaded and had no gloves on his hands.

“Wot d’yer want this time?” he said expressionlessly. He offered no excuse or explanation, and Monk’s judgment of his intelligence was immediately revised, possibly of his knowledge as well. It was those who talked too much who gave themselves away.

Durban stood motionless on the deck, balancing to the ship’s slight sway with an innate grace. “How many are on board?” he asked.

“Three,” Newbolt replied. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind. That was the moment Monk decided he knew the truth. He glanced at Durban to see if he had understood the same thing, but Durban had not moved his eyes from Newbolt.

“Three,” Durban repeated. “That would have been four with Hodge?”

“Right.”

“What’s your full crew?”

“Nine. Four men paid off downriver. Don’t need seven ter watch ’er ’ere.” He did not refer to the fact that the ivory had still been stolen, or Hodge met his death, or how that had happened, nor did he ask why Durban wanted to know. It was already a battle of wills, undeclared but intensely real.

“Who were the three paid off?” Durban asked.

“Captain, cook, an’ cabin boy,” Newbolt answered without hesitation.

“Names?” Durban specified.

“Stope, Carter, an’ Briggs,” Newbolt said. Again, he did not ask why Durban might want to know.

“Where’d they go ashore?”

“Gravesend.”

It was Durban who hesitated. “Do you know their first names?”

“No.” Newbolt did not blink, nor did he turn as the lean man with the scar came up through the hatchway from below. “There’s me an’ Atkinson an’ McKeever ’ere.”

Durban reached a decision. “We need to contact your captain.”

Newbolt shrugged.

Durban looked beyond him to Atkinson. “Was Stope your captain?”

“Yeah,” Atkinson replied. “ ’e went ashore at Gravesend. Could be anyplace by now.”

“Did he ever say where he lived?”

“No,” Newbolt cut across. “Captains don’ talk ter the likes o’ us; captain’s ter give orders.”

“An’ the other men?” Durban persisted.

“Dunno,” Newbolt replied. “If they said, I don’ ’member. Most likely got no special ’ome. At sea most o’ the time. Thought bein’ River P’lice an’ all, yer’d a know’d that.”

“Captains have homes,” Durban replied. “Sometimes wives and families. Where’s McKeever?”

“Below,” Newbolt answered. “ ’e in’t feelin’ good. Mebbe we should a let ’im go an’ kept the cook!” He grinned mirthlessly.

Durban’s face lightened. “I’ll need to see him.” He looked at Atkinson. “Take me below.”

Monk moved forward to stop him and Durban snapped at him to stay where he was. Atkinson glanced at Newbolt, then obeyed. Monk, Orme, and Newbolt remained on deck. No one spoke.

Boats passed them; gulls circled overhead. They could hear the shouts of men working on the shore. The tide was receding, moving more and more rapidly past them, carrying flotsam and refuse out. The mudlarks were beginning to scavenge on the banks. Orme looked at Monk with suspicion, then away again.

Finally, Durban came back up through the hatchway, Atkinson immediately behind him. He walked over to Monk with his slightly rolling gait, his face pale. “Not much to see,” he said briefly. “We could have a long search ahead of us still.” Then he turned to Newbolt. “You’ll be told when there’s a berth for you. Stay on board till then.” He did not add any explanation, simply signaled to Orme and went to the railing.

Monk followed. Nothing more was said between them until the boat put them ashore and Orme and his men returned to keep watch.

“If Louvain paid them off at Gravesend, they could be anywhere,” Durban said grimly. “We’ve got a long job.”

“He can’t have known what it was,” Monk said, keeping step with Durban as they walked towards the street. “No sane man would let that loose, whatever the profit. If it spreads, there’s nothing for anyone, no clippers, no cargoes, no trade, no life. Louvain’s a hard man, but he’s not mad.”

“He didn’t know,” Durban agreed. “Not at the time of paying them off, anyway. I agree, he’s clever, brutal at times, but he respects the laws of the sea; he knows no man wins against nature. He wouldn’t last long if he didn’t, and Louvain’s done more than last, he’s profited, built his own empire.” He came to the curb, hesitated, and crossed, turning south again. “He’d be perfectly happy to get rid of a mistress if she no longer interested him, more likely than look after another man’s cast-off woman. But I’d still wager he didn’t know what she had, or he’d have done something different, maybe even kill her and bury her with quicklime.”

Monk shuddered at the thought, and believed it. “We’ve got to find those men.”

“I know,” Durban agreed.

“Where would they go?”

Durban gave him a dry look. “That was ten days ago. Where would yer be if yer’d been at sea for half a year?”

“Eat well, drink deep, and find a woman,” Monk replied. “Unless I had family, in which case I’d go home.”

Durban’s face pinched tight. He nodded, something inside him too knotted with anger and grief to speak.

“How do we find out?” Monk went on. There was no time for feelings; they could come afterwards—if there was an afterwards.

“We’ll get their names,” Durban replied. “That’ll be a start at least. Then we look for them.” His face was almost expressionless, just a faint, almost bruised sadness about his mouth, as if he understood the darkness ahead.

Neither of them spoke again as they made their way along the narrow pavement past pawnbrokers, shipwrights, chandlers, ropemakers, sailmakers, and ironmongers—representatives of all the heavy industries of the shore. They were forced to stop and wait while a man backed four magnificent shire horses out of a yard, with the dray turning a tight corner into the street, wheels bumping over the cobbles. He did it with intense concentration and care, all the while talking to his animals.

A cooper was complaining bitterly about a barrel not to his liking. Monk nursed his anger like a small ray of sanity, a glimpse of the world that seemed to be slipping out of his grasp no matter how hard he clung to it. He was on the edge of an abyss where plague destroyed everything; its spread or its containment was all he could think of. The cooper lived in a world where one badly made barrel mattered to him.

Monk glanced at Durban and saw a reflection of his own thoughts in the policeman’s eyes. It was a moment of perfect understanding.

Then the cart was clear of the gateway and Durban strode forward, Monk on his heels.

It was tedious finding the information they needed without arousing suspicion or, worse than that, fear that the police were seeking anyone in connection with a crime. A breath of that, and not only would the man disappear, but no one on the river would help them. All doors would be closed.

Durban was endlessly patient, sharing a fact here, a fact there, and it was dusk before they emerged from the last office with all the information they were likely to get: the names, physical descriptions, and what was known of the backgrounds and tastes of the three men they sought.

They began at Gravesend and worked upriver from one public house to another, drinking half a pint of ale or eating a pie, trying to blend in with the other men, talking of ships, voyages they’d known or heard of, always listening for a name, watching for a man who answered any of the descriptions. All signs of Durban’s police status had been removed. His hat was stuffed in his pocket, and his coat collar turned up and a little lopsided. He looked like a ship’s officer ashore a few months too long. They heard nothing of value. No one admitted to having seen any of the men from the
Maude Idris
.

The bright, hard light faded shortly after five, and the sun set in a sea of fire over the water, dazzling the eyes till it hurt to look westwards. Glittering shades of silver and gold edged the ruffles over the surface and marked the wakes of barges.

Monk and Durban stopped at another public house for something to eat, and were glad of the warmth. Outside the wind was rising. Neither of them said anything about the necessity to keep looking. Even the thought of home and sleep had to be pushed from the mind. Every hour counted, and they had no lead yet.

They ate in silence, glancing at one another every now and then, mostly listening, watching, trying to catch the odd snatch of conversation which might refer to a sailor by name, or to someone home from Africa and looking for another ship. They had been there three quarters of an hour and were getting ready to leave when Monk heard a man with a hacking cough, and realized that he had also been listening for word of anyone ill, or even of a death.