Dark Tide Rising

by Anne Perry

  Exeter shut his eyes as if it would be easier to answer Monk if he could not see him. “I know,” he said very softly. His voice had a crack in it; he was close to losing control. “I do know, and I’m terrified.”

  Monk could hear the humiliation in him, a man unused to admitting any weakness in front of someone else. Perhaps he was ashamed to admit it even to himself. He had fought hard for all he possessed, fought to own it and to keep it. And now suddenly, in less than a month, he faced losing it all, even his life.

  “You can’t give in,” Monk insisted. He searched his mind for some real hope to offer, something that was not patronizing and meaningless. He had faced the same thoughts himself once, and only Hester’s belief in him had given him the will to continue.

  But Exeter had not even that. Kate was gone, broken, and almost torn apart. Exeter had been betrayed, but he had met all the demands the kidnappers had made, and still he had lost her.

  “We’ll find the truth,” Monk said rashly. “There are only so many people it could be. We must reason. Think clearly. We can’t let them get away with it, for justice’s sake! And, in harsher reality, because they will do it again.”

  Exeter stiffened, then slowly lifted his head. “You’re right. I should stop being so…cowardly. I can’t let them win. Help me, Monk, please.”

  Monk could only imagine what it had cost him to say that. He spoke before he could beg again. “Of course I will. I want the bastard caught almost as much as you do.”

  Right now, he must save Exeter. There had been some grave error in his arrest. It was understandable, perhaps. Runcorn was as different from Monk as could be, but Monk understood him. If circumstances had been different, without the accident that had robbed him of memory, he could have been very like Runcorn. He had the same passion for life, and the courage and appetite to take chances and win. His flashes of the Barbary Coast, the gold rush, the open ocean and the life of the deck beneath his feet, the open sea before all, testified to that.

  He had lost immediate control of the case because he had taken that quixotic plunge to try to rescue Bella Franken; he had at least saved the papers she was bringing him, but he could not continue that night. He had yielded the case to Runcorn, and Runcorn had made the arrest.

  “We must get all the information we can for Rathbone,” he said, with his self-control back again. “Tell me everything you know, as far as money is concerned. For a start, exactly how much did you tell Doyle about the kidnapping? Details?”

  “Does it matter now?” Exeter asked without hope. “He obviously knew it all anyway.”

  “Yes, it matters,” Monk replied. “What he knew that he didn’t get from you, he learned another way. If we can prove that, we are halfway to demonstrating his guilt! The other half we must work on, but it will come far more easily. Now concentrate!”

  Exeter made a deliberate effort to muster his thoughts, and then slowly, carefully, he relived some of the arrangements he had made with Doyle. As he spoke, he clearly felt again the near panic of reviewing his assets, what they would fetch if sold in such urgency, and what, as far as he could remember, he had told Doyle to do on his behalf.

  Monk wrote it down, even though he did not fully understand it.

  “You mentioned evasions,” he said gravely. “Who did you beat in business deals, or anything else: social achievements, positions they wanted, or whose wives admired you—anything, whether the hatred was justified or not? Especially if they might have known Doyle, banked with him—anything at all.” He waited with his pencil in the air, watching Exeter’s face.

  Exeter was silent for several moments. Then he looked up. “Do you think you’ll find them?” he asked huskily. “Before the trial? Is it possible?” The hope in his eyes was painful to see.

  “Doesn’t have to be before the beginning.” Monk fought for something to say. “All you can think of. It doesn’t matter how trivial it is: a social humiliation, a financial loss more than they could absorb. You don’t know what they might have lost by it. Anything you think of, give it to Rathbone. Anyone you threatened, even unintentionally. There isn’t time for us to do it without your help.”

  Slowly the total fear faded from Exeter’s face and he breathed deeply, an attempt at a smile returning to his face. “I’ll do it. I trust you, Monk.”

  * * *

  —

  RATHBONE WAS IN COURT all day, and Monk needed to speak to him more than the brief moments he could snatch in the middle of a case. He spent the day collecting all the paperwork he had that might be useful to Rathbone in the defense. He even found proof of the success of Exeter’s career and the envy it might have engendered. There were deals that showed great skill, high risks taken, and some resounding defeats of powerful men.

  It was late in the evening by the time Monk reached Rathbone’s house, but at least he knew Rathbone would be there. Few dinner parties lasted this long, so even if he had been out, he would be home by now. Monk felt no compunction at all in getting him out of bed if necessary. Tomorrow morning would be late to start, and anyway, Monk felt the rage and compassion burning a hole in him now, and all his thoughts were clear in his mind.

  It was several minutes before Monk heard the bolt withdraw. The butler, clearly hastily dressed, opened the door cautiously.

  “Yes, sir?” he asked, and then recognized Monk. “Is everything all right, sir? Are you hurt?” He pulled the door wide and ushered Monk inside from the darkness and the freezing drizzle.

  “No, thank you,” Monk replied, pushing the door closed behind him. “I’m sorry to get you up at this hour. Is Sir Oliver in bed yet?”

  “I imagine so, sir. There are no lights on upstairs.”

  “Oh. I suppose it is later than I thought. I apologize. Is it possible to wake him? Mr. Exeter has been arrested and charged with the murder of his wife—the woman who was kidnapped and…knifed to death on Jacob’s Island.”

  “Oh, my…I beg your pardon, sir. I was about to take the Lord’s name in vain! This is terrible. I’ll…I’ll call Sir Oliver, sir. If you would like to take a seat in the withdrawing room, the fire will still be warm. I’ll come in and stoke it for you when I’ve woken Sir Oliver.”

  “I’ll stoke it myself, thank you,” Monk replied. He did not want to usurp the man’s job, but at this time of night it was bad enough he had woken him at all.

  The butler was correct. The fire was very low, but with a little poking and putting small pieces of coal on it carefully with the tongs, it soon burned up. He had just finished when Rathbone came in, wearing a thick dressing robe and obviously fully awake. He closed the door behind him.

  “The butler will bring some hot tea and a drop of brandy in a minute. God, this is awful!” He sat down and gestured to the chair opposite for Monk to do the same. “You didn’t arrest him, I suppose? Who did?”

  “Runcorn. He took over the Bella Franken case. It was more on his territory. Even though she was washed up by the river, she was almost certainly killed on land, and I was in no shape to act immediately.” He saw the confusion in Rathbone’s face and realized he did not know of the case in any detail, if he knew at all. “Sorry,” Monk said. “Bella Franken was Doyle’s bookkeeper at the bank. She was the one with some figures that struck her as wrong. When I went to keep an appointment with her I saw a body in the Greenwich dock, and it was her. I nearly caught my death pulling her out.”

  Rathbone looked stricken. “Good God! That’s terrible! And Runcorn thinks Exeter did that? Why, for the love of heaven? Doyle was the one who helped him get the money together in time to pay the kidnappers…for…Kate.” His voice trailed off, memory of the tragedy of it all overwhelming him. “I presume you came to ask me to represent him. Of course I will, unless he has someone he prefers?”

  “No, of course not! Whoever could he possibly prefer? There’s no better lawyer in England, and you know him and t
he beginning of this hideous affair already. The poor man’s distracted with grief, and now fear. He’s almost ready to give up. And who could blame him?”

  There was a knock on the door, and the butler brought in a tray of tea with a small decanter of whisky on the side.

  “Thank you,” Rathbone said quietly. “Now go back to bed. We can manage. I’ll let Mr. Monk out when we’ve finished. And yes, I’ll be sure to lock the bolts on the front door. Good night.”

  “Yes, sir, if you are sure?”

  “I am.”

  “Thank you. Good night, sir.”

  Rathbone poured the tea and the whisky, and as soon as the butler closed the drawing-room door behind him, he began. “What is he charged with? The murder of Doyle’s unfortunate bank clerk, or bookkeeper, or whatever? Why, for heaven’s sake? What could she know that could be any danger to him? If she was embezzling, or whatever, that’s nothing to do with him!”

  “It looks as if Doyle was fiddling the books to some extent, not exactly sure how, but we have an expert on it. Bella Franken was murdered bringing those papers to me. Possibly he or Maurice Latham, Katherine’s cousin, was embezzling from Katherine’s trust. Maybe both of them. It would have come to light sooner or later, when she inherited. Doyle had to protect himself. And he took a bit of it on the side as well,” Monk replied. “We’ll need to look at Latham, but I don’t know if he has the stomach for violence.”

  Rathbone was watching him intensely. “That makes sense. Then surely Doyle is the one most threatened by that, and Doyle either killed the girl himself or hired someone else to. Perhaps he was the one who contacted Lister?”

  “Lister was already dead by the time Bella Franken was killed,” Monk pointed out.

  “But we already knew this whole affair involved more than one person,” Rathbone said patiently. “Don’t dismiss Latham so easily. Who did you work out must have known Jacob’s Island for the kidnapping?”

  “Four of them, at least. And that is if they came by land and didn’t need to have someone in a boat for their escape,” Monk replied. “And we knew Doyle wasn’t one of them.”

  “He doesn’t sound like a man for violent adventures,” Rathbone said. “He’s a bank manager! But he could well be the brains behind it. Sounds like a very careful planner, good with figures and access to money to move it, and at least four ruffians to carry it out. One of them, Lister, is already dead. The other three we seem to have no lead on…yet…but one of them killed this poor girl. Are we any closer to finding the others?” Rathbone’s voice dropped a little, as if he feared a negative answer.

  “No,” Monk said flatly. “Not at all. I haven’t spoken to Runcorn about them yet. I went straight to Exeter. We’ve got to prove his innocence, whether we ever get the guilty ones or not. What that man has endured…”

  Rathbone’s face softened. “I know. We’ll get him out of this. I just haven’t thought how yet. Getting the right person is the best way, but it’s not the only way. Do you know which of your men betrayed you yet? I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but there isn’t time for delicacy.”

  “No.” Monk realized what a weight it had been on him when he feared it was Hooper. And yet it would still hurt, whoever it was. “It looks as if it might have been Walcott. I can’t even narrow it down to when it can have happened. He must have told the kidnappers on that day, because we didn’t finalize the plans until then. But how he got the information to them, I have no idea. Unless he did it somehow after we arrived? We were all alone then, at least for a few minutes. It was getting dark, and it’s like a maze in those old rooms. Passages where one can walk have collapsed, physically. Anyone could have been anywhere.”

  “Then we have to find the answer another way.” Rathbone was silent for a few moments.

  “I’m trying to find Exeter’s enemies,” Monk digressed. “I’ve got a list, and I’ll put my men on it and ask if Runcorn can spare any of his. If there’s another client at Doyle’s bank, someone Exeter outbid on a big building or anything else, it would help to know who.”

  “Good,” Rathbone acknowledged. “Reasonable doubt doesn’t save a man’s reputation, but it will save his life. That may be the best we can do—in the meantime.”

  Monk sipped his tea. It was hot and tasted rich because of the whisky, but it certainly made him feel warmer, and more awake.

  “Exeter was with you in the original attempt to pay the ransom and get Kate back,” Rathbone said slowly. “He was at home, though we’ve no proof of this, when Lister was killed, but we could presume Lister definitely was the man who originally snatched her? Yes? One thing proved, more or less. Presumably he was killed by his fellow kidnappers, and you saw him before and after, so you can pin down that time? And anyway, why would Exeter kill him? Revenge? Without catching the rest of the killers or getting his money back?”

  “He’s not charged with killing Lister. But if he was, there would certainly be mitigating circumstances. And he could always put up an argument for self-defense,” Monk pointed out. “Tie all the murders together, and guilty of one has to be guilty of all! Or innocent?”

  Rathbone’s face was very somber. “Not if he hired Lister in the first place.”

  “To take his money and kill his wife!” Monk took a deep breath. “What happened to the money? Anyway, that’s not what they’re charging him with.”

  “What are they charging him with?” Rathbone asked.

  “Exeter said with the murder of Kate.”

  “Well, surely you and your men can prove where he was, between all of you? Put your evidence together.”

  “Difficult,” Monk pointed out bitterly, “if one of my men was actually betraying us! And for God’s sake, don’t say that one of my men actually killed her!”

  Rathbone’s jaw dropped. “I…I hadn’t even thought of that! But I suppose it’s not impossible.”

  Monk gulped, his mind filled with horror.

  “Damn it, Monk! I don’t mean one of them did!” Rathbone exploded. “I mean they might charge one of them! That wasn’t up to Runcorn. Once the prosecutor gets hold of it—and feelings are running pretty high over this—if they think of it, they could do it!”

  Monk said nothing. His mind was whirling, as if he were in the center of a storm, buffeted from every direction, almost off his feet.

  Rathbone’s voice reached him from far away. “We had better start working on this straightaway. Put down all the evidence we are certain of, and why and how we are certain. Then all the stuff that’s ambiguous. And start clarifying what we need to know, what all the possibilities are, however remote or unpleasant, and see what we have left. Who killed Kate? Who has the money, if it even existed? Who killed Lister? Who killed that poor girl Bella Franken? And who’s trying to kill Exeter, through judicial execution!”

  “And if one of my men is involved, what man—and why?” Monk finished.

  “It’s going to be a long night and an early morning,” Rathbone said, taking a sip of his tea and adding more whisky.

  CHAPTER

  18

  “I DON’T KNOW,” RUNCORN SAID, his voice rising in exasperation as he sat late the following evening in his office, Monk in the chair opposite him. “I don’t know why Exeter did it. I don’t even know for certain, in my own mind, that he did. But I can’t ignore the evidence.”

  “What evidence?” Monk demanded. “He certainly didn’t kill Kate. He was with us. He was attacked, too, and he doesn’t know Jacob’s Island any better than any ordinary, well-to-do man in London would.”

  “He didn’t kill his wife himself,” Runcorn agreed. “He paid Lister to do it for him. First to take her from the riverbank, where she was walking with her cousin, and Celia Darwin was the only one who knew that they were.”

  “You’re not suggesting she was in it with Lister, are you?”

  “No, of course not. Although
she would be…”

  Monk was aware of the unlikelihood of that, even as Runcorn said it. But all sorts of people had the strangest weaknesses, doubts, fears. He should have looked further into her life, and maybe even her envy of her wealthier, more fortunate, more beautiful cousin. Hooper had expressed great regard for her honesty. But not inquiring closely about Celia Darwin was an oversight he should remedy while there was still time.

  “I should look into that,” he admitted. “It’s an ugly thought, but I can’t ignore it.”

  “It’s all ugly,” Runcorn pointed out. “I haven’t found out anything about her.”

  “I’ll have Rathbone ask Exeter.” Monk was reluctant. “All tragedies are ugly. Someone is hurt more than they can bear. All secrets laid open hurt far more than just one person.”

  “You’ll have to. I can’t get anything out of Exeter. Rathbone seems to have told him to keep quiet, and he’s doing it. So would I, if I were trying to defend him.”

  “What else have you got against him?” Monk asked. “Anything more than suspicion?”

  “Far more than suspicion, Monk! Do you think I arrested him just to say I closed the case?”

  “No. I know his butler said that Exeter was out the day Lister was killed and the afternoon Bella Franken was killed. It sounds like a disgruntled servant. He can’t prove it.”

  “None of the other servants saw him during those hours. His boots and the cuffs of his trousers were wet.”

  “He went to post a letter and get a breath of air,” Monk said quickly. “He’d been cooped up in the house with his grief for days! He went out when no one would see him. He didn’t want to make polite conversation with neighbors and answer questions. ‘How are you?’ and other damn silly things. He’s feeling like hell. I wouldn’t want to answer questions either, in his place.”

  “I’ve got two witnesses who say they saw him with Lister.”