by Anne Perry
“I was the first mate then.” Hooper spoke quietly, more as if he were avoiding an old wound than to keep him from being overheard.
Monk was unsurprised. He himself had been to sea, but he knew it only in second-long flashes. However, he did remember that first mate was next after the captain in a merchant ship.
“Ledburn, the captain,” Hooper continued, “was a big, fair-haired man, quite young. His father had seen to it he got the place. Big-moneyed family. He wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. Changed his mind when he should’ve stood firm, then stood firm when he should’ve changed. Not an uncommon fault. Lots of us do that, one time or another.”
Monk listened, waiting. The pain in Hooper’s face told him something very bad was coming.
“He kept the log, of course,” Hooper went on. “I warned him about writing ones and sevens. Put a cross on the seven, I told him, and watch your threes and eights.”
Monk could not push him to get to the point. But he could see that Hooper was working up to it. He needed time.
“He made a mistake,” Hooper continued. His voice was getting quieter and a little rougher, as if his throat hurt. “Read a seven as a one. Found that out afterward. Got us off course into a strong current, and the wind changed and we were in trouble.”
Monk could imagine it. A ship at sea, probably quite a small one, off course. No land in sight. Wind rising and sea getting choppy, captain sure they were on course, first mate sure they were not, emotions high. “Where were you?” he asked.
Hooper’s eyes were fixed on something only he could see. “I said we were off the Azores. Atlantic coast, west of Africa. Ledburn was sure we were north of that.”
“Who was right?”
Hooper moved uncomfortably in his chair. “That doesn’t matter…”
Monk took a breath to argue and realized at that moment it didn’t. It was Hooper’s story, and the pain was very deep. Monk waited in silence.
Finally, Hooper began again. “The wind was rising and it was getting cloudy. Hard to get a position from the stars. I wanted to go further out to sea, until we could be sure. Ledburn said he was sure.
“The ship was beginning to pitch,” Hooper went on. “Climbing the peaks and hitting the troughs hard, sails bellied out, too much canvas up. Racing before the wind. If she went over that, broke a mast, there’d be nothing and no one to help us. Nothing on God’s earth as lonely as a ship out of sight of land. And Ledburn was the sort of man who couldn’t admit a mistake. There was still time then to put it right, but he insisted he was right in the first place.”
“Was it such a big error that it mattered, in the face of a storm?” Monk asked, when Hooper remained silent.
“It wasn’t the original mistake,” Hooper said slowly. “We would have found her back on course when the weather cleared. It isn’t the latitude that’s difficult; it’s the longitude, how far we were from the coast. He altered other figures to make them tally with the error.”
Monk began to see a glimpse of something much uglier.
“When the storm blew out,” Hooper said, “he corrected for the error. But we were at least fifty miles further east, and after running before the wind for a day and a half, we were well to the south, too.”
“What happened?” Monk asked.
“One lie to cover another,” Hooper said. “I could see he was afraid. The original error wasn’t so bad, but he compounded it. No one dared tell him. He made it a question of obedience and loyalty. He couldn’t admit he had ever been wrong. One man questioned him in front of others, and he had the man put in the brig for a night. That was it for the crew. They couldn’t take it anymore. It…it frightened him, and he became belligerent. I tried to reason with him. Fisk tried. He was an ordinary seaman, but he knew his job. The crew started to divide between being for the captain and…and for me.” He stopped again, still not looking at Monk, as if to do so would require a response he was not yet ready to face.
“Which side was Fisk on?” Monk said quietly.
“He knew the captain was wrong,” Hooper replied. “But there was one man, the second mate, Chester, who was in Ledburn’s father’s pocket, and he backed the captain all the way. I spoke to him, quietly, aside on deck at night. Told him how far off course we were, and that if we went on this way, we’d be too close to the coast of Africa. He said that to go against the captain was mutiny. And that’s a hanging offense. I told him that if we drowned, it would hardly matter.”
Monk’s fingernails were digging into the palms of his hands, but this time he did not interrupt. He saw Hooper sitting forward, his shoulders hunched so tight his muscles must ache.
“I don’t know if he thought it would all sort out, or if he wanted a fight,” Hooper said. “He told Ledburn, and like a fool, Ledburn didn’t look at it again and recalculate our position. We would all have been relieved and let him pretend what he wanted, just to get back on course now. But he accused us of trying to start a mutiny. Said I should apologize, admit he was correct, and take orders accordingly.” Hooper closed his eyes. “I stood there on deck. It was dawn, sun coming up, light on the waves, bright and sharp. I could see the coast of Africa on the eastern skyline. My sight was something special then, although some of the other men could, too. Fisk could, I knew. They were all waiting to see what I would do—see if I had the guts to speak the truth or not. I had to. Ledburn put his telescope to his eye. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Cloud bank, man. Nothing more. There’s no land there.’ ‘Yes, there is, sir,’ I said. ‘We’re off course about a hundred miles too far east. Get any further and the current will carry us in.’ That was the truth.”
Monk held his breath.
“He ordered me flogged,” Hooper said in just above a whisper, “in front of all the men.”
“And…?” Monk prompted in the silence. He knew that a naval flogging was brutal, even fatal at times.
“They hesitated to take up the lash. It was Fisk who stepped up and refused. Then another, and another…and…”
Monk could feel the sweat break out on his skin. Hooper was here; he had survived. So had Fisk. But who had not? He was terrified Hooper was going to say they had killed the captain somehow. “Go on!” he said sharply.
It was hard; the memory of it still had the ability to scour deep with pain. This was visible in Hooper’s eyes, the pallor of his face, the tension in his whole body. Monk was making him relive the worst memory of his life. Like Monk’s own memory, always just out of sight, beyond all but nightmare’s reach, there was something terrible lying there, waiting to come back when you least expected it.
“Hooper…” he said more gently.
“There was a fight,” Hooper resumed the story. “First it was the captain and Fisk, then others joined in. I tried to stop them before someone got killed or we were so busy fighting we lost control of the ship. The wind was rising, not a lot, but there was a storm on the horizon and closing on us fast.
“The captain was driven backward by the men, up onto the poop deck. I went after him, facing back to the men, trying to stop them from attacking again, but they were frightened. They had started a mutiny, and there’s only one way that could end: hanging from the yardarm, kicking the air as the noose tightened around your neck. The captain was terrified, lashing out at the men closest to him. Some of them hung back, undecided still. He had tried to cover his lies, and nobody knew what to believe. It was all so…stupid! If he had just admitted his first mistake, the rest would never have happened…” Hooper’s voice broke and he had to struggle to control himself.
Monk waited. He wanted to reach out and touch him, express his understanding, because no words would do. But it was too intimate a gesture.
“He didn’t trust me either,” Hooper went on suddenly. “He lunged at me and we struggled together for several moments. I was shouting at him. But I don’t think
he could hear me above the other men or the wind in the ropes. He wouldn’t let go of me, punching me. I had to hit him back or he’d have decked me. He was strong. Then the other men would have swarmed up onto the poop deck, and God knows what would have happened. They would have killed him, and we’d all have been hanged.”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “He slipped and went down over the rail. His own weight behind the blow carried him over. I went to grab him. I caught one of his arms and managed to lean over and catch the other. He was flailing around, terrified. He thought I was going to drop him deliberately. I wasn’t.” Suddenly Hooper opened his eyes and stared straight at Monk. “I did everything I could! But he slipped out of my grasp and went into the sea. There was nothing I could do…any of us could do. We were running before the wind and it would have taken us fifteen minutes, with most of the men up the masts, to shorten sail and come about. We tried, but it was too late, far too late. There was no sign of him. We waited as long as we could, but the storm was coming in, and we had to reef in and run before it. We reported him lost at sea in the storm.”
“That was the truth,” Monk pointed out. “Even if not the whole truth. I imagine his family would far rather know only that much of it than the rest.”
“It was still a mutiny,” Hooper argued, “and I sided with the men.”
“The men were right.” Monk was perfectly aware of the enormity of what he was saying. There was no proof of that. It was only Hooper’s word that the captain had made the first error, then lie after lie to cover it, but Monk believed it absolutely. “Wouldn’t Fisk back you up?”
“I don’t know. I never asked him. If we were not believed, it would be his neck for the rope as well.”
“In Runcorn’s office, he recognized you.”
“I think so.”
“And the other men of the crew?”
“I don’t know. It was twenty years ago; they could be anywhere.”
“Your name?”
Hooper hesitated.
“Your name?” Monk insisted.
“Jacob Abbott.”
“Maybe if I had a memory, it would mean something,” Monk said wryly. “But I don’t. You’re John Hooper to me. What about Fisk?”
“Twist. Joe Twist.”
Monk wondered if that was why Hooper had never married. He would not risk visiting that disgrace on any woman he loved. Possibly his family had had to be abandoned the same way.
“It’s a high price,” he said. “Don’t pay any more for it.” He held out his hand. “You did the only thing you could, given the circumstances.”
Monk looked at Hooper steadily. His eyes were such a clear blue, Monk felt as if he could look into his head.
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’re off duty,” Monk said slowly and distinctly. “Commander Monk knows nothing about this and will continue to know nothing. William Monk, whoever he is or was, is proud to know you.”
Hooper clasped Monk’s hand and held it so hard he all but crushed his fingers.
CHAPTER
17
MONK SLEPT BETTER THAT night than he had done for some time. He believed Hooper’s account of the incident. Apart from the honesty that Monk had known in Hooper the entire time they had served in the Thames River Police together, it fitted in with the facts he knew of maritime discipline, and with Fisk’s apparent recognition of Hooper. And clearly he had not told Runcorn anything about it. It seemed he had no intention of betraying Hooper.
Had anyone else known? The enemy of Exeter who might be behind all this, whether it was Doyle or someone else? Monk did not believe so. Hooper had not been blackmailed into betrayal. That person they had yet to find.
Monk went the following morning to see Exeter in Newgate Prison, near the Old Bailey, where he was being held. He walked along the stone floor with the heat of rage inside him. It was almost enough for him to ignore the icy chill in the air and the occasional clang of iron on stone as a door slammed.
“There you are, sir. I can only give you a few minutes, like, since you’re not his lawyer,” the warder said. He knew Monk and held the River Police in some regard.
“Thank you. I’ll contact his lawyer and let him know.” Monk stood back for the door to be unlocked.
Inside the cell, Harry Exeter was standing. He must have heard the footsteps in the passage stopping outside, so he was expecting someone. His face lit with relief when he saw Monk. Some of the tension knotted inside him seemed to relax a little. “Thank God you’ve come,” he said immediately. “This is a nightmare! You’ve got to help me!”
The door closed behind Monk, and he was aware of a lock turning and the steel flanges going home.
Monk looked at Exeter. He was wearing an old pair of trousers and a comfortable shirt. It was made of flannel but hardly enough to keep him warm in this unheated stone room. Exeter was wretched, and it showed in every line of his body. Monk made a mental note to bring him fresh clothes—warmer ones. But Monk knew nothing would banish the ice inside him, except practical help. He might already have asked someone to bring him extra clothes himself, but he looked stunned by shock and horror. The grief of his wife’s death was only two weeks behind him.
“I’ll get you some fresh clothes,” Monk said straightaway. “Have you been in touch with Rathbone?”
Exeter looked puzzled. “Rathbone?”
“You’ll need a good lawyer. Well, maybe they can sort this out quickly without one, but you’re better off having somebody to speak for you, someone experienced. Do you have a regular man you would prefer? Give me his name and I’ll make sure—”
“No. No,” Exeter cut across him. “Rathbone is the best there is. My regular chap has been here, of course, but he deals with real estate and wills, civil law, that kind of thing. I need Rathbone, you’re quite right.” He frowned. “But do you think he’ll do this? Will you ask him for me? God, this is a nightmare! I still can’t believe it’s real. Why would they think such a…terrible, hellish thing? It makes no sense.” He shook his head, as if in doing it hard enough the horror would detach from him.
“I don’t know.” Monk kept his voice steady, trying to concentrate now on Exeter and the nightmare he must be going through and not let his own mind race ahead to who had made this decision, and why. What had Monk missed? Was Runcorn involved in it? Or had Doyle said something to remove the blame from himself and place it on Exeter? Was it some lie in the ledger that pointed to Exeter, of all people?
“Probably whoever did kill her has implicated you,” Monk answered Exeter’s question. “I’m afraid it may be someone you know well enough to have trusted. I’m sorry.”
Exeter stared at him. “I suppose it must,” he agreed very quietly. “Will you go to Rathbone for me? Tell him all you know and all you can find out. Please? I feel as if the whole world has suddenly turned into a bottomless pit beneath my feet. I take a step and where there was earth, suddenly there’s nothing! I can’t see the bottom of this! Help me, Monk! I didn’t do it! Maybe Rathbone can prove it—maybe…”
“Yes, of course, I can get him,” Monk promised. “He’s been in this almost from the beginning. He’ll have his own questions to ask you, but so that it doesn’t take up the precious time he has with you, and so I can find out anything I can, what ideas have you? Rivals? Jealousies? People who owe you money and won’t have to pay if you’re in jail?”
Exeter was shaken. He looked close to hysteria. “Not if I’m hanged anyway!” His voice was too high-pitched.
Monk put out his arm without thinking and took Exeter by the shoulder. “You won’t hang. We’ll find out who really did this. Think of a list of all the people who might benefit from your death, emotionally or financially, or because of personal life. It doesn’t matter who they are, we can go as high as you like, or as low. Note all of them, and tell Rathbone. He needs to know everything
there is. We can’t tell where it will lead or afford to be caught on the blind side by any information we don’t have.” He tightened his hold on Exeter. “We don’t know who did it, do we? Is there something you know and haven’t told me? To protect someone’s feelings? Or reputation?”
“Good God, don’t you think I’d tell you?” Exeter said, his voice rising almost uncontrollably, close to panic. “I’ve been over and over everything I said to anyone and…it always comes back to the money and Doyle. I’ve known him for years.” He looked steadily at Monk, searching his face for understanding. “Of course, he’s a bit of a social climber. He’s ambitious for far more than I think he’ll ever achieve. But most of people’s dreams are beyond them. Ambition is good. Dreams are what drive us to try. So often we don’t get what we want, but we get something else, and that can be good, too. At least Doyle understood other men’s dreams. He understood work and disappointment, what it takes to succeed and…and how badly you can want it.” He looked down. “I know people laughed at him now and then. I did myself. He was gauche, at times.” He looked up. “But I trusted him, and as far as I know, he never let me down.”
“He helped you get the money together for the ransom from Kate’s inheritance.”
Exeter colored faintly. “Yes. I had to. I don’t have that much money myself. I asked Latham’s permission, of course. And Celia’s. She gave it willingly. She loved Kate—and it was Kate’s money, and Doyle facilitated it because he understood.” Exeter swallowed hard. “Are you really wishing me to consider that Doyle could be behind this…this most terrible thing that happened in my life…really?”
“Who else?” Monk asked. “Someone did. Was it you?”
“Of course not! What do you think I am? For God’s sake, Monk…”
“I know,” Monk said quickly. “Then face the fact that it must be somebody else. It happened. You know that. And not only to Kate, but to Lister, the one actual kidnapper we know, and to poor Bella Franken. If it’s not you, I accept that, but if you don’t think about who it is and fight it, you will be the next victim.”