by Anne Perry
Monk realized he had been led into springing Rathbone’s trap too early.
“You are looking for me to do your job for you,” Monk said a little tartly. “You ask me why I had not arrested Roger Doyle. Perhaps I should say only that Superintendent Runcorn arrested Mr. Exeter instead.”
“Indeed. And I shall be asking him, in due course, to testify. Let us for now go back to the evening of the tragedy on Jacob’s Island, if you please.” It was not a request, however much it might have sounded like one. Ravenswood was very much in control of events. “You say you were attacked?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Exeter was also attacked, as far as you could tell?”
“He was. There were marks on his face, his clothes were filthy as if he had fallen in the mud several times, and there was blood on his head and hands.”
“Were any other of your men attacked?”
“Yes, all of them were, except the two left to mind the boats.” Monk could hear the anger in his own voice. The whole affair still hurt: the pain of failure, the grief of Kate’s death, and through it all the corroding misery of betrayal.
“So, the kidnappers took the money and killed the woman they had held hostage? A tragic outcome all around.”
“Yes. And how the devil you think Exeter himself caused this, or ever had any part of it except in misjudgment, I cannot imagine.”
“And you, too, Commander Monk. Did you not perhaps trust a man you should not have? How did it happen? How did the kidnappers know exactly where you would be, how you would come to the place they specified, how you would position your men, so they could overpower them one by one, unless someone told them that information?”
Monk forced out the words, and for an instant he hated Ravenswood for his smooth, gentle face as he spoke of such horror. “I don’t know. I’ve searched the past, the family, and the circumstances of every man who was there, and I don’t know!”
“You appear certain that Mr. Exeter is not guilty, and yet there is still a key element of this case that escapes you, is there not?” Ravenswood shook his head. He looked at the judge. “My lord, I have no more questions for this witness. After the luncheon adjournment I wish to call the police surgeon to give evidence as to the manner of Katherine Exeter’s death.”
The judge adjourned the court accordingly. Monk left the stand feeling miserable, as if he had somehow failed again, although he could not think of any answer he could have given differently.
* * *
—
THE AFTERNOON WENT QUICKLY. The police surgeon’s testimony was clinical, and yet the matter-of-fact way he described Kate Exeter’s wounds somehow made them more terrible. There was no horror in his voice, only an intense pity. In the rigidity of his body, he clearly felt a rage that any of this should happen to a living person, a sentient being capable of laughter, tenderness, and fear. He made her special as he described her wounds, and yet universal in the terror and destruction—the blood, the flesh, and the pain that could have been anyone’s.
Monk walked out into the cold, already darkening afternoon beside Hester. He had not seen Hooper. He was not here because he was to testify the next day, and so was not allowed to attend in case anything he heard might influence him.
And he had not seen Rathbone, because he would no doubt be weighing the evidence of the day and preparing for tomorrow. He had not challenged anything so far, but what was there to contend? All the evidence had been only a matter of fact. He would not have wished the surgeon’s testimony to be any longer than absolutely necessary. Monk had looked at the faces of the jurors and seen indelible horror. They were helpless to relieve any of it. It was fact, already passed into history. To have made light of it would be an offense against life itself. But justice was their domain, and they would want someone to pay. If they acquitted Exeter, then who would it be? Doyle?
But the police had charge of Exeter. Would actions, the need for someone to balance the scales for Kate, outweigh judgment or mercy for the husband who mourned her?
Monk and Hester went home by hansom, over Blackfriars Bridge. It was too cold to take a ferry over the water. They rode, both lost in their own silence, until they were at the door, and Monk brought in more coal and built up the fire. Hester had left a stew on at the back of the stove, and she brought it to the front, heated it up a little more, and served it in big bowls. They ate, and finally they spoke.
“I didn’t expect Ravenswood to be…so gentle,” Monk said at last. “I expected to be attacked more.”
“He attacked, William,” she said quietly. “You just didn’t recognize it, until it was a little too late to alter your response.” She hesitated a moment. “Not that there was anything you should have said differently.”
“Oliver didn’t do anything!”
“There really wasn’t anything he could do, without seeming desperate,” she pointed out. “If you attack every little thing, it looks as if you don’t know where you’re really going.”
That was true, and yet he felt as if they weren’t really fighting. He wondered if Exeter felt the same, that Rathbone had let him down and wasn’t as clever as his reputation suggested. Monk looked at Hester. Were the same thoughts going through her mind? “Does he believe him?” he asked.
“You mean, does Oliver believe Exeter? Oh, I think so. He told me he did,” she said with certainty. “Why? Are you wondering about Exeter now?” There was no avoiding the candor in her eyes.
“No, I’m wondering how we can pin Doyle down. I would never have judged him to be so clever. I thought of him as a dull, local bank manager with ambitions to be socially acceptable, to go to the gentlemen’s clubs as a member in his own right, not dependent on being a guest of his clients. I imagine managing all their money must be hard enough on his pride without being condescended to socially.”
“If he wanted money and perhaps to feel superior for once,” she asked, “then why kill Kate?”
“Because she recognized him,” he said. “He couldn’t afford to let her live.”
“And Bella Franken?”
“Because she knew there was something wrong with the ledgers.”
“And Lister, the real kidnapper?”
“He didn’t want to share the money. And perhaps he tried a little blackmail.”
“And the other men? There were far more than just Lister there. There had to be. Or did Doyle kill Lister alone? Does he look like a man who could take on a wiry, fighting sort of man like Lister?”
“Not at all. He must have taken him by surprise.”
“I thought you said he was on the run, in an open boat?”
“He was,” he agreed.
“So there must have been two of them, at least. You can’t leave a boat to drift while you stop off and cut someone’s throat!”
A coldness crept into Monk, as if they had inadvertently left the back door open. “You don’t think we’ll get him off, do you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know that we’re there yet. I’m sorry.”
She had said “we.” That was a kind of warmth, a comfort.
“Do you think Hooper betrayed me?” He was afraid of her answer, and yet that mattered to him so much he could not leave it unasked any longer.
“Hooper? Of course not! What makes you even ask, William?”
Because I know things that you don’t, he thought. Painful things that might cost everything one has. And I care more than I ever thought I would, or wanted to. But you won’t hear that, without tearing yourself apart.
“William?” she asked very quietly.
He could not answer honestly, so he said nothing at all.
CHAPTER
19
THE FOLLOWING DAY, HOOPER was the first to testify. It was years since he had been so nervous about anything. He had nothing to say that was untrue, or was in any way his f
ault. He had done exactly as ordered. He did not know of anything that could have been done differently. Ravenswood was prosecuting Exeter and doing it, so far, without accusing the River Police of any kind of incompetence, except for one of them having betrayed them all to the kidnappers. And that had been hanging over them since the night they went home weary and so bitterly defeated.
Still, he climbed the steps to the top of the stand with a dry mouth. He swore to his identity and to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, in a hoarse voice. Twice he had to clear his throat. The truth, yes—but the whole truth? Even his identity? The mutiny was always there in his mind, because he knew that others knew it. Fisk, for certain.
And Monk knew. At least, he knew what Hooper had told him, but did he believe it? Behind Hooper’s gravity, even his gentleness, did he now doubt his loyalty? Was he disappointed even if his reason told him not to be, reminding him of his own vulnerability? The renegade that Runcorn had described Monk to have been would have understood it, and he would have agreed with it. But what about Monk now, the commander of the Thames River Police?
Sharp in Hooper’s mind, with a cutting edge that hurt more than he would have believed, he also cared what Celia Darwin thought of him. He wanted her to see him as an honest and loyal man, a man to be respected, above all trusted, even with the possibility of the charge of mutiny over his head for the rest of his life. He could not court her—and he wanted to very much. But he could at least keep her good opinion of him, the belief that he was a man she could have loved, not someone she would never knowingly have associated with.
“Mr. Hooper…” Ravenswood’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, standing a little straighter.
“Under Commander Monk’s directions, did you and the rest of the men on that fateful trip attempt to find the kidnappers and murderers of Mrs. Exeter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That would be yourself, Laker, Marbury, Bathurst, and Walcott? Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. And Mr. Monk himself.”
“Even though one of you had informed the kidnappers of your plan?”
“It seems that way, but we did not know who, and we were reluctant to believe it.”
“Did you have any suspicions yourself?”
How honest should he be? Suspicions were only thoughts. But it wasn’t about truth or facts, not yet. It was about impressions. The jurors were watching him, listening to his tone of voice. They were judging him, not his exact words.
“I didn’t think it was any of the men I knew well. I couldn’t believe it of them. So, my attention went first to the new men, Marbury and Walcott,” he answered.
Ravenswood smiled bleakly. “Had you said otherwise, I would not have believed you, unless, of course, you knew none of them was guilty, because it was yourself who betrayed them.”
So soon! Hooper had thought that at some time the question would be put to him, but not yet and not without any warning. He must measure his words exactly, but he could not help the heat rising up his face. Would they take it as guilt? Or recognize it as fear? Would they even see that there was a difference?
“I did not betray them,” he replied. “And I find it difficult and very painful to accept that anyone did.”
“But you do accept it?” Ravenswood pressed. His voice was quite gentle.
“I think I have no choice,” Hooper answered.
“I will see if I can offer you one, in due course.” Ravenswood’s smile was grim. “But for now, let us explore your investigations and see how they led you unwittingly to the only one of the kidnappers whose guilt seems to be unquestioned. Please describe for the court what you and Commander Monk did, and the order in which you did it, so that we may understand.”
Detail by detail, Hooper recounted it. It sounded simpler than it had been because, worked backward from memory, it all made sense. He told them the reasoning behind each inquiry, and what they had heard of Lister spending money too freely, his appearance, what was known or believed of him.
“Did you arrest him, Mr. Hooper?”
“No, sir. We hoped that he would lead us to the others.”
“And did he?”
“No, sir.” Hooper wondered whether to mention the two men who had escaped after he and Monk pursued them from the roof, but since he did not know their names, and they had not done anything in Hooper’s sight, it would sound like evasion.
“And Lister?” Ravenswood asked.
“We found him in a rowing boat, sir. I’m afraid he was dead. His throat had been cut.”
“I see. Did you ever find out by whom?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ever find any other of the kidnappers? I assume you are satisfied Lister was one of them?”
“Yes, we are, and no, we didn’t find any others.” It sounded pathetic. Was it better to labor the fact of how hard they had tried, and still failed? Did that make them seem even more incompetent? “We decided it would be more profitable to follow the trail of the money. Lister’s spending it too freely is what led us to him.”
“So you told us. Did it help?”
“A young lady came to Commander Monk, secretly. She told him she was from the bank.”
“That would be Bella Franken, from Nicholson’s Bank?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where Mr. Doyle is the manager?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see her yourself?”
“No. But her information led us to examine the bank’s records more closely, and to make inquiries about the manager, Mr. Doyle.” He half expected Rathbone to object, but perhaps he was going to make more of this in his cross-questioning, or leave it until his defense. He would use it when he believed it would make the strongest impression on the jury. Was not Monk even now desperately searching for some thread that would lead him finally to Doyle, and possibly Doyle to some other enemy of Exeter’s? “It was the only other reasonable line of suspicion we had.”
“Yes, Mr. Doyle,” Ravenswood agreed. “Miss Franken worked closely with him, I believe?”
“Yes, apparently.”
“And what else was she able to show you?”
“Nothing. Commander Monk went to keep a second appointment with her and discovered her body in the river. Washed up, close to the Greenwich Pier.”
“Did you see it, Mr. Hooper?” Ravenswood did not express any pity in words, but it filled his face.
“No, sir. Commander Monk called the local police.”
“That would be Superintendent Runcorn?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you continued to pursue the case since then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And found anything of value?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hooper. Please remain there. Sir Oliver may have questions for you.”
Rathbone stood, walked out in front of the witness stand, and looked up at Hooper. “Just a few questions about your observations, Mr. Hooper. The facts seem to be remarkably few. You have worked closely with Commander Monk for several years, have you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And do you have a high respect for him?”
“The best officer I’ve ever worked with, sir.” He could say that honestly. Monk was not perfect, but then a perfect man would not have understood the frailties of other men’s natures, the foibles of their judgments, nor would he have understood those who through carelessness or greed fell into evil ways. He would not have been much good as a detective, or as a friend.
“Does he often make mistakes in judgment, either of men or of events?”
“Very seldom. Sometimes the evidence looks the other way, and it takes us a long time to understand it.”
“You sound very certain of
that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is Mr. Monk now? I’ve not seen him in court.”
“No, sir. He’s still out hunting for the facts that will prove Mr. Exeter’s innocence.”
“He still believes Mr. Exeter is innocent?” Rathbone affected surprise. “Do you?”
“Yes, sir. We both do.”
“Without naming anyone, is there someone else you suspect?”
“Yes, sir, there is.”
“With cause, even if you cannot yet tell us what that cause is?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rathbone smiled. “Thank you for having been most helpful. That is all.” He did not even glance at the jurors. If he had, he would have been well satisfied by the smiles on their faces, the sudden sharpening of interest.
Hooper was excused as he went and sat in the gallery of the court. It was infinitely preferable to being skewered, flapping like a moth, in the stand. He sat down on the end of one of the benches. There was no space for him beside Hester, and he preferred not to sit there anyway. He did not know what Monk may have told her of the mutiny, or of anything else. Thinking of her and her judgment of him was more than he could cope with at the moment. It would too easily make him think of Celia and how she’d be affected if she knew. Her smile would leave, the steadiness of her eyes, the gratitude for his understanding, the friendship.
He forced the thoughts out of his mind as Doyle took the stand and was sworn in. He looked every inch what he was, at least professionally: a small-town bank manager dwarfed by the affairs of a very large city. In fact, the largest city in the world.
Had Doyle ever imagined this, when he set out to kidnap Kate Exeter? Had he meant just to gain her inheritance for himself, without violence, without murder after murder? Had he even meant to slash Lister’s throat, to drown Bella Franken? He was standing in the witness box now, in the Old Bailey. He should be in the dock. And if Exeter was hanged, then Doyle was guilty of his death, too. In a way, that was the most horrific aspect of the situation.
Doyle looked miserable and frightened. He kept moving his neck and jaw, as if his collar were too tight. Was he imagining what a rope would feel like?