by Anne Perry
“Yeah. Crow has treated some of his family. You’ve got no ground for thinking ill of him.”
Hester did not want to argue, but he was waiting for it, his eyes steady. When had he grown up so much? The answer to that she knew. Helping Crow, especially dealing with her friend from the Crimean War, who was so terribly wounded, both in mind and body. Will had had a violent dose of the reality of war and loss, and he had borne it well.
This time she smiled at him without the shadow. “Thank you very much.”
“I couldn’t find much about Laker, except he was in the army for a while. You might know someone who knew him then. He left…under a shadow. Don’t know what it was.”
So that was why Will had sought her out at the clinic, instead of at home. He would not say so, but he was afraid of what she might find. Was he afraid for Monk? Had he seen the vulnerability and known that Monk cared so much more than he pretended to?
Their eyes met for a moment. Will smiled and then looked away. He wasn’t prepared to share the extent of his loyalty to Monk, just in case she didn’t know. She felt the sudden sting of tears in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and hoped Will had no idea what she meant.
She finished up her list of supplies needed and put it in her pocket, then excused herself, saying she would make the purchases the next day. This afternoon she had another errand to perform.
* * *
—
SHE HAD ALREADY DECIDED exactly who to ask for help regarding Laker and whatever his tragedy might have been. Major Carlton knew, or had known of, almost everyone who had served in the regular army since the beginning of the Crimean War, especially if they were from the counties around London—the Home Counties, as they were known.
She found him where she had expected, sitting in his small front room by the fire, reading regimental histories from his vast collection of books. She had nursed him through a particularly painful injury, and he had not forgotten her patience or, more particularly, her discretion. A man’s moment of weakness or indignity was never referred to again, or spoken of to others.
His manservant let her in and then disappeared to make fresh tea and, if there were any left, a few jam tarts. It was not four in the afternoon, but exceptions could be made. A man should not be a prisoner of convention.
Carlton stood with difficulty to greet her. She did not tell him it was unnecessary. He disliked above all things being reminded that he was an exception to the general rules of courtesy. He did not wish to be an exception. Everyone knew it. No one spoke of it.
“How are you?” she said warmly. “You look well.” It was not a nurse speaking, but a woman. The nurse saw the strain in his face, the pain, the added stiffness, the loss of a little more weight, and could guess the reasons. The woman did not.
She sat quickly so he might follow suit.
“I want your help.” She came straight to the point. There had never been pretense between them.
He tried not to look surprised. “With what?”
She had thought very hard how to address this. Even with complete honesty, there were several sides to it.
He was waiting, interested, keen to be of use again, in anything.
“My husband is commander of the Thames River Police.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I keep up with you…and anyone who matters to you.” His expression darkened. “I know the terrible crime he is investigating.”
This made it more difficult, and at the same time, she was touched that he should still be interested in her life. Perhaps he had no one of his own. She could not remember his having mentioned anyone. Perhaps she should have come more often.
“One of the young men who works for him served in the army before joining the police. He is under a certain degree of suspicion, and I…I would very much like to clear him. He seldom speaks of his past, or his family. He will not say why. It may be something unhappy, rather than wrong. And it may be nothing to do with this current investigation.”
Carlton looked at her, also without pretense at belief. “Suspicion of what? Surely not of being involved in this…atrocity?”
“Of having to conceal something, maybe for privacy’s sake, his own or somebody else’s,” she answered. “If I knew what it was, it may well clear him of all suspicion.”
“And if not?”
“Then it might clear all the others who are also suspect.”
“Yes, I see. Who is this young man?”
She gave him Laker’s full name and date of birth.
She saw from his face that he did not need to think about it. “Yes, of course. A bit rash. A bit emotional. But a good man. I think he will do better in the River Police than in the army. More room for…individuality.”
“What did he do? I believe your judgment, but the commander will need more.”
“Long story, but I’ll make it brief.”
He was interrupted by the arrival of tea and a plate of raspberry jam tarts.
He resumed as soon as it was served.
“This is the truth…” he began, and told her all he had learned.
“Thank you. That…that sounds like the Laker I know. Arrogant, impertinent, brave…and vulnerable. Thank you, Major Carlton. These are most excellent tarts.” She looked at the huge bookcase. “Learned many good secrets recently?”
“Oh, yes! Yes…I can’t tell you…”
* * *
—
SHE TOLD MONK ABOUT her visit that evening. As it was late and he was weary, she related only the least of it, starting with what Will had told her of Bathurst and his family, then what Major Carlton had said. “…So you have no reason to doubt Laker,” she finished.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, too tired to go through the emotions of surprise, pretense, doubt, questioning.
She touched him gently. “You’re welcome. I rather like Laker.”
* * *
—
“I’LL FOLLOW UP ON the accounts,” Monk told Hooper the next morning. “Laker can handle looking into whatever is known about Lister. We ought to find something useful. There’s been a break-in at Johnson’s Warehouse, down on the south bank. Got to send Marbury and Walcott that way. I want you to find out all you can about the bank manager, Doyle. But be discreet, make up some story that won’t get back to him.” He stopped, his face gray. “He could be behind this, and on the other hand, he could be another potential victim, or one already!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Everything you can find out. Where does he live? Has he any income other than his salary? Does he own the house? Married or not, and has he a mistress on the side, or a more serious affair? If he’s married, what is she like? Extravagant? What children has he? Are there commitments to family, or past debts? Does he gamble? Drink? Anything? Has he spent money lately, or does he appear to have skimped? Debts? Who are his friends? What color socks does he wear?”
“What?”
“I want to know the man. Bella Franken is right. It looks as if he fiddled with the books for the exact amount of the ransom money for Kate Exeter’s life. That can’t be a coincidence. He’s involved somehow, knowingly or not, and willingly or not. We need to know.”
“Yes, sir.” Hooper was glad he had something definite to do, something that could possibly lead to progress. Everyone was on edge. No one spoke of the actual kidnap or murder openly, but the undercurrent of it was always there, the tiny instances of mistrust, the remarks that might have been all right but were taken the wrong way. There was no teasing, no irreverent humor, in fact very little humor at all. No one was overtly suspicious. In fact, if anything, they were overcareful, but it was in the air. Whoever was responsible, Hooper hated him for that. These men were as close as he had to a family, and it made him more aware of loneliness than he ha
d been in years. He found he was self-conscious of even the smallest acts of kindness, and thought perhaps people were unnaturally guarded with him, as if he were trying to conceal a reality, when the reality was friendship, the need to touch another person in thought at least.
Everything about investigating Doyle was easy to begin with. It was simple to discover where he lived. It was a pleasant house, larger than Hooper expected, but there had been several children, all grown up and gone. It would have been a good place for them to grow up, perhaps a little ambitious at the time. Doyle might have incurred some debt to own it. From the outside, it looked a comfortable and prosperous man’s home.
Inquiries of the neighbors and the local tradesmen took him until the early afternoon. Doyle sounded bland, a man with nothing exceptional about him, other than diligence in his work. He was ambitious and had risen to become manager of the bank, attracting many clients of great means, largely through his discretion and reliability, desirable qualities in a banker. An unremarkable man, easily lost in a crowd: in fact, boring.
Hooper caught himself with surprise that he should, in a way, condemn a man delineated by other people’s words. If someone were to make such inquiries of him, would they come up with the same answers: good at his job, but boring? No remarkable achievements, nothing to make him interesting or different, looked pretty much like what he was: a merchant seaman. Indeed, he might have risen in the ranks, but didn’t. They would not know why. No extravagances, no obvious weaknesses, no unusual relationships, all very ordinary. How facile to describe anyone like that! He knew how complicated he was himself, how full of dreams, regrets, wishes that he could not share, hopes that perhaps he would never realize. And loneliness.
Maybe Doyle was just as complicated if he could ever share those parts most men keep hidden, the soft inner core that so easily could be hurt.
He should look at Doyle again, with more imagination this time! Do the job properly, not merely fill in the blanks on a police record that could fit ten thousand men and touch the reality of none of them. He should look at him as if he liked him, as he had looked at the men he worked with and been afraid of what he might find, in case any of them were the one who had betrayed Exeter, and Kate, and all of them.
He worked into the evening, looking more carefully, listening to what was said, and even more to what was not said. He found a barmaid at the local public house where Doyle sometimes stopped for a drink on the way home, especially if he was tired and knew he had missed supper.
“Always came at the same time,” Betsy said, leaning on the bar and smiling patiently at Hooper.
He looked back at her. “Habit can be comfortable,” he observed, hoping she would understand what he meant. They had already established a certain rapport, because they had discovered that they both liked walking down the beach when the rare opportunity offered itself. Hooper had recognized Betsy’s Essex accent, which had quickly led to finding they loved the same parts of the east coast.
“Bless you, luv,” she said. “Not for me. Sounds too much like house rules, if you know what I mean? Bit like having the same thing to eat, depending on what day of the week, like. Hot roast on Sunday, cold meat and leftovers on Monday, shepherd’s pie on Tuesday, sausages on Wednesday—and like that.”
Hooper gave a little groan, which he knew she would understand.
“Exactly,” she agreed. “Sometimes it looks safe, like you lock the door at night so nobody can break in.”
“Or out?” he suggested.
She sighed. “You’re a wise one, you are!”
“Did Mr. Doyle want to break out?” Hooper asked.
“I think at times maybe he did. Or leastways, he daydreamed about it.”
Hooper wondered more exactly what Doyle daydreamed about. “Going to faraway places? Having adventures?”
“More like some of them fancy clubs up in the city. For gentlemen, like.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be special to belong to them.”
Hooper imagined the very ordinary Doyle thinking of such a place. Perhaps Harry Exeter had described one—or, better still, taken Doyle to one as his guest. “I expect he’s heard about them from his customers. Been there, even.”
“Should’ve seen his face when he told me about it.” She smiled, but there was a certain pity in it, a gentleness, because in her mind he would never belong, and she was probably right.
“I can imagine,” Hooper said quietly. “Never been to one myself. More comfortable here!”
She smiled and blushed very slightly, offered him another drink and, when he accepted, busied herself with pouring it.
Hooper spent the next morning following up on the various things he’d learned about Doyle. He seemed to have few friends, and they were largely within the banking business, people he had met because of his position. He dined with them occasionally, and at predictable places, such as local sporting clubs, a historical appreciation society, although he seemed uninterested in their journeys to local battlefields.
He liked good food but seldom tried anything new. He had made one journey across the Channel to France, several years ago, and never repeated it.
He went to the theater, but to Shakespeare, never anything modern. It substantiated the nature of a lonely man, trapped in progress in a job he did well, but always an outsider to the life his major clients enjoyed, which he could view only from a distance; see, but never taste.
Was he vulnerable enough to temptation to fall for it? Had it somehow gone beyond his grasp, out of his control, into a violence he never intended?
Hooper considered attempting to meet him without saying who he was but realized how difficult that would be, and how awkward. He could not pass himself off as a man who earned the kind of money to bank at Nicholson’s. And if Doyle were involved in the embezzlement, either by mischance of being drawn in or by inattention, then he was guilty from the beginning. If Hooper made the slightest error, it would warn him. Possibly Doyle even knew Monk’s men by sight. If one of them had betrayed the rest to him, he certainly would.
Instead, he decided to go speak with Harry Exeter himself, to see if he could reveal a side that he did not show when Monk was there. Monk understood the adventurer in him, and the man who had adored his wife. Perhaps Hooper would see something different.
To go at lunchtime would be clumsy. In the middle of the afternoon was more appropriate, and if Exeter was not in, Hooper would wait until he was.
That proved not to be necessary. Exeter was at home and seemed quite happy to see Hooper. He ushered him in and offered him a drink.
“No, thank you, sir,” Hooper declined as he thought he was meant to. It was a gesture of hospitality, not intended to be taken up.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Hooper? Have you any further news?” Exeter frowned slightly. He expected Monk himself to bring any, if there were, and his tone implied as much.
“No, sir, just a few further inquiries.”
Exeter could not conceal his interest. “What about?”
Hooper had the feeling he was stepping into dead water. Exeter had an air of power. He did not want to show it, except by casually exposing the things he had earned, his possession of more money than he needed to count. He asked for things as if he were accustomed to people being eager to please him, and he accepted them with grace, but no surprise. He still looked tired, as if his emotions were further beneath the surface but still just as consuming as the evening of Kate’s death.
How could it be anything else? He must still forget at times, and then remember again with all the weight of new grief. How long did it take a man to realize his wife was gone for the rest of his life? Did Exeter have any religious faith? Did most people, when it was tested to the breaking point? Probably, in some form or other. But in the dark, alone, in the middle of the night, when perhaps he would have turned to her, and there was only an emptines
s there, a cold sheet.
Hooper had always slept alone or with other ship’s crew. But it was not by choice. He could not involve a woman with the ghosts of his life and the probability that they would return. He could not ask anyone he loved to share that.
Exeter was waiting.
“We think the bank manager, Mr. Doyle, may have more information than he is aware of.” He watched Exeter’s face intently. He saw the tightening of the muscles, minutely, and the slow intake of breath.
“Really?” Exeter raised his eyebrows. “In what way?”
“Quite unintentionally,” Hooper said, choosing his words carefully. “I believe.”
Exeter sat quite still, not moving at all except for the slow intake of breath, and then the exhalation. “Unintentionally? Are you sure?”
“I have no reason to suspect otherwise. It is only a possibility to follow up. I am assuming this case is about money, sir. You have assured us that Mrs. Exeter had no personal enemies. Nothing more than perhaps the odd bit of envy because she was beautiful, charming, rich, and married to one of the…best catches in London, if I may put it so bluntly.” Again, he used exactly the words he meant and watched Exeter’s expression pass through awareness, amusement, apprehension, and then a moment of thoughtfulness.
“I believe that to be true, yes,” he said. “I…I hate the thought, but I have to face it, that my wife might have been murdered to get at me. I have enemies.” He waited, as if to see what Hooper would make of that.
Hooper must keep it impersonal, always with the proper respect, the little bit of distance that showed he never presumed to be equal. “Of course, sir,” he said gravely. “Many men must envy you, and envy is sometimes the beginning of hatred.”
“What are you suspecting Doyle of, exactly?” Exeter asked.
“I hope nothing. But he is your banker. He could be the person you might turn to in order to raise such a large sum quickly, in treasury notes rather than something less negotiable, such as deeds.”