The Shifting Tide

by Anne Perry

  Durban turned around just as Monk reached the top. He was about to speak when he saw Monk’s face. Instead, he looked at the other man, a sullen, weary creature with one shoulder higher than the other. “Do it again an’ I’ll have you. Now get gone.”

  The man obeyed with alacrity, leaving Monk and Durban alone at the top of the steps in the wind.

  “What is it?” Durban asked. “You look like you’ve seen hell.”

  “Not yet, but that could be truer than you think,” Monk said with bitter humor. How could he laugh at anything now? Except, insane as it seemed, perhaps it was the only sanity left. “I need to talk to you alone, and it’s more important than anything else at all.”

  Durban drew in his breath, possibly to tell him not to exaggerate, and then let it out again. “What is it? If you’re going to tell me you were lying about the ivory, and that Gould’s innocent of the murder of Hodge, I already know the first, and I might believe the second, with proof. Do you have any?”

  Maybe telling the truth was going to be less difficult than Monk had thought, and facing Durban’s contempt was going to be more. Already, guilt was eating him inside. “It might be proof, but that isn’t what matters,” he replied. “It’s not quick, or easy to tell.”

  Durban stood motionless, waiting, his hands in his pockets. He did not ask or prompt. Somehow that made it harder. “There were fourteen tusks originally,” Monk began. “I found all of them on Jacob’s Island, and hid one as proof.”

  “An’ gave the rest to Louvain, which I presume is what you were hired for.” Durban nodded.

  Monk had no time to indulge in excuses. He was conscious of the other police in the boat a few yards away, and that any moment Orme might come up to see what was the matter.

  “I saw Hodge’s body when Louvain first told me about the robbery,” Monk answered. “It was my condition for doing the job that I found whoever killed him and handed them to you. I only looked at the back of his head, nothing else.”

  Durban’s eyebrows rose, questioning what any of this mattered. There was no open contempt in his face, but it lay only just beneath the surface. “Does this matter, Mr. Monk? His head was beaten in. What did you see that proves Gould’s innocence, or anyone else’s?”

  Monk was losing control of the story. Orme was out of the boat and on the steps, and any patience Durban might have had was slipping away. For the first time since he had resigned from the police in fury, he felt grubby for treating crime as a way of earning a living rather than a matter of the law. That was unfair; he solved the crimes other law officers did not, and he wanted to show Durban that, but there was no time, and no reason except pride.

  “My wife nursed in the Crimea,” he said roughly. “Now she runs a clinic for sick and injured prostitutes in Portpool Lane.” He saw Durban’s contempt deepening. It was difficult not to reach out a hand and physically hold him from turning away. “A few days ago Clement Louvain brought a woman to her who was very ill. It looked like pneumonia. Yesterday afternoon she died.”

  Durban was watching him closely now, but his face was still full of skepticism. He did not interrupt.

  “When Hester came to wash her body for the undertaker”—Monk found his breath rasping in his throat; please, God, Orme stay out of earshot—“she found what she had really died of.” He swallowed hard and nearly choked. Would Durban realize the shattering enormity of what he said? Would he understand?

  Durban was waiting, his brows puckered. He lifted a hand in a gesture to stop Orme, who was halfway up the steps.

  It was senseless to prevaricate. If Monk was not doing this the right way, it was too late to do it better now. “Plague,” he whispered, even though the wind was carrying his words to Durban, not to Orme. “I mean bubonic plague—the Black Death.”

  Durban started to speak and then changed his mind. He stood perfectly motionless, even though the wind was now cutting them both like ice on the skin. The air was still bright around them. The gulls circled above, the strings of barges moved slowly past on the tide going up to the Pool.

  “Plague?” His voice was hoarse.

  Monk nodded. “The rat catcher Sutton told me last night, late. He came to my house, and he’ll tell Margaret Ballinger, who works at the clinic too, but no one else. If he did there’d be panic. People might even try to burn them out.”

  Durban ran his hand over his face. Suddenly he was so pale his skin looked almost gray. “We can’t let them out!”

  “I know,” Monk said softly. “Sutton already has friends patrolling all the ways in or out with pit bulls. They’ll take anyone down who tries to leave.”

  Durban rubbed the heel of his hand over his face again. “Oh, God!” he whispered. “Who . . .”

  “No one,” Monk replied. “We’ve got to deal with it ourselves. Margaret Ballinger will do all she can outside—getting food, water, coal, and medicine to them, leaving it somewhere they can pick it up after dark. At least at this time of year the nights are long, and Portpool Lane’s well lit. Hester and the women already there will nurse the sick . . . as long as . . .” He could not bring himself to say the rest, even though the words beat in his head: as long as they live.

  Durban did not say anything, but his eyes were filled with a terrible, drowning pity.

  Monk swallowed down the terror inside himself, fear not of the disease but of losing everything he loved. “We have to find where it came from,” he went on, his voice almost steady now. “We don’t have the plague in England. The Maude Idris, which the ivory came in on, has just returned from Africa. It is Louvain’s ship. Louvain took Ruth Clark to the clinic.”

  “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.”

&n
bsp; “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, hesi
tated, 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.