Blood on the Water

by Anne Perry

  Hooper gave him a sudden, wide smile. “Long time ago. When I was at sea.” He passed the sketch back to Monk. “We’ll find that boat, unless they scrapped her. Even if they did, someone’ll know who had it. We’re a whole lot closer.”

  Orme looked at Monk, his blue eyes narrow, careful. “You still look rough, Mr. Monk. They damn near killed you, not to mention Rogers. Innocent man, an’ it’s all the same to them. But they took a risk, right out there on the open water, and still almost daylight.” He shook his head. “You never said where you were that day, or the day before. Who’d yer get so close to that they did that?”

  Monk hesitated. It had been going around in his mind and he was not yet sure if he wished to tell anyone else. It was ugly, and he was uncertain. And at the back of his mind he was aware how close he had come to being killed. It was dangerous knowledge. He did not want Orme to see how rattled he was, how suddenly the knowledge of death had made life almost unbearably sweet. For years he had avoided such awareness. It was crippling, robbing him of the nerve he needed to do his job.

  Orme was still looking at him, almost unblinkingly.

  “Someone you respect, sir?” Hooper put it into words. “You don’t want it to be true?”

  Monk was startled. He also owed Hooper better than this. “Not at all! I don’t want it to be true because it would go so deep and maybe so far to the top that we’d bring down a lot of people, if we could prove it.” That also was totally true. The rest—the doubts, the knowledge of pain and fallibility—a man fit to lead kept to himself.

  “And if we couldn’t?” Orme asked.

  “Maybe they’d bring us down,” Monk replied quietly.

  Hooper tensed. He was a big man, rangy, usually quiet, but now his anger was palpable in the air. “Can’t let that happen,” he replied. “We can’t let ourselves be beat, or there’s no more decency left. No one’s safe.”

  “You’re right,” Monk agreed. “We have to win. Find that—what did you call it—‘seahorse’? Quietly. Find who owns it, who uses it, and be very careful. Remember, they’ve already killed close to two hundred people. They won’t think twice about killing you, if they think they need to.”

  Orme drew in his breath to make light of the idea, then changed his mind. Since the birth of his granddaughter, life had become sweeter to him also, and more precious. Nothing was to be taken quite so lightly.

  “Yes, sir,” he agreed, and Monk heard the gravity in his voice.

  MONK HAD RETRIEVED THE passenger list from the Princess Mary again, and was happy to sit down to study it. He was annoyed with himself for feeling so tired, and he was increasingly aware of how persistently his ribs hurt. He was unpleasantly conscious of every breath.

  Certainly he worked hard. He had many late nights and early mornings. He was often tired, and far more often than most people, he was cold and wet. Working on the river was arduous and sometimes dangerous. But he was in the best health he had been in his life. He could row all day and be no more than agreeably tired at the end of it. He could always afford to eat, and his house was warm and extremely comfortable. He did not worry about being able to keep it.

  Above all, the deep, wounding loneliness that had dogged his half-remembered past, the dark places within himself that he dared not look at, were no longer there. He had done nothing to earn or deserve such wealth. The fear of losing it, of being somehow unworthy, was more frightening than anything his past imagination could have created. No one could deserve such riches, but one could at the very least treasure them.

  He had to avoid the thought but it was there in his mind—pervasive, undeniable—that he must take the risks his duty demanded. It was the price of all he valued. Second best was never, ever good enough.

  He read the passenger list over carefully, then again, even more carefully. He already knew who most of these people were: ordinary men and women who had saved up to take a river cruise perhaps to celebrate some special occasion—a birthday or anniversary, an engagement, anticipation of a happy future. Could he exclude all the families from suspicion? Most of them came from parts of London close to the riverbank. Their families would be known to neighbors, their lives easily investigated. They were shopkeepers, clerks, petty government officials in town halls, merchants who had done well, good tradesmen.

  Hester had told him that there were also street women paid to attend. They must have been for the bachelor groups, and perhaps wealthier men who had not taken wives or fiancées with them. Which among them could have any imaginable connection to the explosion?

  Comparing those with the lists of the dead was the place to start. The victims had all been identified and buried. In some cases their affairs had been settled and their circumstances known. He could probably rule out a hundred people that way.

  It took him the rest of the day to be certain of his conclusions, and it was well into the following morning before he could look at the remaining fifty-six people and begin to see which among them might have been the intended victim—if that theory were indeed reasonable and not a product of his desperate imagination.

  He was looking for wealth—connections of any sort with Egypt or the Middle East in general: investment in shipping, either to own or to use the great cargo vessels that sailed around the Cape of Good Hope to India, China, or the great trading ports such as Singapore and Hong Kong.

  Interests in passenger liners must be included, and possibly connections with South Africa and the ports along its coast, which would no longer be used by ships taking the vastly different and faster route through the Mediterranean and the new canal. It was tedious and time-consuming, but he could not afford to miss any detail.

  He was so tired his eyes felt gritty, and he was on his fifth or sixth mug of tea, feeling the whole exercise was pointless, when Hooper came in. His face was lined, his shirt grimy and jacket hanging loose, but there was a spring in his step.

  Monk looked up at him, the papers sliding out of his hands. Suddenly his mouth was dry. He took a breath, and then did not ask.

  “Got him,” Hooper said, his face lighting with a rare smile. “Feller called Gamal Sabri. Egyptian. Been over here for several years, but still got strong connections to the places along the new canal route.”

  “For hire?” Monk asked, sitting upright again. “Or for himself?”

  “For hire.” Hooper sat down in the seat opposite Monk’s desk, sprawling a little as if he were too tired to sit up straight. “Nasty little bastard. Got a few other marks against his name, but nothing we could prove before.”

  “Can we prove this?” Monk felt his muscles tighten. He could not bear the thought that they might actually know who had sunk the Princess Mary and not be able to convict him of it. It was only an idea on the edge of his imagination, yet already he was thinking of ways to get around a lack of proof and still get a legal verdict against Sabri that would withstand any appeal. He despised himself for it. It was frightening that he could entertain the thought so easily. “Are you sure?” he asked Hooper.

  Hooper nodded. “Yes, sir. Found the boat. Called the Seahorse. Got the painting on the back just like your drawing, but more than that: the bow’s been smashed in and repaired within the last few days. Good job done, but the paint’s still different, and you can see it. It’s for show. Took a good look inside, and it’s been hit pretty hard. Can’t tell at a glance, but you can if you look.”

  “How is this Sabri connected to the boat?” Monk was almost afraid to ask. They were all too keen to succeed, he most of all.

  “He owns it,” Hooper said. “Lots of witnesses that he was out on the night of the Princess Mary sinking, well before anyone was called to the rescue. He was on the water when it happened. And we did check to make sure no one reported the boat stolen.”

  “And on the night it rammed us?” Monk asked, beginning to feel the weight lift from his mind, and a warmth inside him as if he had had a shot of brandy.

  “Sabri was out again,” Hooper replied. “And again
, no report of the boat being missing or anyone borrowing it. Got statements from people who saw him go out in it, about an hour before you were hit.”

  Monk found he was smiling too. “Why? Any idea why Sabri would sink the Princess Mary?”

  “Because somebody paid him to,” Hooper said sourly. “He’s settled up a good few of his debts since then. Quietly. No flashing nothing around. But a few collectors that were after him aren’t anymore.”

  Monk allowed himself to relax. “And where is he, this Gamal Sabri? Don’t tell me we don’t know …”

  “Yes, we do. Left a man watching it, but it’s like a rabbit warren down there. Best to take him at night.” Hooper glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It said half past seven. “Tonight, sir. Before he gets wind of it tomorrow. We should take half a dozen men. He won’t be alone and he has to know that the rope’s waiting for him.”

  Monk rose to his feet. “Pick your men. Well done, Hooper. Any idea when Orme’ll be back? He went upriver. I dare say he won’t have found anything …”

  “You can tell him when he comes.” Hooper stood as well. “I’d best be starting. Dusk is a good time …”

  “We’ll take Mercer and—”

  Hooper stopped still. “No, sir. I need your permission to go get him, but you’re not coming …”

  “Who the hell do you—” Monk began.

  “You’re injured, sir, and you’ll get in the way. Somebody’ll be too busy looking out for you to do his own job. I may not be able to stop you, but I’ll try.” He stood squarely in front of Monk, unmoving as a wall, his eyes hard.

  Monk faced him.

  “They’re my men too,” Hooper said quietly. “I owe them to look out for them. Not run them into danger they don’t need. We’ll get him to the police jail. Break his legs if we have to. He won’t get away.” He did not add, “Unless you move too slowly and give him a hostage to take,” but it was in his face.

  Monk could give in either with grace, or without it. Or he could make a really bad command decision and lose the confidence of his men, and insist on coming. It might even be a fatal mistake for the case.

  “Right,” he said quietly. “I’ll wait here. I want to know when you’ve got him.”

  “You should still be at home, sick,” Hooper told him. “Go back there now. I know where Paradise Place is. I’ll come and tell you.”

  “Stop treating me like a child!” Monk snapped at him.

  Hooper grinned. Even his eyes were bright. The retort was in his face, but he did not make it. “I’ll see you later,” he said, and went to the door.

  Monk tidied up his papers, left a note for Orme, then took his jacket off the hook and went out.

  AN HOUR LATER HE was sitting in the parlor in his own house. He was so tired he longed to sleep, but he felt compelled to stay up until Hooper should come.

  “How did Lydiate go so wrong?” Hester asked. She looked up at him from the sofa, where she was sitting sideways with her feet curled up half underneath her.

  “I didn’t remember the painting of the seahorse on the boat I saw,” he replied regretfully. “And of course it hadn’t rammed us then.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she replied, shaking her head. “It can’t be so easy to get the wrong man, and come so close to hanging him, just from the lack of one clue. Are we ever sure we have the right person, if it’s this simple to be wrong? And how many innocent others have we punished for crimes they didn’t commit, if that’s the case?”

  “I know,” he admitted. “We quite often get confessions, once the evidence is in. But not always.”

  “But was Beshara guilty at all?” she asked. “I know he’s apparently an unpleasant man, but that’s irrelevant—or it should be.”

  He smiled at her sleepily. “Sometimes you’re more innocent than Scuff.”

  “There was a pretty big cover-up, wasn’t there?” Her face was grave.

  “Probably,” he agreed, moving a little in the seat to ease the ache of his ribs.

  She stood up and very gently moved the cushion behind him to make him more comfortable. Then she went back to the sofa and curled up on it herself.

  It was after midnight—closer to one in the morning—when there was an insistent knock on the front door. It was a moment before Hester realized what it was. By then Scuff had pattered downstairs in his nightshirt and was standing in the hall, troubled but wide awake.

  “It’s all right,” she assured him. “It’s probably Hooper come to say they arrested the right man.”

  Scuff did not move.

  “It’s all right,” she said again, more gently. She saw the fear in his face and felt a stab of guilt for it. They should have protected him from disturbance this late in the evening.

  The knock came again, more heavily.

  There was no time to say anything now. She unfastened the bolt and opened the door.

  Hooper was standing on the step. His face was pale even in the yellow light from the hall, and there was blood on his shirt under his old pea jacket.

  Hester stepped back immediately, her fear now even stronger than Scuff’s. “Come in. Come to the kitchen. Scuff, get hot water and towels.” She held out her hand to Hooper as if to steady him, although he was probably about twice her weight. “Come with me.”

  “I’m all right,” he insisted, but he came in through the door staggering a little.

  She led him along the passage to the kitchen and he followed without speaking again.

  “Sit down,” she told him, pointing to the hard-backed chair closest to the table and away from the stove. The last thing she wanted was him passing out and falling against the hot surface.

  Scuff was busy somewhere behind her. He passed her towels without being asked.

  She eased Hooper’s jacket off gently and saw where most of the blood was.

  “Is that it?” she asked. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “I’m all right,” he said again, but quietly and with less certainty in his voice.

  “Don’t argue,” she said firmly. She took the scissors out of the cutlery drawer and began to slice away his shirt to expose the wound in his shoulder.

  “That’s a good shirt!” he protested.

  She did not bother to reply, but took the basin of hot water from Scuff and began to clean the excess blood away and expose the jagged tear in the flesh. She heard Scuff gasp, and then quickly recover. She did not turn to look at him.

  “It’s not bleeding too badly,” she told Hooper. “But it would be a good idea to put a stitch or two in it. You could very easily pull it open again accidentally.”

  Hooper’s eyes widened.

  “It just takes a needle and some strong, clean thread. I’ll sterilize it, I promise you.” She continued, “Scuff, would you please fetch me the brandy, and my sewing basket from the parlor? If you can do it without wakening Monk, that would be good.”

  “Yes,” Scuff said, swallowing hard. Two or three minutes later he was back again, holding out both the basket and the brandy.

  “I don’t like brandy,” Hooper said between his teeth.

  “It isn’t for you,” Hester smiled at him. “It’s for the needle and the thread. Now please sit still. It will feel unpleasant maybe, a bit of pulling, but it won’t hurt nearly as much as the stab did.”

  Hooper clenched his teeth, but apart from a slight grunt he neither moved nor made a noise.

  Quickly and deftly, Hester washed the wound with the spirit. Then with Scuff’s assistance she threaded the needle with linen and stitched up the wound, drawing the sides together carefully. Finally, she knotted the finished work and cut off the ends.

  “There,” she said, looking at Hooper’s ashen face. “In a few days, a week or so, I’ll take them out. In the meantime you should go and see a doctor named Crow. I’ll give you his address. Tell him who you are, and that I sent you. He’ll be happy to help. Are you still sure you don’t like brandy?”

  “I might manage to swallow it d
own,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thank you, ma’am.” He looked at Scuff. “And you too.”

  Scuff smiled but had no idea what to say.

  “You’d better stay here for tonight,” Hester went on.

  “Yer can have my bed,” Scuff said quickly. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “Thank you,” Hester said to Scuff. “That’s an excellent idea. Now we should all go to bed. It’s halfway to morning already. Mr. Hooper, Scuff will show you upstairs. I will come to see you through the night, just to make sure you aren’t feverish. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m a nurse, and used to wounded men.”

  Hooper nodded very slowly, and then, with Scuff at his side, ready to help, he went up to bed.

  OVER THE NEXT FEW days the newspapers were full of the arrest of Gamal Sabri, and the questions it raised as to the original trial and conviction of Habib Beshara.

  How much of that error had been incompetence, and on whose part? Lydiate, who had been in command? Or the Metropolitan Police in general? The entire idea of a police force was relatively new; doubts were raised again as to whether it was a good one, or did society require something different? Those who could remember the original “peelers” were still alive, having objected then to their power, and the consequent invasion of privacy to the respectable citizen.

  Monk swore under his breath, and then continued reading. He was at his desk in Wapping, still sore, and more easily tired than he would wish, but well enough to be back working a full day. Hooper he could order to stay at home until he was better recovered, although he was doing well. This he heard from Hester, who insisted on visiting him regularly, since he had no family and she did not trust him to care sufficiently for himself. She had actually asked Monk if he thought Hooper would stay for a few nights at the clinic, but Monk had been unequivocally certain Hooper would refuse.

  The newspapers all went on to speculate that if the police were not incompetent, were they then corrupt? Or did the corruption possibly lie in the judicial system? If they were both competent and totally honest, then how had an innocent man been convicted and sentenced to death? In fact how was it that his guilt had never been seriously questioned? Might such a thing happen to any man? Or woman, for that matter? How safe was anyone at all?