Blood on the Water (14 page)

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON MONK
was in Wapping; he had tidied up the last reports on the smuggling case and had just left the police station when Hooper strode after him.

“Sir!”

Monk turned round as Hooper caught up with him. He saw from the look in Hooper’s face that the news was not good. He waited in silence to hear it.

“Lord Ossett wants to see you, sir,” Hooper said expressionlessly, his brown eyes meeting Monk’s and waiting.

Monk was surprised. Ossett was very senior indeed, a man of great power, highly respected in government circles. A member of the House of Lords rather than the House of Commons, he was an adviser to both the Home and Foreign Offices and occasionally to the prime minister himself on important matters of international trade and finance.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Hooper replied steadily, his face unreadable.

“When?” Monk asked, his stomach knotting tight.

“Now … sir.” Hooper took a deep breath. “Maybe we’re getting back on the case, sir. Do you want me to tell Mr. Orme, and start sorting the duties out?”

Monk felt a sense of dread, but he didn’t let it show on his face. “Yes … please,” he agreed. I think you’d better. Don’t change anything yet, but get ready.”

Hooper’s smile was twisted, and without replying he turned and walked with his easy, loping gait toward the station.

Monk caught the first passing hansom toward Lord Ossett’s office in Whitehall. On the ride through the docklands he was all but unaware of the high, barn-like warehouses, wagons laden with all kinds of goods, the towering cranes and the creak of loads, shouts of stevedores, and the rattle of wheels on the stones. His mind was on the case of Habib Beshara and the sinking of the
Princess Mary
.

Was he going to be given back the investigation, now that it was thoroughly contaminated? Could he refuse? What would it mean for his career if he did? No—that was not the issue. He was irritated with himself for having thought of it at all. What mattered was the reputation of the River Police, and whether they had any chance of finding the truth, for Beshara, and for those who were dead or bereaved.

Was it important to find those beyond, the incompetent, and the corrupt? Or was that expecting miracles, which might also take down a great many people who were only peripherally involved? In eagerness
to find the guilty, he could destroy the bystanders as well, those who were misguided, afraid, confused, guilty only of not understanding.

He had found no answers to any of his questions when he alighted. He paid the driver and walked across the pavement and in through the imposing doorway of Lord Ossett’s office.

He was received immediately. He had the distinct impression from Ossett’s lean and rather somber secretary that Monk was not so much paying a visit as obeying a summons.

Ossett was waiting in his office. He was a striking man, slender, a little over average height, and with a bearing that made it obvious that he had served many years in the army. He stood like a soldier, back straight, shoulders square, but quite clearly with the ease of an officer well used to command. Monk respected that whatever rank he had borne, Ossett did not now use it. He had no urge to impress.

“Ah,” he said with evident satisfaction. “I’m obliged you have come.” He did not even obliquely refer to the fact that Monk had had no choice. “I’m afraid we have a very ugly situation.” He waved his arm toward one of the well-upholstered leather armchairs near the classic fireplace, which was at present unlit and masked by a tapestry screen.

As Monk sat down, he noticed that above the marble mantel hung a four-foot-high portrait of what appeared to be Ossett himself as a young man. His face was quite plainly recognizable. His hair was thicker and several shades fairer, but the way it grew from his brow was exactly the same. He was handsome, his chin held high, a half-smile on his mouth. His military scarlet was immaculate.

Ossett sat in the chair opposite Monk, leaning forward a little so as to indicate the urgency of the matter. There was no time for the indulgence of relaxation.

“Lydiate tells me that you have discovered a serious flaw in some of the evidence against Beshara,” he said gravely. “Evidence that wouldn’t stand up to exposure, should you pursue your inquiries. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is,” Monk replied.

“Lydiate gave me some of the details, but I would like to hear it from you. Please be specific. If it really does cast doubt on the verdict, then it is so serious it would be hard to overstate the damage it could do.”

Monk recounted exactly what he had learned, and how.

Ossett listened to him silently, but with clearly growing concern.

“So if this is accurate, then Beshara
may
be involved,” Ossett said finally. “But we cannot confirm that he is the person who placed the dynamite on the
Princess Mary
.”

“No, sir,” Monk agreed.

“And have we any idea who did?”

“Not yet,” Monk answered. “I assume the investigation will have to be reopened.”

Ossett bit his lip. Monk noticed that his hands were tight, knuckles pale as he sat. He was deeply disturbed by the situation. All the comfort and familiarity of the office with its leather chairs, glowing Turkey carpet, shelves of well-used books on the history of the Empire, the exploration of the world and the arts and sciences of the mind, could have been another man’s possessions for any sense of comfort they offered him.

“I regret this,” Ossett said quietly. “But we cannot turn a blind eye to the new evidence. It would not be morally unacceptable to ignore it, even if we could. But it is a moot point. It will emerge somehow, sooner or later, and that will damage Britain’s reputation beyond anyone’s ability to repair. Some mistakes can be salvaged. This would be one that cannot.”

Monk did not reply. He knew that Ossett was speaking as much to himself as to Monk.

“This will be highly political,” he said at last.

Again Monk did not speak. He felt a deep sympathy for the man. He was caught in the horror of a dilemma that might be partially of his own making. He had acceded to the decision to take the case from the River Police and give it to the regular metropolitan force, although perhaps he had had little choice in that too.

“Yes, sir,” Monk said, not that his agreement mattered. He spoke to break the silence, and possibly even to indicate that he understood the burden, and the decision.

Ossett looked up at him. “You have a considerable loyalty to your men, I hear. Which is as it should be. A leader has no right to expect loyalty if he does not first give it.” His eyes were for a moment far away, as if he were thinking of other times, and other people. “The reputation of the Thames River Police, by implication, has been insulted. I know their history, and they are owed better.”

Monk looked at him questioningly, a sinking in the pit of his stomach warning him of something ugly to come.

“I regret taking this from Lydiate, but it has been too compromised for him to retain it.” His voice was tight, almost gravelly with his own dislike of what he felt forced to do. “But he is no longer in a position to handle the further investigation. I am handing it back to the River Police. It should never have been taken from you. It was a political decision, in light of the many foreign merchants and dignitaries who were lost on the
Princess Mary
. It is now painfully clear that it was a mistake.”

Monk had anticipated this news from the moment Hooper had told him Lord Ossett wished to see him. The whole issue was poisoned beyond any possibility of finding evidence uncontaminated by time, interference, emotion, or confusion. And—worse than that—when they failed, as they certainly would, the blame would rest with them, not the Metropolitan Police who had actually mishandled it. People would remember only that it was the River Police who had ended it in disaster, confusion, and injustice.

Ossett took a deep breath. “And now with this attack on Beshara in prison,” he went on, his face bleak with misery, “our reputation suffers even more. It was very severe. He is a sick man, and now he may not live. It will appear as if we deliberately allowed it to happen.” He lowered his eyes, no longer able to meet Monk’s gaze. “I wish I could be absolutely certain that that is not so.”

CHAPTER
 

H
ESTER KNEW THE MOMENT
Monk came in through the door that there had been a major change. There was something more than tiredness in his face: a mixture of surprise, anger, and resolution. If he did not tell her what had happened, then she would press him. But first she would pretend that she had not noticed and allow him time to choose his words and tell her when he had caught his breath, and had a cup of tea.

Actually he left it until after they had eaten, and they were sitting by the door to the back garden, open to let in the summer breeze. He was sorely trying her patience. Even Scuff was aware that something was amiss. He looked at her, then at Monk, started to speak, and changed his mind. He excused himself and went upstairs.

“What’s the matter with him?” Monk asked as they heard Scuff’s feet on the stairs.

“He’s wondering what it is you’re not saying,” Hester replied. “He won’t ask you … but I will. What is it?”

He gave a bleak smile. “You know me too well.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to stop being so evasive. It was not a time for word games. But from the look in his eyes it was too serious even for that.

“Wouldn’t you ask me?” she said more gently. “If I were so troubled about something?”

“That’s different,” he started, then realized his mistake. “I was finding the right words. I’m still not sure that I have them.”

“Try anyway,” she said, controlling with effort the fear mounting inside her.

He had not told her about McFee’s evidence. He did so now. She had been at Beshara’s trial. She did not need to have any part of its importance explained to her. The evidence against him had been cumulative. It was like a house of cards. To remove any part of it would make it collapse on itself.

“Who have you reported it to?” she asked quietly, trying to assess the weight of the problem, and the potential damage.

“Lydiate. He deserved to know. He told Lord Ossett, who sent for me.” He gave a little grunt. “And Ossett has given the case back to me.”

“You’re taking it?” She made it a question, although she knew the answer. The only alternative was one Monk would never have accepted.

“I have to,” he said flatly, but he was searching her eyes, not for answer so much as understanding as to why he had to.

“Where do you begin?” She said “you” deliberately, not because she did not intend to help, but because she would do it her own way, and not necessarily discuss it with him until such time as she had learned something of use.

“Back to the beginning,” he answered. “Ever since that night there’s been something at the edge of my memory. I didn’t know
whether it was important or just part of the general horror and sense of helplessness. But it came back to me when I was on the ferry. That evening Orme and I were rowing toward Wapping, but from the south. We were facing backward, as always, so we were looking directly at the ship, and she was faster than we were, and gaining on us. I was watching her, and I saw a man on the deck, and he jumped off into the water, just seconds before the explosion. Afterward I put it all together, as if he’d been part of the explosion, but he wasn’t. He leaped several seconds before.”

“Escaping …” she said slowly, realizing what it meant. “He set the fuse. Man? Just one?”

“Unless anyone went over the other side, away from us, yes, one.”

“Beshara did it alone?” she said doubtfully.

“I’m not sure now that he had anything to do with it at all,” Monk replied. “But whoever laid the explosives or detonated them in the first place, there are a hell of a lot more people involved now.”

She knew he was watching her, waiting to see if she understood all the things he had not yet said about the investigation and the trial, the commuting of the death sentence to life in prison, then the attack on Beshara in prison, which had so nearly been fatal.

She wished there were some way he could avoid accepting the case. The coldness inside her was fear, and there was no way at all she could think of to protect him.

She even played with the idea of asking him to find whatever solution they wanted, short of blaming an innocent man: to say it was an Egyptian who had escaped, gone back to the Middle East, a conspiracy of some sort, not involving anyone still in England; to say it quickly, before they knew beyond doubt that it was not true.

Then she was ashamed of herself. She might understand any woman who asked a man she loved to do such a thing, but it could only be because she thought his morality would allow it. Monk’s would not. She had known that since their first dark days together after the murder of Joscelyn Grey.

And what could she ever tell Scuff, if he knew she’d done that? Don’t do anything dangerous! If it gets really tough, to hell with the right. Just run away!