by Anne Perry
He had no idea who his family had been. Fishermen, from the snatches he could remember. His own patterns of speech did not give him away, because he had schooled himself to speak like a gentleman. That much he had discovered about himself in some of the time when he had been obliged to find out, to learn from others who he had been, the mistakes and the enemies he had made. His were never complete memories, just flashes and things other people had told him. Perhaps his judgment of Harry Exeter had been based too much on who he was now, not considering that he might once have been very different. But Exeter himself would know! “Do you think Doyle could have been bribed by someone with an old score to settle?” he asked.
“It’s a brutal thing to do,” Hester replied. “If it was just for money, why didn’t they take the money and give her back? There’s more than money behind it, William.”
“I’ve asked him, but he doesn’t seem to know.”
“Have you considered that he might have a very good idea, but intends to get his own vengeance? It wouldn’t be unnatural. Or possibly that it is something he can’t afford to have the police know? Please, when you do find out who it is, be careful! Be very careful that Exeter doesn’t use you to lead him to the man behind it, and take his revenge before you can stop him.” Her face was tired and frightened in the lamplight, and, with her hair lying loose over her shoulders, she looked vulnerable.
Suddenly Monk could imagine very easily that if anyone hurt her, let alone did to her what they had done to Kate Exeter, he would want to kill them himself, with his own hands, tear them apart like the carcass of an animal.
“William!”
“I’m listening,” he answered. “Yes, I’ll be careful. But I owe him a debt, Hester. I made a promise to him, and I failed appallingly to keep it.”
She drew in her breath to argue; he knew what she was going to say. He put the tea down, leaned forward and kissed her, gently at first, and then more deeply.
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY, HE woke late and went straight to see Exeter again.
Exeter was in the hallway with his coat on and a heavy walking stick in his hand, about to go out. A look of intense relief filled his face. “I was coming to see you. I thought a lot about what you said. It’s a hard thing to face, Monk—and God knows, I have—but you were perfectly right.” He winced looking into Monk’s eyes in the clear light of the hall. “If you’re decisive, if you take life by the neck and fight, sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. But always there will be other men who long to do the same and haven’t the courage. They’re too afraid of pain and humiliation to take a chance. So they don’t win either…at least, never enough. You know what I mean, don’t you.” It was a statement of fact. “A man doesn’t hate your win, he hates himself because he could have done it, but can’t admit that. Didn’t you find that, on the Barbary Coast? You did…I can see it in your face. God help me, I never thought it would cost me this!” For a moment he turned away, and Monk stood still, knowing exactly what he meant and that he needed his moment of grief.
Exeter turned back to face Monk. “Kate was different. No one hated her—not anyone who would even think of something like this, let alone know how to go ahead and do it.” He gave a bleak smile and put the cane back in the stand. He took his coat off and hung it up. “Come inside, please.”
Monk took his own coat off and followed Exeter into the withdrawing room, where a maid was clearing the ashes out of the hearth.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll just be a few minutes. But the fire’s lit in the morning room.”
Monk went to the morning room as directed and was standing in front of the fire a few minutes later when Exeter returned. Without his coat on, he looked thinner, even stooped a little. He had aged visibly in the days since the murder. The vitality seemed to have drained out of him. Without asking Monk to be seated, he slumped into the chair on the opposite side of the fire.
Monk felt the guilt rising inside him, and tightness seized his chest.
“What is it?” Exeter asked. “You know something, or you wouldn’t have come again so soon. You are not responsible for me, you know.” He gave a ghost of a smile. “Perhaps one of your men did betray us, but we all put trust where we shouldn’t, at one time or another. You have to give a man the benefit of the doubt, until you have proof. I daresay he was not greedy so much as frightened. It is a terrible thing to fear for your own life.” His voice sank a little. “Worse to fear for the life of someone you love, who trusts you. Child? A mother or sister? You can blame them in the heat of your own loss, but when you think about it afterward, you understand, at least most of the time, your heart may be another thing.” He sat silent for a moment, watching while Monk struggled to find an answer that did not sound trite yet conveyed his understanding, even his respect for such a compassionate and forgiving view. He was not sure in similar circumstances he could have risen above the torment of his own grief.
Exeter was still looking at him when the ease left his face, his body stiffening, and he gradually leaned forward. “You have something to tell me, haven’t you?” he asked hoarsely. “You know that it was not just the money, or Kate; it was hatred for me. The money was to disguise that! So I wouldn’t start racking my mind to think of all the people who blamed me at one time or another, because I succeeded where they failed. Someone’s hate has grown monstrous, hideous, consumed everything in them that used to be good.”
“No…I…” Monk began.
“Don’t evade it,” Exeter said, a sudden gentleness in his voice. “It isn’t a kindness. I have to accept some…some creature from my past has let jealousy devour what was good in him, and…and destroyed any happiness and even his own sanity. I’ve been feeling it lately…not just thinking about it, although I’ve done that—of course I have. I’ve been followed sometimes, felt as if I’ve been watched. I suppose that makes sense. If I hated someone to that depth and saw their loss but left them living, hurting, aware of it, I would come to witness what I had done. Simply imagining it would not be enough. Eventually, I would have to see him, taste the pain in him, perhaps even let him know that it was I who brought it all on him.” He gave his head a little shake, as if it would rid him of something. “Maybe even make him physically afraid, wonder what I was going to do next.”
Monk was startled and worried. Was Exeter losing his grip on reality? Or was he possibly right? It made a certain sense. Monk had come here to ask him if he might have told Doyle any details of the plan to rescue Kate and hand over the ransom money. The demand for money had been their way into the case. It had made Exeter believe it was greed, and that he could buy his wife back again. It was an additional piece of cruelty.
Monk looked at Exeter again now and saw the fear in his face, in his body, the desperation in his eyes. What could he do? He had no men that Exeter would trust, and even if he did, he could hardly guard him night and day, indefinitely. The only answer was to find the truth, the man behind Lister, which was probably the man who had killed him, or the man behind that!
“Doyle is the answer,” he said. “I’m convinced of it and we’ll prove it. In the meantime, trust no one and avoid being alone wherever you can.
“And I would advise you not to go out unnecessarily, especially after dark. That’s a miserable restriction, I know, but please, God, it won’t be for long.”
Exeter sighed. “Thank you, Monk, you’re a decent man.”
CHAPTER
13
MONK LEFT EXETER WITH a new determination to follow the course of the money, and then Doyle. The only way to do that was to go and see him. He had obtained a letter from Exeter’s solicitor granting him access to certain of his accounts, so that Doyle would not be in a position to deny him.
He went in the middle of the afternoon and was told that Mr. Doyle was occupied at the moment, but if he cared to wait, Mr. Doyle would see him in half an hou
r or so.
He was given a rather bare room to sit in. He had the feeling it was not so much for his comfort as to keep customers of the bank from seeing him. He was certainly respectable enough in appearance, even rather elegant, which was a harder thing to be in the River Police than when he was a detective in the regular Metropolitan Police. He had always favored good tailors. He remembered with a twisted smile going to his rooms when he first recovered from the accident, knowing nothing of his previous life, to find the tailor’s bills. Thank heaven they were all marked as paid!
Working on the river was different. It was far more physical and frequently dirtier, because docks, by their nature, were places of salt, dust, dubious old timber, and packing materials. He was dressed in a better suit than he would normally wear. With his strong-boned face, slate-gray eyes, and grace of movement, he was a dangerous-looking man.
He did not blend in with the city-clothed businessmen who had come to the bank on financial affairs in their frock coats and pin-striped trousers.
Eventually a clerk came to fetch him to Doyle’s office and opened the door for him to enter. Doyle was sitting at his desk. He did not rise. Monk was in his domain, and he was not a potential client.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk.” Doyle inclined his head politely but did not use Monk’s professional title. “What may I do for you?”
Monk sat down uninvited. “Good afternoon, Mr. Doyle. I’m afraid I’m here regarding the tragic kidnap and murder of Mrs. Exeter.”
A shadow passed over Doyle’s face. His back stiffened a little. “I am afraid I can tell you nothing, Mr. Monk.”
Monk felt his body tighten. The man was clearly being obstructive, and the reason for it was becoming clearer every moment. “I have Mr. Exeter’s permission to see all his records that you have, Mr. Doyle. I am aware of your assistance to him in getting hold of a very large ransom amount. It was a very good service you rendered him. Although I cannot imagine him leaving his considerable amount of money in your bank, had you declined.”
“That is a disgraceful suggestion!” Doyle said furiously. “And totally without foundation. I cannot think of any honorable reason why you would make such a suggestion.”
“And since I have Mr. Exeter’s permission, I cannot think of any honorable reason why you would refuse to show me the accounts.”
“Because they would show not Mr. Exeter’s money, but amounts he paid to others that have nothing to do with this matter, and of course payments made to him. They concern other people who have not given you their permission, Mr. Monk!” Doyle snapped back.
“Do you not think it probable, Mr. Doyle, that all demands for so huge a ransom were made by someone who had knowledge of Mr. Exeter’s financial position? And that such money was lodged all in one place with you? And then, with a little maneuvering, you were able to lay your hands on it, at short notice? That is not public knowledge. In fact, if it were widely shared, it would hardly be worth your taking so much risk in keeping it from the police.”
Doyle’s face, which had been red with temper a few moments ago, now was drained of all color. “Are you accusing me of something, sir?”
“Nothing more than being pompous and obstructive,” Monk replied. “So far!”
Doyle pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up, banging his knee on the high side of the drawer and wincing with pain. “I shall have to get them from the safe and choose those that will serve your purpose, without revealing other men’s private affairs.”
“I’ll wait.” Monk sat back in his chair.
“Indeed, sir,” Doyle agreed. “But you will not do it in my private office!” Walking with a slight limp to the door, he held it open for Monk to leave.
Monk went out; he had no reasonable alternative. He would not have looked at any of Doyle’s other papers, but another man might have. And perhaps, if he thought that the key to Kate’s murder lay there, he might have also. But he would not have the time or the financial skill to have known that at a glance. It was Doyle’s job to keep them safe, and he would have thought less of him if he had not done so.
He waited on a seat in a hallway outside Doyle’s office. It was comfortable enough. He had been there only a few moments when Bella Franken walked past him, dressed in black and carrying a pile of ledgers. One slipped from her grasp and landed on the floor, almost at his feet.
He bent to pick it up for her.
She looked a little flustered. “Thank you, sir. I’m so sorry.” She lowered her voice even more. “Please meet me at the south side of the river, by the Greenwich Stairs, at half-past seven this evening. I’ll have the true papers for you then.” And before he could ask her anything further, she straightened up the files in her arms and hurried on. She disappeared around the corner without looking back.
Doyle returned with a few sheets of paper and opened his office door. “Please,” he said sharply, ushering Monk inside. “These are the papers you will need in order to see how the money was obtained so rapidly. They are exact copies. We cannot let the originals out of our keeping. Anyway, if you do bring a case against someone, you may need them. I don’t see why or how, but I presume you know your job. Or you employ someone who does!”
He gave the papers to Monk, who took them with an expression of thanks. Five minutes later he was outside in the street again, the papers tucked in his inside pocket, his head down against the rising wind.
* * *
—
AT THE POLICE STATION Monk studied the figures Doyle had given him, but he had to admit they meant little to him. He was familiar with ordinary accounting, but some of these on one sheet of paper and some on another did not mean anything to him but simple arithmetic and sums. All of them, as far as he could see, were correct.
Of course, Katherine’s inheritance was not included among these papers. It was a quite separate matter, and Exeter had no access to it. That had been a very specific part of the bequest. He imagined Exeter had found that insulting but not of any financial consequence to him. The amounts he dealt with were huge, and he was more than comfortably off. That, at least, was obvious.
* * *
—
BY LATE AFTERNOON MONK was tired and felt he had accomplished little. He went home early, so that he could eat something before going down to the Greenwich stairs to meet Bella Franken at half-past seven.
At quarter-past he set out, closing the front door behind him and walking in the crisp evening air. The wind had fallen a bit, and it was really quite pleasant. Still, it would be cold on the pier and he would not allow her to get chilled waiting for him.
It took him ten minutes going down the hill, and it was twenty-five past when he reached the stairs to the water. There were a couple of people waiting for the next ferry, a man with his coat collar turned up, pacing back and forth, and a woman with a shawl around her head, which hid most of her face. They acknowledged each other with a nod, but no one spoke.
Seven or eight minutes later, a ferry arrived. A man in work clothes got off, but there was no sign of Bella Franken. The man and the woman who had been waiting got on board. The ferryman looked at Monk.
“No, thank you,” Monk declined. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Right you are, sir.” He gave a salute, then took up the oars and pulled away. For a few yards, the pier lights lit the water off his oars and made the slight ripple of his passage bright; then he was gone, beyond the pool of light. And it fell silent again, except for the flutter of the wind moving a piece of rubbish across the open boards of the wharf and the whisper of the tide past the edges of the pier.
Quarter to eight. Where was Bella?
He wondered what she wished to tell him, or to show him. Was it more pages from a ledger that read differently from the one he had seen, or would she just explain the figures he already had? Doyle was deceiving him about something, he felt sure about th
at.
He was growing cold standing still. He began to pace back and forth, from one end of the pier to the other.
Was Doyle a go-between or an arranger for the kidnappers, a man who knew who was vulnerable? Did he know who had the ability, with his help, to lay his hands on the greatest amount of money? And who loved his wife enough not to put up a fight, to just pay it, without a struggle, to get her back? There would not be so many men in that category. For a start, few men ever had the wealth of Harry Exeter, and of those who had, much of it lay in property and investment that could not be liquidated immediately, whatever the need.
Was Doyle a willing participant? Or was he blackmailed in some way to do that? He gambled. Was it a far deeper problem than Hooper had been able to discover? If he slept with women of the street, who cared? So did many others. It was not a big enough matter to blackmail him to betray a client in such a way.
For a moment, Monk thought of other past cases, where people had done appalling things under pressure of blackmail. He and Oliver Rathbone had fought some of the worst imaginable.
Eight o’clock! Where was Bella Franken? Had something prevented her from coming? Even if she had found it difficult to catch a ferry, she should have been here by now! He would give her another fifteen minutes, then leave.
Without fully realizing it, he was watching the water, seeing the light reflected from riding lights on the ships at anchor, seeing the small boats moving, coming to the south bank or going back toward the north. Where was she?
He walked back toward the step again and looked down. The tide had risen, one step fewer visible from the water line to the top. There was more flotsam drifting by, bumping the stones. It looked like cloth, a bag of something thrown away.