by Anne Perry
The thought was gentle and only too easy to believe. He went to sleep with a smile on his face.
* * *
—
HE WOKE IN THE morning and made breakfast. He had no need of a landlady, and he was a very passable cook himself, although a woman came in to clean and do the laundry during the day. She had a key, and he seldom even saw her. The arrangement suited him well.
He had just begun to eat when there was a knock on the scullery door. He got up reluctantly and opened it, ready for a possible attack. He relaxed when he saw Laker in the light from the kitchen lamp. He stood back.
Laker was dressed in very ordinary working clothes, but he still managed to look neat. “Morning,” he said casually, stepping in. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast.” He sniffed and looked at the kippers on the table.
Hooper closed and relocked the scullery door, then returned to the stove. “Want a cup of tea?”
“Please,” Laker accepted. He sat down. “And a slice of toast, if you can spare it?”
“I suppose you want a kipper, too,” Hooper observed. “What are you here for, apart from breakfast?”
“My landlady doesn’t do breakfast at this hour,” Laker said with a shake of his head. “And I’m here to watch Lister with you, of course. Couldn’t catch up with you yesterday because I had no idea where you were. Thought it better to get a decent night’s sleep and start when I knew you were here. Did he do anything interesting yesterday?”
“Spent a lot of money,” Hooper replied, and told Laker what he had seen. While he was recounting the day, his mind was at least half occupied wondering why Monk had sent Laker in particular. Was it possible he had found something to prove Laker’s innocence? If so, Laker would be watching Hooper as much as he was watching Lister.
He took another kipper out of the pantry and fried it for Laker. Then he gave it to him, along with a slice of toast and a cup of tea.
He considered asking Laker about what Monk had said to him, but there was no way he could word it so that he would not sound suspicious. He was not sure that being so open about it would help. Laker was just frank enough to challenge him on the past he never spoke about. It was so very easy to feel suspicion, and lose sight of all the times they had been there to help each other, to share a risk, a triumph, a disaster, a joke, even a single cup of tea. He decided to keep silent. If this turned dangerous, neither of them could afford open enmity, whether it was based on an actual betrayal or just the psychological betrayal of thinking the other capable of such a thing.
Did he think Laker capable? Not the man he thought he knew. But then, how many layers were there that he did not even imagine? There was so much in his own past that no one knew; not even Monk, and certainly not Laker.
They spent the early part of the morning waiting for Lister to come out of his house. He took until half-past ten to get over the amount he had drunk to celebrate the previous evening. But then he left the front door at a brisk pace and walked down the street to find a cab on the main road. Hooper and Laker were fortunate to find a vacant cab to follow him. Twice they nearly lost him in traffic, and were surprised when he got out in South Kensington. He walked three blocks before going into a very nice restaurant and immediately over to a corner table, which had apparently been reserved for him.
Hooper glanced at Laker. Of the two of them, he looked more likely to be at home in such a place.
Laker simply nodded and went in. Hooper crossed to the opposite side of the street and waited. Did Monk have some idea where Lister might go that he had chosen Laker, who of all of them could most easily pass for a gentleman? Excepting Monk himself.
It was only just over forty minutes later that Lister came out, accompanied by a balding man, of middle age, discreetly dressed and carrying an attaché case. He looked nervous. He glanced around, as if to see who else might be in the street, then spoke quickly to Lister and shook his head with something that looked like distaste.
Lister smiled and, turning cheerfully, walked away.
Laker came out of the restaurant, glanced across at Hooper. Then without making any sign, he followed after Lister.
Hooper went after the man with the case, who walked rapidly, crossed the next street in the same manner, and only just missed being struck by an omnibus. Hooper had to stop for the vehicle to pass and then run to catch up with his quarry.
Eventually, they came to a small private bank and the man went in at the side entrance. Hooper waited nearly half an hour, but the man did not appear again. Finally, Hooper went inside and picked up a book off one of the tables. It advertised the financial services available. He looked over the top of it at the tellers and clerks going about their business. None of them resembled the man he had followed, except in the sobriety of their dress.
Finally, he asked if he might see the manager.
“Mr. Doyle is extremely busy, sir,” one of the clerks told him. “May I ask what it is concerning, and give him your name, sir?”
Banking was something Hooper knew very little about, and he did not wish to draw attention to himself and his ignorance. It might warn the man who had met with Lister, and who he now was almost certain was Roger Doyle, the manager. He noted the bank’s name and address and would report it to Monk. Could it be the bank that had helped Exeter finance the ransom?
He had no idea where Laker had followed Lister, and no way of knowing. He decided to return to Wapping and report the connection between Lister and Doyle. He was halfway there when he realized he was reporting to Monk directly, because he didn’t trust Laker to do it after they had met up again and reported to each other their findings. It was a sharp and painful thought. He had doubted some men’s competence before, but never their honesty. He fought a hard knot of anger against the man who had betrayed them, not only for the act of betrayal and what it had cost Kate Exeter and those who had loved her, but what it had cost the men at Wapping regarding their trust in each other. He had taken it for granted for so long that he had not realized how much it made up his view of the world, and his part in it.
It was Monk’s opinion that mattered to him the most. He had had to work to earn it. Monk had not doubted his abilities for long, as no man had before him, since Hooper was a young man. His trust came later and was much harder to earn, because Monk did not trust easily. Only when Hooper had learned of his accident, the loss of memory, and the whole reinvention of himself did he understand why. His isolation had been complete. He had had to build his relationships one at a time, trusting no one until tested and proven.
Hooper would not say that he knew Hester more than instinctively, but he would trust her with anything, more even than Monk. She was fierce at times, opinionated certainly, always loyal to the oddest people, but there was a gentleness in her, a willingness to forgive, to pick up the lost, to heal, that he would trust beyond the loyalty of any man. Would he lose that with the loss of Monk’s trust?
He would like to think not, but he did not want to put it to the test. It would hurt too deeply if he was wrong. Was that cowardly? If it was, so be it. There were some wounds one knew would be too deep, because of all the other things they meant.
By late afternoon, Hooper, having left a message for Monk at the Wapping station, was catching up on sleep before searching the pubs to find Lister again, when he heard sharp knocking on the back door. He rolled out of bed and went downstairs to stop the racket before it disturbed his neighbors.
He found Laker on the step, looking dirty and exhausted.
“Who was the man you followed?” Laker asked immediately, rushing inside and sitting down on one of the two hard-backed kitchen chairs.
Hooper pushed the kettle over onto the hob, then bent down and restoked the stove. Finally, he turned to face Laker. He was probably twenty years older than him, and he felt every day of it, but he also was deeply aware of the fear in the younger man. Anxiety
showed very plain in his features, now that he was too tired to guard it. The jokes and the banter were gone, all self-protection perhaps, but it was part of his nature. The man was ambitious, keen to prove himself. He had made the odd remark, lightly, about his brother, but Hooper had seen how deep the need was for Laker to prove that he could excel, even if it was in a very different field.
And there was more behind the need to succeed—something for Laker to prove to himself—but Hooper had no idea what it was, and no need to know.
“Laker,” he said.
“What?”
“The other man was a bank manager, small bank, but very nice offices. Lots of money there, I think. Very quiet, well-dressed people inside.”
Laker was paying attention now. “What was Lister doing with him?”
“I don’t know if we can find out. Banking’s very private.”
“We better tell Monk. He might be able to.”
“I did. At least, I left a message for him.”
Laker’s face shadowed for a moment, so fast it was almost invisible. “Didn’t trust me to?”
“If you were following Lister, you didn’t have time to.”
Laker smiled. He did not believe him, but he chose not to pursue it. Perhaps he didn’t trust Hooper either.
“Where did Lister go?” Hooper asked.
“All over the place,” Laker replied ruefully. “I lost him for a while, but most of the time I was behind him he was just enjoying himself, dining exquisitely, indulging himself.”
“How?”
“How do you think? He could afford the best.” Laker’s face showed a mixture of envy and disgust. “Then he went to a brothel down by the docks, and I lost him. I figured he probably was not going to do anything meaningful for the rest of the day. I’ve got to eat something and sleep. I feel like something a dog threw up!”
“I can see that,” Hooper said drily. “Want some stew? Mutton, potatoes, turnips, carrots?”
“Those yellow ones?”
“Certainly not! White turnips with mutton.”
For the first time, Laker laughed. “Right! Thank you.”
* * *
—
THEY CAUGHT UP WITH Lister the following morning, after a long, cold wait outside his rooms. It seemed he was making the most out of his wealth, particularly the luxury it afforded him of lying in on a cold, wet morning with a mist coming in off the river and the distant call of the foghorns every few minutes.
“I hope we’re not parked here all day,” Laker said with a shudder. “He’s in bed with some tart, while we’re out here freezing our backsides off.”
“He’ll get hungry sooner or later,” Hooper replied, hoping profoundly that it was true.
They did not have much longer to wait. Twenty minutes later, the woman came out, looking pleased with herself and clutching a good-quality coat around her shoulders as she passed down the street. Ten minutes after that, Lister came out himself, wearing his jacket collar turned up and his hat pulled down.
“Sure it’s him?” Hooper asked softly.
“Oh, yes,” Laker replied. “That’s his stride; turns his left foot in.”
“We’ll have to stay close,” Laker observed as they set out after Lister, who was already getting harder to distinguish in the mist. “Damn weather! If he gives us the slip for more than a few minutes, we could end up following someone else half the way to bloody Gravesend!”
Hooper agreed, but did not say so.
For over half an hour they followed Lister along narrow streets, occasionally cutting through alleys and then out again. Hooper wondered whether he was actually going somewhere, or if he knew he was being followed and was amusing himself. Were they being laughed at?
“Where the hell is he going?” Laker grumbled.
Then Hooper put his hand out and grasped Laker’s arm, pulling him to a sudden stop. The figure ahead of them had stopped also. Just beyond them, in the gloom, Hooper could see two more figures, one large, one considerably shorter. They could hear voices now, but not distinguishable words. All around them every surface was wet: the pavement of the dockside, the warehouses to the left, the cranes standing idle, towering into invisibility above them. The gutters were spilling over from the night’s rain; the unloaded kegs and bales piled to the right were waiting for cranes to lift them when the mist cleared; the rooftops disappeared into the fog. And everywhere were the sounds of the river water flowing past them, swirling in eddies where the current was broken by pier stakes or dock steps. And unlike darkness, fog distorted direction. Even the foghorns Hooper could place only because he knew where they were.
Suddenly, there was a scuffle ahead of them, a shout of pain, and then a string of curses. The figures bunched together, swayed, and then one of them slid to the ground and stayed there, motionless.
The two left standing lunged at each other. One swung his arm around, high over his head and then down again. There was a shout of fury and pain; then they locked together.
Hooper charged forward, Laker only a step behind him. They ran across the open space between them and the fighting men. Hooper had his cudgel out, ready to strike the attacker when the fellow was stunned and almost knocked off balance.
Laker was faster, lighter, and he caught up with Lister, who was climbing to his feet awkwardly. Before he was fully upright, another figure appeared out of the mist and struck the standing man with a short, sharp jab, and then another. The man doubled up, gasping as if he had been winded, choking for breath. He subsided slowly, helpless to fight back. The new figure moved swiftly toward Lister, who was still dazed.
Hooper realized what the man was going to do when he saw the flicker of light in his hand, only for a second. It was a large blade. Hooper kicked as hard as he could at the man’s kneecap. It was not where the man was expecting the blow, and he fell back, sideways, with a gasp of pain. Laker swung his cudgel at the larger of the two remaining men and then turned to Lister. But Lister saw his chance and, quick as an eel, he shot between them and slipped into the shadows, instantly invisible.
Laker started after him but took only two steps. He was leaving Hooper with three men. Admittedly two were weakened, but it was still too many. The man on the ground was getting up again.
“Come on!” Laker yelled. Lister had gone, and he was the only one they needed to catch.
The man with the knife hesitated. He was of average height at least and well built, although in the mist none of them could be easily recognized again. And this man would be impossible to identify, because the lower half of his face was muffled.
He stood still for an instant, then struck forward with the knife, missing Laker by a few inches. He turned on his heel and was gone into a deeper shadow cast by a stack of kegs. His footsteps sounded for a moment, then were gone. Fog swirled around him in a momentary drift and then closed again, thicker than before.
The two men who were left looked ready for a further fight. Was it just a dockside robbery gone wrong? Or the attempted murder of Lister? For what? Any number of things, most probably for some of the money he was flashing around. Did they know him?
“Arrest them,” Hooper said, suiting his action to his words and grasping the bigger of the two men.
Laker manacled the other and they walked them to the nearest local police station. But even though they spent the rest of the afternoon questioning them, they learned nothing. Both men swore they followed Lister because of the money he had been spending, intending to rob him. They had not expected his strength or skill in defending himself.
So who was the third man who had turned up, apparently to rescue Lister? Or had he intended to rob him instead? They had no idea. Lister was not there to press charges on all his attackers, and these men under arrest had not had the chance to steal anything.
Hooper acquiesced to the local police, letting them
go.
“What the hell happened to Lister?” Laker said as they left to go back to Wapping. The fog was still thick, and now the wind had risen slightly, drifting round them, one moment wrapping them in a thick blanket, the next opening up views a hundred feet long. Everything dripped. The icy air was heavy with unfallen rain.
“I don’t know,” Hooper admitted. “I don’t know whether the third man was there to help him or hurt him.”
“The more I learn about this, the less I think I know,” Laker admitted.
“I know I wish Harry Exeter had never crossed our paths,” Hooper said with intense feeling. He meant it with an all-pervasive sorrow. It had damaged his friendship with Monk, which mattered to him more and more as he realized the extent of it. It had robbed him of his trust in the men, all of whom but one were totally worthy of any loyalty he could give.
But it had also introduced him to a woman whose inner grace he could not entirely dismiss from his mind. And thinking of her made him realize how much was missing from his life, and would always be missing, because of one action on a merchant ship twenty years ago.
If he had it to do again, knowing what it would cost him, he might not. Yet he still felt it was the only thing he could have done and slept, at ease with himself, disturbed by fear but not by guilt.
Or, with some wisdom, more courage, would he have found another way?
“We all have secrets,” Laker said suddenly. “A man has a right to them.”
Hooper looked at him with a clearing of the fog and saw his face seeming older, without the usual humor. Perhaps he had been hurt, too, in ways he could not share.