The Shifting Tide

by Anne Perry

  “I know,” Durban replied steadily. “We don’t think anyone killed Hodge; he died by accident. And we know that Gould stole the ivory because we have it back.”

  “So wot d’yer want ’ere then?” Newbolt said irritably. “If yer wanter do summink useful, get bleedin’ Louvain ter unload this ship an’ pay us off!”

  “I want to see below deck, then we might do that,” Durban replied, watching him curiously, his face intent. “Where’s McKeever?”

  “Dead,” Newbolt said tersely. “We got the typhoid. Still wanna go below?”

  “I know you have,” Durban replied. “That’s why you’ve not berthed. Now open the hatch.”

  Newbolt’s eyes flickered and his head came up as if at last he was paying real attention. “Right! Wot d’yer wanter see?”

  “I’ll find it for myself,” Durban said grimly. “You stay up here.”

  “I’m coming wi’ yer,” Newbolt insisted.

  Durban took the gun out of his belt and glanced at Orme, who did the same. “No you aren’t.”

  Newbolt looked startled, then suspicious. “Yer no better than the bleedin’ Revenue men!” he snarled. “Bloody thieves, the lot o’ yer!”

  Durban ignored him. “Keep them here!” he ordered his men. “Shoot them if you have to.” There was no possibility whatever of doubting his intent. He took a bull’s-eye lantern from Orme and walked over to the hatch. Monk followed after him. As Durban reached the hatch he yanked it open, and the stench of the enclosed air caught in Monk’s throat, turning his stomach. He had not remembered it being so strong.

  “I’m going down,” Durban said, his face pinched with revulsion. “You stay here. I’ll tell you if I find anything.”

  “I’m coming—” Monk started.

  “You’re doing as you’re told!” Durban snapped at him. “That’s an order! Or I’ll have Orme hold you at gunpoint!”

  Monk saw in Durban’s eyes that there was no point in arguing, and no time. He stood back and watched as Durban swung over the edge, found the ladder, then took the lantern in his other hand and started down. He saw him reach the ledge and look up, his eyes dark in the small circle of yellow light. He knew as well as Monk did that had any of the jury seen the hold of the Maude Idris, they would have known that a man who slipped off the ladder would not land on the ledge, injure his head fatally, and then lie there. His body would have pitched off and gone on down, probably breaking his neck or his back when he hit the bottom.

  Then Monk turned and held the lantern out so he could see as much as possible of the stacked wood and the boxes of spice. As far as Monk could remember, peering down from the top, it all seemed exactly the same as when he had been there approximately three weeks before with Louvain.

  Durban went on down. At the bottom he stood still. He was directly above the ship’s bilges.

  Monk could not wait. He threw his leg over the edge of the opening and started down. Durban shouted at him, and he ignored it. He could not leave Durban alone with what he now dreaded they would find.

  Below him Durban knelt, holding the light only inches from the boards. The marks of a crowbar were clear.

  “Go back up,” Durban ordered as Monk reached the ledge above him. “It doesn’t need two of us.”

  Monk found himself shaking, and he had trouble swallowing the nausea from the sickening smell in the air. He ignored the command.

  “Do as you’re told,” Durban said between his teeth.

  Monk stayed exactly where he was. “What’s under there?”

  “The bilges, of course!” Durban snapped.

  “Somebody’s taken them up,” Monk observed.

  Durban’s eyes flashed. “I can see that! Get out!”

  Monk was frozen, unable to move even if he had wanted to. His skin crawled with the horror he imagined.

  “Get out,” Durban said, looking up at him, emotion naked on his face. “There’s no point in both of us being here. Pass me the crowbar from over there, then go back to the deck. I’ll not tell you again.”

  Somewhere in the darkness a rat dropped onto the floor and scuttled away. At last Monk obeyed, climbing up hand over hand until he reached the air and gasped it, freezing and clean, into his lungs.

  “What is it?” Orme said hoarsely. “What’s down there?” He put out his hand and half hauled Monk over the hatchway and onto the deck.

  “I don’t know,” Monk replied, straightening up. “Nothing yet.”

  “Then what are you doing back here? Why ’ave you left ’im down there? Smell o’ bilges got to yer, ’as it?” There was infinite contempt in Orme’s voice and in the curl of his lip, not for a queasy stomach but for a man who deserted another in the face of trouble.

  “I came back up because he ordered me to!” Monk said wretchedly. “He wouldn’t move until I did.”

  Orme stared at him coldly.

  “What’s ’e doin’?” the other officer asked.

  “You’ll find out when he wants to tell you,” Monk retorted.

  They looked at each other but remained silent. Newbolt and Atkinson were standing near the rail, sullen and anxious. Neither moved because the policemen’s pistols were at the ready, and there was enough firepower to stop both of them.

  The wind was whining more shrilly in the rigging. A large schooner passed going upriver, tacking back and forth. Its wake rocked the ship slightly.

  Finally, Durban’s head appeared above the hatch opening. Monk was the first to move, striding over towards him, clasping his hand and hauling him out. He looked paper-white, his eyes red-rimmed and shocked, as if he had seen hell.

  “Was it . . .” Monk said.

  “Yes.” Durban was shuddering uncontrollably. “With their throats cut, all eight of them, even the cabin boy.”

  “Not . . .”

  “No. I told you—throats cut.”

  Monk wanted to say something, but what words could possibly carry the horror that was in him?

  Durban stood on the deck breathing slowly, trying to gain control of his limbs, his racing heart, the trembling of his body. Finally he looked at Orme. “Arrest these men for murder,” he commanded, pointing at Newbolt and Atkinson. “Mass murder. If they try to escape, shoot them—not to kill, just to cripple. Shoot them in the stomach.

  “The third one is down below, possibly dead. Leave him. Just batten down the hatch. That’s an order. No one is to go below. Do you understand me?”

  Orme stared at him in disbelief, then slowly understanding came, at least partially. “They’re river pirates!”

  “Yes.”

  Orme was white. “They killed the whole crew?”

  “Except Hodge. I suppose they left him because he was married to Newbolt’s sister.”

  Orme rubbed his hands over his face, staring at Durban. Then suddenly he came to attention and did as he was commanded.

  Durban walked over to the rail and leaned against it. Monk followed him.

  “Are you going to arrest Louvain?” he asked.

  Durban stared ahead of him at the churning water and the shoreline where the tide was rising against the pier stakes and washing ever higher over the steps. “For what?” he asked.

  “Murder!”

  “The men will no doubt say he ordered them, even paid them,” Durban replied. “But he’ll say he didn’t, and there’s no proof.”

  “For God’s sake!” Monk exploded. “He knows these aren’t his crew! He has to know they murdered everyone, except Hodge! It doesn’t matter whether he knows it was because they had plague, or because they simply wanted to take the ship!” He gulped.

  Durban said nothing.

  “If Louvain paid these men,” Monk went on, turning to face Durban, the knife-edge wind stinging his face, “he must have been aboard the ship to do it. Someone would have taken him, seen him. There’ll be a chain of proof! We can’t let him get away with it. I won’t!”

  “There are a dozen arguments he can come up with,” Durban said wearily. “These are t
he men who killed the crew. We won’t be able to prove that Louvain even knew about it, much less ordered it. We can’t tell anyone his reason, and he knows that.”

  “I’m going to find him,” Monk said, rage almost choking the air out of his lungs.

  “Monk!”

  But Monk would not listen. If Durban would not, or could not, make Louvain answer for what he had done, then Monk would, no matter what it cost. He strode along to the ladder, swung over the rail, and scrambled down towards the boat, not caring if he skinned his knuckles or bruised his elbows. Louvain had cost Mercy her life—and seven other women theirs. It was only by the grace of God that Hester and Margaret had not died as well. It could have been half of London—it could have been half of Europe. Louvain had gambled that Hester would be prepared to give her own life to prevent it.

  He landed in the boat. “Take me ashore!” he ordered. “Now!”

  The oarsman took one look at his face and obeyed, digging the blades into the water with all his strength.

  As soon as they reached the shore, Monk thanked him and stepped out, his foot sliding on the wet stone. He grasped at the wall and went up as fast as he could. At the top he turned straight for Louvain’s office without even glancing behind him to see the boat begin its journey back.

  “You can’t go in there, sir, Mr. Louvain’s busy!” the clerk shouted at him as he went past, bumping into another clerk with a pile of ledgers and only just avoiding knocking the man over. He apologized without turning around.

  He reached Louvain’s office door, lifted his hand to knock, then changed his mind and simply opened it.

  Louvain was at his desk, a pile of papers in front of him, a pen in his hand. He looked up at the interruption, but without alarm. Then he saw Monk and his face darkened.

  “What do you want?” he said sharply. “I’m busy. Your thief got off. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  Monk had to make an intense effort to control himself, even to keep his voice from shaking. He realized with amazement that part of him had respected Louvain, even liked him. It was that which made his rage so nearly uncontrollable now. This was the same man who had been dazed by the beauty of the great landscapes of the world, who had longed to sail beyond the horizon in the great clippers with their staggering beauty, a man he had almost confided in.

  “Did anyone tell you that your sister died?” he asked instead. He was not even certain what made him say it.

  Louvain’s face tightened. It hurt him, and he could not conceal it. “She was very ill,” he said softly.

  “Not Charity . . .” Monk saw Louvain’s eyes widen. In using her name he had at once told Louvain how much more he knew. He drove home the far deeper pain. “I meant Mercy. You knew Charity would die when you took her to Portpool Lane, and you didn’t care. Seven other women died as well, and we’d all have died if Hester and the others hadn’t been prepared to sacrifice their own lives to keep it in.”

  Louvain was staring at him, his eyes wide, his hands on the desktop white-knuckled. “You’re speaking as if it’s over?” he said hoarsely.

  “In Portpool Lane it is.”

  Louvain leaned back and let his breath out slowly. “Then it is over everywhere.” His body went limp. He almost smiled. “It’s finished!”

  Monk forced his next words through clenched jaws. “And what about the crew of the Maude Idris? McKeever died of it, and so did Hodge. How about the rest of them?” He watched Louvain intently.

  “If they haven’t got it now, they won’t,” he answered, and Monk saw barely a flicker of regret in his face.

  “Let’s go and see,” Monk suggested, straightening his body, his hands sweating, his breath uneven.

  “I’m busy,” Louvain answered. His eyes met Monk’s, and they stared at each other across the silent room. Monk thought of Mercy, of Margaret Ballinger, of Bessie and the other women whose names he did not know, but mostly of Hester and the hell it would have been for him without her.

  Louvain became aware of a change in the air between them. He sat back. The moment of understanding was gone. They were enemies again. “I’m busy,” he repeated, challenging Monk to act.

  Monk wanted to smile, but his face was stiff. “Come with me to see them now,” he said softly. “Or shall I tell Newbolt and Atkinson what kind of a ship they’re on? Do you think they will wait there then? Don’t you think they’ll hunt you down anywhere, everywhere, for the rest of your life?”

  Louvain’s skin blanched of every trace of color, leaving him gray-white. He drew in his breath to defy Monk, but knew that his face had betrayed him.

  This time Monk could laugh; it was a grating sound choked inside him. “You know what they are!” he said. “You know what they’ll do to you. Now are you coming, or do I tell them?”

  Louvain stood up very slowly. “What for? You’ll get nothing, Monk. You can’t prove I knew. I’ll say I paid off the others at Gravesend and these men brought the ship up to the Pool.”

  “If you like,” Monk replied. In that instant he knew exactly what he was going to do; the resolve inside him set like steel.

  Louvain sensed the change, and he also knew that he could not fight it. He straightened up and came around the desk. He was moving slowly, with the tense, animal grace of a man who knows his own physical power. “What if I say you attacked me?” he asked almost curiously, as if the answer did not really matter.

  “You won’t,” Monk replied. “Because by the time you show there is any truth in that you’ll be dead. I will have shot you—not to kill! In the stomach. And Newbolt and Atkinson will still be there. McKeever’s dead, by the way. Plague, I imagine.”

  Louvain stood still. “What do you want, Monk?”

  “I want you on the Maude Idris. Go ahead of me—now!”

  Slowly, both of them moving as if wading against the tide, they went out through the office. Clerks looked up but no one spoke. Louvain opened the outer door and winced as the icy air struck him, but Monk allowed him no time to collect a coat. There might have been a weapon in the pocket.

  They walked across the street and onto the quayside, Louvain shuddering with cold. It was a brilliant afternoon, the sun low in the west in the shortening day, light dancing gold on the water.

  They had only a few minutes to wait for a boat, and Monk ordered the oarsman to take them out. Neither of them spoke as they sat, the waves slapping against the wood of the hull. The occasional spray was like ice.

  When they reached the Maude Idris, Monk told Louvain to go up the ladder, then followed after him. Durban was alone.

  Louvain looked startled. He swung around to Monk.

  Monk took the gun out of his belt. “I’m taking Mr. Louvain down to see the crew,” he told Durban. “May I borrow the lantern again?”

  “I’ll take him,” Durban answered. “You stay up here.”

  Monk stared at him. He looked exhausted, his face flushed, his eyes sunken. “No. I’m doing this. Besides, the state you’re in, he might jump you.”

  Durban started to argue, and Monk pushed past him, thrusting the lantern into Louvain’s hands. “You go first!” he ordered. “All the way down. If you stop I’ll shoot you, and believe me, I will!”

  Durban leaned against the rail. “Don’t be long,” he said. “The tide turns in a quarter of an hour. I need you to go ashore then.” There was a finality in his eyes and his voice.

  Louvain started down the ladder and Monk followed, one hand on the rungs, the other awkwardly holding his gun. He had to do this. He had to see Louvain’s face when he stood in the hold and looked down into the bilges. Monk needed him to smell the plague, to breathe it in, to know the stench of it so that for the rest of his life it would stalk his dreams. As an old man he would wake screaming, soaked in sweat, enclosed again in the creaking, rolling ship with the corpses of the men he had had killed.

  The smell was far worse. It was like a thickness in the air as they went down, hand over hand towards the ledge.

  Louvain
stopped. Monk could hear his breathing—gasping, labored. He looked down at his face and saw the sweat standing out on it, his eyes like holes in his head, sockets dark.

  “Keep moving!” Monk ordered. “What’s the matter? Can you smell them?” Then as he looked past Louvain at the open bilges where Durban had torn up the wood, his stomach heaved so violently he nearly lost his grip on the ladder. The boat swayed in the wash of something passing, and the water in the bilges slopped forward, carrying the bloated head and shoulders of a dead man. His eyes were eaten out, and his face rotted, but the fearful gash in his throat was still plain, and the stench so overpowering it made his senses swim.

  “That’s your crew, Louvain!” Monk said, gasping to control his nausea. “Can you smell the plague? It’s the Black Death!”

  There was a scrabbling of clawed feet and a flurry of squeaks, then a rat dropped into the bilges with a plop.

  Louvain screamed and flung himself upwards, the lantern falling from his hands to land with a crash, and the light went out. Louvain was still screaming.

  Monk started up again, desperate for the air. He reached the ledge, panic welling up inside him, horror inconceivable at what lay below him in the dark, and the madman at his heels.

  He saw the square of sky at the hatch darken for a moment as Durban began down.

  “We’re coming up!” he shouted. “It’s all right!”

  Durban hesitated.

  Louvain reached the ledge and Monk realized it half a second too late. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and then Louvain’s arms were around him, clinging as if to squeeze the air out of him, break his ribs, and crush his lungs and his heart.

  He could not escape. His only choice was to lunge forward with his head. Louvain did not let go. Monk twisted sideways and bit Louvain’s wrist as hard as he could, feeling his teeth break skin and his mouth fill with blood.

  Louvain yelled and his grip loosened, but he was blind with terror. He swung at Monk, but Monk moved and caught only a glancing blow on the shoulder.

  “You had their throats cut!” Monk gasped out. “Even the poor bloody cabin boy!”

  “They’d have died anyway, you fool!” Louvain said between his teeth, his hands reaching for Monk’s throat. “But I couldn’t tell anyone that. If you’d had the stomach for it, you’d have done the same!”