The Shifting Tide

NINE

Monk was sitting at home, building up the fire to try to create in the house the warmth that was gone from it because Hester was devoting so much time to the clinic. Her absence robbed him of a great deal of the pleasure he would have felt had he been able to share his triumph with her. He had been extraordinarily successful. He had pulled off a master stroke, retrieving the ivory and getting it to Louvain right under the noses of the thieves—and of Culpepper, for whom it was taken, and even of the River Police! Louvain had paid him handsomely, and his reputation was now high. Other jobs would come from it. But there was no one to tell.

He was not finished. He still needed to find out who had killed Hodge. It might have been Gould’s partner, but that was likely only if he had gone on board after Gould, found Hodge stirring, and killed him. That would have been a result of panic, and completely unnecessary—unless the man was someone paid by Louvain, and thus had betrayed him? Louvain would exact a bitter vengeance for that, and it would explain why Hodge had been killed and not merely knocked senseless.

And then there was the other possibility, that Hodge had been killed by a member of the crew in some personal quarrel that had nothing to do with the theft.

If he found out who Gould’s partner had been, it might be possible to prove whether he had ever come on board the Maude Idris. Gould should be able to remember his own actions, which would at least help. Tusks were difficult things to handle. He would surely know where his partner had been. One could not pass anyone on the gangway to the hold without knowing. The difficulty would be in making sure he was honest. On the other hand, he must have walked close to Hodge’s body every time he carried ivory up or went back down for more.

Louvain would not like it; he might even try to block him, but Monk had taken care of that. He had no intention of allowing Hodge’s murderer to escape. He had never known Hodge, and might well have disliked him if he had, but that was irrelevant. The less anyone else cared, the more it mattered that he was given some kind of justice.

Monk was sitting by the fire, getting too hot but barely noticing it, when he realized there was someone knocking on the door. It could not be Hester; she had a key. Was it a new client? He could not accept one, unless he or she was prepared to wait. He stood up and went to answer.

The man on the step was lean, and quite smartly dressed, but his shoes were worn. His wry, intelligent face was lined with weariness, and there was a small brown-and-white terrier at his feet. Monk would be sorry to have to refuse him.

“Mr. William Monk?” the man enquired.

“Yes.”

“I have a message for yer, sir. May I come in?”

Monk was puzzled and already concerned. Who would send him a message in this fashion? “What is it?” he said a little sharply. “A message from whom?”

“From Mrs. Monk. Can I come in?” There was an odd dignity to the man, a confidence despite his obvious lack of education.

Monk opened the door and stepped back to allow him to walk past into the warmth, followed by the dog. Then he closed the door and swung around to face him.

“What is it?” Now his voice was sharp, the edge of fear audible. Why would Hester send a message through a man like this? Why not a note if she was delayed and wanted to tell him? “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Sutton,” the man replied. “I’m a rat catcher. I’ve know’d Mrs. Monk awhile now—”

“What did she say?” Monk cut across him. “Is she all right?”

“Yeah, she’s all right,” Sutton said gravely. “Though she’s workin’ too ’ard, like most times.”

Monk looked at him. There was nothing in the man’s face or his demeanor to ease Monk’s growing alarm.

“Wot I got ter tell yer in’t a few moments’ worth,” Sutton went on. “So yer’d best sit down an’ listen. There in’t nothing yer can do ’ceptin’ keep yer ’ead, and then ’old yer tongue.”

Monk suddenly found his legs were weak and he felt a rush of panic well up inside him. He was glad to sit down.

Sutton sat in the other chair. “Thank yer,” he said as if Monk had invited him. He did not tease out the suspense. “One o’ the women wot was brought inter the clinic died today. When Miss ’Ester come ter wash ’er fer the undertaker, she seed what she really died of, which weren’t pneumonia like she thought.” He stopped, his eyes shadowed, his face intensely serious.

Monk leapt to the conclusion that was most familiar to him. “Murdered?” He leaned forward to stand up. He should go there immediately. Helping Gould would have to wait. He could afford a few days.

“Sit down, Mr. Monk,” Sutton said in a low, very clear voice. “The trouble in’t nothin’ ter do wi’ murder. It’s far more ’orrible than that. An’ yer gotta act right, or yer could bring down a disaster like the world in’t seen in five ’undred years.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Monk demanded. Was the man mad? He looked perfectly sane; the gravity in him was saner than in a score of men who governed the fates of businesses and societies. “What is it?”

“Plague,” Sutton answered, his eyes fixed on Monk. “Not yer cholera or yer pox, or any o’ them diseases. It’s the real thing—the Black Death.”

Monk could not grasp what Sutton had said. It had no reality; it was just huge words, too big to mean anything.

“That’s why nobody’s goin’ in there, an’ nobody’s comin’ out,” Sutton went on quietly. “They gotta keep it closed, no matter wot.”

“You did!” Monk said instantly.

“I kept away from Miss ’Ester an’ the woman wot nursed the dead one, an’ I in’t comin’ out again arter this.”

“I’m still going in,” Monk insisted. Hester was there without him. She was facing something worse than any human nightmare. How could he possibly stay out here, safe, doing nothing? “She’ll need help. Anyway, how could you stop people from leaving? I mean, the sheer practicality? You have to tell the authorities! Get doctors—”

“There in’t nothin’ a doctor can do fer the Black Death.” Sutton sat almost motionless. His face was impassive, beyond emotion. It was as if the horror of it had drained everything out of him. “If it takes yer, it takes yer, an’ if it leaves yer, it leaves yer. In’t no use tellin’ the authorities. In’t nothin’ they can do. An’ wot d’yer think’d ’appen then, eh?”

The hideousness of it was very slowly becoming real. In his mind, Monk could see exactly what this strange, composed man was saying. “How will you stop people from leaving?” he asked.

“Dogs,” Sutton said with a slight movement of his shoulders. “I got friends with pit bulls. They’re guardin’ all the outsides. I ’ope nobody runs fer it, but so ’elp me, they’ll set the dogs on ’em if they do. Better one torn ter bits than lettin’ ’er spread it over all the land, all over the world, mebbe.”

“What if they tell people?”

“We told ’em it’s cholera an’ they don’ know different.”

Monk tried not to think of what his own words meant. “I must still go and help. I can’t leave her alone there. I won’t.”

“Yer gotter . . .” Sutton began.

“I won’t come out again!”

Sutton’s face softened. “I know yer won’t. Not as I’d let yer, any road. But yer can be more ’elp out ’ere. There’s things as need doin’.”

“Getting food, coal, medicine. I know that. Anyone can do those things—”

“Course they can,” Sutton agreed. “An’ I’ll see as they do. But in’t yer thought where the plague come from? Where’d that poor woman get it, then?”

Monk felt the sweat break out on his skin.

“We gotter find out,” Sutton said wearily. “An’ there in’t nobody else as can do that without settin’ the ’ole o’ London on fire wi’ terror. She come from somewhere, poor creature. Where’d she get it, eh? ’Oo else ’as it? Ye’re a man as knows ’ow ter ask questions, an’ get answers as other people can’t. Miss ’Ester says as yer the cleverest man, an’ the cussedest, as she ever met. She right?”

Monk buried his head in his hands, his mind whirling, ideas beating against him, bruising in their violence. Hester was alone in the clinic with the most terrible disease ever known to man. He would never see her again. He could do nothing to help her. He could not even remember now what were the last words they had said to each other! Did she know how much he loved her, as his wife, his friend, the one person without whom he had no purpose and no joy, the one whose belief in him made everything matter, whose approval was a reward in itself, whose happiness created his?

And the whole of Europe could be decimated with disease. Corpses everywhere, the land itself rotting. History books told how the whole world had changed. The old way of life had perished and a new order had been made—it had had to be.

“Is she right?” Sutton asked again.

Monk lifted his head. Did Sutton know that in those words he had made it impossible for Monk to refuse? Yes, almost certainly he did.

“Yes,” he answered. “What do you know about the woman who died?”

“ ’Er name were Ruth Clark, an’ she were brung in by a shipowner called Louvain. ’e said she were the mistress of a friend of ’is, which is mebbe true an’ mebbe not.”

“Louvain?” Monk’s body froze, his mind whirling.

“Yeah.” Sutton stood up. “I ’ave ter go. I can’t see yer again. Yer just gotta do yer best.” He seemed about to add something, but could not think of words to convey it.

“I know,” Monk said quickly. “Tell Hester . . .”

“Don’t matter now,” Sutton replied simply. “If she don’t know it, words in’t gonna ’elp. Find where it come from. An’ do it soft, like—very, very soft.”

“I understand.” Monk rose to his feet also, surprised that the room did not sway around him. He followed Sutton and his dog to the door. “Good-bye!”

Sutton went out into the street, rain drifting in the lamplight and glistening on the pavement. “Good night,” he replied, then turned and walked with a peculiar ease, almost a grace of step, into the darkness, the dog still at his heels.

Monk closed the door and went back into the room. It seemed airless and unnaturally silent. He sat down very slowly. His body was shaking. He must control his thoughts. Thought was the only way of keeping command of himself.

Ruth Clark had died of plague. Clement Louvain had brought her to the clinic. Where from? Who was she? He had said she was the cast-off mistress of a friend. Was that true? Was she his own mistress? He knew she was ill, but had he any idea with what?

Where had she contracted a disease like that? Not in London. The Maude Idris had just come back from Africa. Had she come on it? Was that how the plague had got here? Did Louvain know that, or guess? And he had taken her to Hester!

For a moment red fury swept over Monk so it almost blinded him. His body trembled and his nails dug into the flesh of his hands till they drew blood.

He must control himself! He had no idea whether Louvain had known what was wrong with her. Why should he? The woman was sick. That was all Hester had known, and Hester was a nurse who had cared for her day and night.

He started to walk back and forth. Should he go to Louvain and tell him? Should he at least tell him that Ruth was dead? If Louvain had known she had the plague, he would be expecting it. Would he panic now? Might he cause the very terror they were afraid of? But then if he had not known, and she had been his mistress, would he be distressed? Hardly, or he would have gotten a nurse in to care for her, not sent her to a clinic for street women to be looked after by strangers. Far better to keep her death silent. Let him find out in time.

Then another thought struck him. What if Gould had been telling the exact truth, and Hodge had been dead, without a mark on him except the slight bruises of a fall, and his head had been beaten in afterwards, because he had died of plague? Was it not a murder, but the concealment of a death which could end up killing half the world?

Half the world? Wasn’t that a ridiculous exaggeration? Nightmare, hysteria rather than reality? What did the history books say?

Back in 1348 England had been a rural community, ignorant and isolated compared with today. If people traveled at all it was by foot or on horseback. Knowledge of medicine was rudimentary and filled with superstition.

He strode back and forth, trying to picture it. He could not make himself sit down or concentrate his mind in linear reasoning. It had been a barbarous time. Who had been on the throne? One of the Plantagenet kings, long before the Renaissance. It was a hundred and fifty years before they had even learned that the world was round!

There were still forests over England, with wild animals. Nobody would have conceived of such a thing as a train. They burned witches at the stake.

And yet the plague had spread like a stench on the wind! How much farther would it spread now, when a man could ride from the south coast of England all the way to Scotland in a day? London was the largest city in the world, crammed cheek by jowl with close to five million people. He had heard someone say recently that there were more Scots in London than in Edinburgh! And more Irish than in Dublin, and more Roman Catholics than in Rome!

London would become a wasteland of the dead and dying, disease spreading ever outward until it polluted the whole country. It needed only one ship leaving the shores with a sick man, and it would destroy Europe as well.

He had only one choice. He had no power to investigate Hodge’s death or to question anyone. He must find Durban and tell him the whole truth. There was time to pay the price of that afterwards. All that mattered now was to trace the disease, and anyone who might carry it.

He slept fitfully and woke confused and heavy-headed, wondering what was wrong. Then the hideousness of the memory returned, filling him like darkness till he hardly knew how to bear it. He lay frozen, as if time were suspended, until finally intelligence told him the only way to survive was to do something. Action would drive the horror back and leave free a fraction of his mind in which he could live, at least until exhaustion made him too weak to resist.

He dressed quickly with as many clothes as he could, knowing that he would almost certainly spend most of the day on the river. Then he went out and bought hot tea and a sandwich from a street peddler.

He had turned over a dozen different ways to tell Durban the truth, but there was no good way to say any of this, and it hardly mattered how he expressed it. All personal needs and cares vanished in the enormity of this new, terrible truth that swallowed everything else.

It was a sharp, glittering day, just above freezing but feeling far colder because of the wind that scythed in off the shifting, brilliant surface of the water. Gulls wheeled overhead, flashing white against the sky, and the incoming tide slurped on the wood of piers and the wet stone of steps.

The river was busy this morning. Everywhere Monk looked there were men lifting, wheeling, staggering under the weight of sacks and bales. Their shouts were carried by the wind and blown away. Canvas flapped loose and banged against boards. In the clear air he could see as far as the river bends in both directions, and every mast, spar, and line of rigging was sharp as an etching on the sky. Only in the distance above the city was there a thin pall of smoke.

Durban was not at the police station. The sergeant informed Monk that he was already out on the water, probably south, but he didn’t know.

Monk thanked him and went out immediately. There was nothing to do but find a boat and go to look for him. He could not afford to wait.

A few minutes later he was down by the water again, scanning the river urgently for a ferry willing to take him on a search. At first he barely noticed the voice calling him, and only when his sleeve was plucked did he turn.

“Y’all right, then?” Scuff said in an elaborately casual manner, but his eyes were screwed up and there was an edge of anxiety to his tone.

Monk forced himself to be gentler than he felt. “Yes. The man with the ivory was very happy.”

“Paid yer?” Scuff asked for the true measure of success.

“Oh, yes.”

“Then why d’yer look like ’e din’t?” Now there was real concern in his face.

“It’s not money. Someone who might be sick. Do you know Mr. Durban of the River Police?” Monk asked.

“ ’im wi’ the gray ’air, walks like a sailor? Course I do. Why?”

“I need to speak to him, urgently.”

“I’ll find ’im for yer.” Scuff put two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle, then walked over to the edge and repeated it. Within two minutes there was a boat at the steps. After a hurried conversation Scuff scrambled in and beckoned for Monk to follow.

Monk did not want the child with him. What he had to do was going to be awkward and unpleasant, possibly even dangerous. And he certainly could not afford to have Scuff learn the truth.

“C’mon then!” Scuff said sharply, his face wrinkled in puzzlement. “Y’in’t gonner find ’im standin’ there!”

Monk dropped down into the boat. “Thank you,” he said politely, but his voice was rough, as if he were trembling. “I don’t need you to come. Go back to your own work.” He was uncertain whether to offer him money or not; he might see it as an insult to friendship.

Scuff pulled a face. “If yer ’aven’t noticed, the tide’s up. Like I said, yer shouldn’t be out by yerself, yer in’t fit!” He sat down in the stern, a self-appointed guardian for someone he obviously felt to be in need of one.

“Word is ’e’s gorn down Debtford Creek way,” the boatman said pleasantly. “Bin a bit o’ trouble that way yesterday. Yer wanna go or not?”

Monk accepted. If he put Scuff ashore against his will he would lose the boatman’s respect, possibly even his cooperation. “Yes. As quick as you can, please.”

They pulled out onto the main stream of traffic and went south along Limehouse Reach, weaving in and out of strings of barges, moored ships waiting to unload their cargoes, and a few still seeking anchorage.

It took them nearly three quarters of an hour, but finally Monk recognized Durban’s figure on the quayside above a flight of steps near Debtford Creek. Then he saw the police boat on the water just below, with two men at the oars and Orme standing in the stern.

“Over there!” Monk told his own boatman. The raw edge to his voice gave it all the urgency he needed. “How much?”

“A shilling,” the boatman replied instantly.

Monk fished a shilling and threepence out of his pocket, and as soon as they pulled in to the steps he passed it over and stood up. Scuff stood up also. “No!” Monk swung around, all but losing his balance. “I’ll be all right now.”

“Yer might need me!” Scuff argued. “I can do things.”

There was no time to explain, or be gentle. “I know. I’ll find you when I have something for you to do. For now, keep out of the rozzers’ way!”

Scuff sank back reluctantly and Monk leapt for the step and went on up without looking back.

Durban turned around just as Monk reached the top. He was about to speak when he saw Monk’s face. Instead, he looked at the other man, a sullen, weary creature with one shoulder higher than the other. “Do it again an’ I’ll have you. Now get gone.”

The man obeyed with alacrity, leaving Monk and Durban alone at the top of the steps in the wind.

“What is it?” Durban asked. “You look like you’ve seen hell.”

“Not yet, but that could be truer than you think,” Monk said with bitter humor. How could he laugh at anything now? Except, insane as it seemed, perhaps it was the only sanity left. “I need to talk to you alone, and it’s more important than anything else at all.”

Durban drew in his breath, possibly to tell him not to exaggerate, and then let it out again. “What is it? If you’re going to tell me you were lying about the ivory, and that Gould’s innocent of the murder of Hodge, I already know the first, and I might believe the second, with proof. Do you have any?”

Maybe telling the truth was going to be less difficult than Monk had thought, and facing Durban’s contempt was going to be more. Already, guilt was eating him inside. “It might be proof, but that isn’t what matters,” he replied. “It’s not quick, or easy to tell.”

Durban stood motionless, waiting, his hands in his pockets. He did not ask or prompt. Somehow that made it harder. “There were fourteen tusks originally,” Monk began. “I found all of them on Jacob’s Island, and hid one as proof.”

“An’ gave the rest to Louvain, which I presume is what you were hired for.” Durban nodded.

Monk had no time to indulge in excuses. He was conscious of the other police in the boat a few yards away, and that any moment Orme might come up to see what was the matter.

“I saw Hodge’s body when Louvain first told me about the robbery,” Monk answered. “It was my condition for doing the job that I found whoever killed him and handed them to you. I only looked at the back of his head, nothing else.”

Durban’s eyebrows rose, questioning what any of this mattered. There was no open contempt in his face, but it lay only just beneath the surface. “Does this matter, Mr. Monk? His head was beaten in. What did you see that proves Gould’s innocence, or anyone else’s?”

Monk was losing control of the story. Orme was out of the boat and on the steps, and any patience Durban might have had was slipping away. For the first time since he had resigned from the police in fury, he felt grubby for treating crime as a way of earning a living rather than a matter of the law. That was unfair; he solved the crimes other law officers did not, and he wanted to show Durban that, but there was no time, and no reason except pride.

“My wife nursed in the Crimea,” he said roughly. “Now she runs a clinic for sick and injured prostitutes in Portpool Lane.” He saw Durban’s contempt deepening. It was difficult not to reach out a hand and physically hold him from turning away. “A few days ago Clement Louvain brought a woman to her who was very ill. It looked like pneumonia. Yesterday afternoon she died.”

Durban was watching him closely now, but his face was still full of skepticism. He did not interrupt.

“When Hester came to wash her body for the undertaker”—Monk found his breath rasping in his throat; please, God, Orme stay out of earshot—“she found what she had really died of.” He swallowed hard and nearly choked. Would Durban realize the shattering enormity of what he said? Would he understand?

Durban was waiting, his brows puckered. He lifted a hand in a gesture to stop Orme, who was halfway up the steps.

It was senseless to prevaricate. If Monk was not doing this the right way, it was too late to do it better now. “Plague,” he whispered, even though the wind was carrying his words to Durban, not to Orme. “I mean bubonic plague—the Black Death.”

Durban started to speak and then changed his mind. He stood perfectly motionless, even though the wind was now cutting them both like ice on the skin. The air was still bright around them. The gulls circled above, the strings of barges moved slowly past on the tide going up to the Pool.

“Plague?” His voice was hoarse.

Monk nodded. “The rat catcher Sutton told me last night, late. He came to my house, and he’ll tell Margaret Ballinger, who works at the clinic too, but no one else. If he did there’d be panic. People might even try to burn them out.”

Durban ran his hand over his face. Suddenly he was so pale his skin looked almost gray. “We can’t let them out!”

“I know,” Monk said softly. “Sutton already has friends patrolling all the ways in or out with pit bulls. They’ll take anyone down who tries to leave.”

Durban rubbed the heel of his hand over his face again. “Oh, God!” he whispered. “Who . . .”

“No one,” Monk replied. “We’ve got to deal with it ourselves. Margaret Ballinger will do all she can outside—getting food, water, coal, and medicine to them, leaving it somewhere they can pick it up after dark. At least at this time of year the nights are long, and Portpool Lane’s well lit. Hester and the women already there will nurse the sick . . . as long as . . .” He could not bring himself to say the rest, even though the words beat in his head: as long as they live.

Durban did not say anything, but his eyes were filled with a terrible, drowning pity.

Monk swallowed down the terror inside himself, fear not of the disease but of losing everything he loved. “We have to find where it came from,” he went on, his voice almost steady now. “We don’t have the plague in England. The Maude Idris, which the ivory came in on, has just returned from Africa. It is Louvain’s ship. Louvain took Ruth Clark to the clinic.”

“Yes . . . I see,” Durban answered. “She probably came off the ship. Maybe Hodge knew that, in which case his death could have more to do with plague than with theft. Either way, we have to know. God in heaven! Once plague gets hold it could sweep the country! The question is who on the Maude Idris knows? And what about Louvain?”

“I don’t know that,” Monk admitted. “I . . . I promised Gould I’d do what I could to see he didn’t hang, if he was innocent of Hodge’s death.”

“Hang?” Durban said with dawning disbelief. “Great God, man! If what you say is true, the whole world could die, in a far worse way than hanging—which is brutal, but it’s quick. What’s one man, compared with that?”

“We aren’t going to let that happen,” Monk replied between his teeth, his voice uneven because his body was beginning to shake. “Hester will stay locked in the clinic with them. No one will ever come out, except after it’s all over, if there’s anyone left alive. The world will go on exactly as if nothing had ever happened. And justice will still matter.”

The wash of a string of barges slapped against the stones. “You and I will be the only ones concerned with Gould’s life or death or know anything about it,” Monk went on. “Do we hang an innocent man? If we do that because we’re frightened sick, then why not two, or ten, or a hundred? How many innocent men are worth trying to save?” He could hear the sharp anger in his words, and he knew it was relief because this was something bearable to think about, something they could address. “We have to know the truth anyway.”

Durban nodded very slowly, his face bleak, then he walked to the top of the steps and spoke to Orme. Monk could not hear what he said, but he saw Orme acknowledge it, frowning in concern, then go back down towards the other men in the boat. Durban came back.

“Who did Louvain say the dead woman was?” he asked.

“The cast-off mistress of a friend,” Monk replied.

“Is it true?” Durban looked sideways at him.

“I’ve no idea. Might be, or she could have been his own mistress.”

“Do you think he knew what was wrong with her?”

“If she was the first one he’d seen, no. When Hester took her in, she thought it was pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia kills,” Durban pointed out.

“I know it does. It’s still better than the plague.”

“Don’t keep saying that word!” Durban snapped. “In fact, don’t ever say it again!”

Monk ignored the stricture. “On the other hand, if someone had died of it on his ship, he may well have known,” he went on. “But if it happened at sea, and the crew buried him over the side, he might, and he might not. Similarly, if that’s what Hodge died of . . .”

Durban stared at Monk. “What are you saying? Hodge was in the pneumonic stage, an’ someone killed him to stop him from going ashore? Or that he died of it, an’ they couldn’t dispose of the body at sea because they were here on the river, an’ they bashed his head so no one would look too closely at the rest of the body?”

“Probably the second,” Monk replied. “Louvain could be innocent or guilty of knowing what happened.”

“We have to find out whose mistress she was.” Durban’s voice was urgent, edged with fear. “Whoever he is, he could have it too. But worse than that, what about the rest of the crew?”

“Louvain told me that he paid off three, and there are three men left, now Hodge is dead. You’ll have to have a boat of men to keep them there. Shoot them if you have to,” Monk answered. “There’s not much point in sending a doctor to them. There’s no cure.”

“We can’t let them unload either,” Durban said thoughtfully. The muscles in his face tightened, his mouth pulling into a thin line. “I hate lying to my men, but I can’t tell them the truth.” There was a question in his eyes, no more than a flicker, as if he still hoped there was another answer and Monk would give it to him.

“Sutton told his men it was cholera,” Monk replied. “Maybe that’s what the crew think it is as well?”

Durban nodded slowly. “Then we’d best be about it. We’ve no time to waste.” He started for the steps again and led the way down, Monk on his heels.

Orme was waiting. He regarded Monk with patient curiosity but little liking. He did not know what to make of him, but he was suspicious.

Durban did not prevaricate. “The Maude Idris has cholera,” he stated quietly, his voice without a tremor as if it were the exact truth he was telling them. “We must stop them from unloading, or anyone at all from coming ashore, until they’re cleared of quarantine. Doesn’t matter what you have to do; shoot them if it comes to that, but it shouldn’t. It’ll be easy enough to see they don’t get a wharf. I’ll do that. We’re going there now, once, to warn them. After that keep your distance—get that?”

“Yes sir.” They spoke as one man.

“You’ll get a relief—eight hours on, eight hours off. Don’t let anything distract you. Keeping the disease in is the most important. If you doubt it, just think of your families,” Durban went on. “Now let’s get back upriver and do it.” He took his place in the boat and motioned Monk to follow him, and almost immediately the oarsmen bent their shoulders and dug the blades deep.

Durban did not speak again, but the other men had an obvious camaraderie, jokes and good-natured insults we swapped all the way. But when the Maude Idris was in sight, suddenly their concentration was complete, as if they were already in the presence of illness.

They came alongside and Orme hailed her. Newbolt’s shaven head appeared over the rail. “River Police!” Orme called back, and the rope ladder came over a moment or two later. Durban glanced at Monk, then went up it hand over hand. Monk followed and heard Orme come up behind him.

Newbolt stood on the deck waiting for them. A heavy coat made him look even more massive, but he was bareheaded and had no gloves on his hands.

“Wot d’yer want this time?” he said expressionlessly. He offered no excuse or explanation, and Monk’s judgment of his intelligence was immediately revised, possibly of his knowledge as well. It was those who talked too much who gave themselves away.

Durban stood motionless on the deck, balancing to the ship’s slight sway with an innate grace. “How many are on board?” he asked.

“Three,” Newbolt replied. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind. That was the moment Monk decided he knew the truth. He glanced at Durban to see if he had understood the same thing, but Durban had not moved his eyes from Newbolt.

“Three,” Durban repeated. “That would have been four with Hodge?”

“Right.”

“What’s your full crew?”

“Nine. Four men paid off downriver. Don’t need seven ter watch ’er ’ere.” He did not refer to the fact that the ivory had still been stolen, or Hodge met his death, or how that had happened, nor did he ask why Durban wanted to know. It was already a battle of wills, undeclared but intensely real.

“Who were the three paid off?” Durban asked.

“Captain, cook, an’ cabin boy,” Newbolt answered without hesitation.

“Names?” Durban specified.

“Stope, Carter, an’ Briggs,” Newbolt said. Again, he did not ask why Durban might want to know.

“Where’d they go ashore?”

“Gravesend.”

It was Durban who hesitated. “Do you know their first names?”

“No.” Newbolt did not blink, nor did he turn as the lean man with the scar came up through the hatchway from below. “There’s me an’ Atkinson an’ McKeever ’ere.”

Durban reached a decision. “We need to contact your captain.”

Newbolt shrugged.

Durban looked beyond him to Atkinson. “Was Stope your captain?”

“Yeah,” Atkinson replied. “ ’e went ashore at Gravesend. Could be anyplace by now.”

“Did he ever say where he lived?”

“No,” Newbolt cut across. “Captains don’ talk ter the likes o’ us; captain’s ter give orders.”

“An’ the other men?” Durban persisted.

“Dunno,” Newbolt replied. “If they said, I don’ ’member. Most likely got no special ’ome. At sea most o’ the time. Thought bein’ River P’lice an’ all, yer’d a know’d that.”

“Captains have homes,” Durban replied. “Sometimes wives and families. Where’s McKeever?”

“Below,” Newbolt answered. “ ’e in’t feelin’ good. Mebbe we should a let ’im go an’ kept the cook!” He grinned mirthlessly.

Durban’s face lightened. “I’ll need to see him.” He looked at Atkinson. “Take me below.”

Monk moved forward to stop him and Durban snapped at him to stay where he was. Atkinson glanced at Newbolt, then obeyed. Monk, Orme, and Newbolt remained on deck. No one spoke.

Boats passed them; gulls circled overhead. They could hear the shouts of men working on the shore. The tide was receding, moving more and more rapidly past them, carrying flotsam and refuse out. The mudlarks were beginning to scavenge on the banks. Orme looked at Monk with suspicion, then away again.

Finally, Durban came back up through the hatchway, Atkinson immediately behind him. He walked over to Monk with his slightly rolling gait, his face pale. “Not much to see,” he said briefly. “We could have a long search ahead of us still.” Then he turned to Newbolt. “You’ll be told when there’s a berth for you. Stay on board till then.” He did not add any explanation, simply signaled to Orme and went to the railing.

Monk followed. Nothing more was said between them until the boat put them ashore and Orme and his men returned to keep watch.

“If Louvain paid them off at Gravesend, they could be anywhere,” Durban said grimly. “We’ve got a long job.”

“He can’t have known what it was,” Monk said, keeping step with Durban as they walked towards the street. “No sane man would let that loose, whatever the profit. If it spreads, there’s nothing for anyone, no clippers, no cargoes, no trade, no life. Louvain’s a hard man, but he’s not mad.”

“He didn’t know,” Durban agreed. “Not at the time of paying them off, anyway. I agree, he’s clever, brutal at times, but he respects the laws of the sea; he knows no man wins against nature. He wouldn’t last long if he didn’t, and Louvain’s done more than last, he’s profited, built his own empire.” He came to the curb, hesitated, and crossed, turning south again. “He’d be perfectly happy to get rid of a mistress if she no longer interested him, more likely than look after another man’s cast-off woman. But I’d still wager he didn’t know what she had, or he’d have done something different, maybe even kill her and bury her with quicklime.”

Monk shuddered at the thought, and believed it. “We’ve got to find those men.”

“I know,” Durban agreed.

“Where would they go?”

Durban gave him a dry look. “That was ten days ago. Where would yer be if yer’d been at sea for half a year?”

“Eat well, drink deep, and find a woman,” Monk replied. “Unless I had family, in which case I’d go home.”

Durban’s face pinched tight. He nodded, something inside him too knotted with anger and grief to speak.

“How do we find out?” Monk went on. There was no time for feelings; they could come afterwards—if there was an afterwards.

“We’ll get their names,” Durban replied. “That’ll be a start at least. Then we look for them.” His face was almost expressionless, just a faint, almost bruised sadness about his mouth, as if he understood the darkness ahead.

Neither of them spoke again as they made their way along the narrow pavement past pawnbrokers, shipwrights, chandlers, ropemakers, sailmakers, and ironmongers—representatives of all the heavy industries of the shore. They were forced to stop and wait while a man backed four magnificent shire horses out of a yard, with the dray turning a tight corner into the street, wheels bumping over the cobbles. He did it with intense concentration and care, all the while talking to his animals.

A cooper was complaining bitterly about a barrel not to his liking. Monk nursed his anger like a small ray of sanity, a glimpse of the world that seemed to be slipping out of his grasp no matter how hard he clung to it. He was on the edge of an abyss where plague destroyed everything; its spread or its containment was all he could think of. The cooper lived in a world where one badly made barrel mattered to him.

Monk glanced at Durban and saw a reflection of his own thoughts in the policeman’s eyes. It was a moment of perfect understanding.

Then the cart was clear of the gateway and Durban strode forward, Monk on his heels.

It was tedious finding the information they needed without arousing suspicion or, worse than that, fear that the police were seeking anyone in connection with a crime. A breath of that, and not only would the man disappear, but no one on the river would help them. All doors would be closed.

Durban was endlessly patient, sharing a fact here, a fact there, and it was dusk before they emerged from the last office with all the information they were likely to get: the names, physical descriptions, and what was known of the backgrounds and tastes of the three men they sought.

They began at Gravesend and worked upriver from one public house to another, drinking half a pint of ale or eating a pie, trying to blend in with the other men, talking of ships, voyages they’d known or heard of, always listening for a name, watching for a man who answered any of the descriptions. All signs of Durban’s police status had been removed. His hat was stuffed in his pocket, and his coat collar turned up and a little lopsided. He looked like a ship’s officer ashore a few months too long. They heard nothing of value. No one admitted to having seen any of the men from the Maude Idris.

The bright, hard light faded shortly after five, and the sun set in a sea of fire over the water, dazzling the eyes till it hurt to look westwards. Glittering shades of silver and gold edged the ruffles over the surface and marked the wakes of barges.

Monk and Durban stopped at another public house for something to eat, and were glad of the warmth. Outside the wind was rising. Neither of them said anything about the necessity to keep looking. Even the thought of home and sleep had to be pushed from the mind. Every hour counted, and they had no lead yet.

They ate in silence, glancing at one another every now and then, mostly listening, watching, trying to catch the odd snatch of conversation which might refer to a sailor by name, or to someone home from Africa and looking for another ship. They had been there three quarters of an hour and were getting ready to leave when Monk heard a man with a hacking cough, and realized that he had also been listening for word of anyone ill, or even of a death.

“Where do sick men go?” he asked Durban abruptly, just as they rose to their feet.

Durban swung around to face him, his eyes wide. “Sailors’ homes, the lucky ones. Doss-houses, the others—or worse than that, some pick a nethersken on the street.”

Monk did not need to ask what a nethersken was; he knew the cant names for all the different sorts of cheap lodging, anything to be in out of the rain and share the warmth of other bodies. However dirty they were, or lice-ridden, their shelter might be the difference between survival and freezing to death.

He made no comment, and neither did Durban. For these few hours, or days, they were both policemen with a single task. Their understanding and their unity of purpose formed a bond as deep as brotherhood.

They moved into the backstreets of the dockside, going from one house to another, always asking discreetly, following any word about a man who might be sick or one who was free with his money. They did not mention names; they could not afford to alarm anyone. Lies came as easily and inventively as the need arose.

By one in the morning they were cold and exhausted, and had pursued half a dozen dead ends. Durban stood in an alley where the wind moaned up the narrow crack between the buildings, his face half illuminated by the one lamp on the outside wall of a doss-house. His shoulders were hunched and he was shivering. He looked at Monk wordlessly.

“One more?” Monk suggested. “Could be lucky? Someone must have seen them.”

Durban’s eyes widened a little.

“Or we could sleep on it?” Monk smiled.

Durban’s face eased, his eyes softer for a moment. “Right.” He straightened up, stamping his feet to keep some kind of circulation going, and led the way.

The doss-house keeper began to refuse them. She was a thin, angular woman with a tired face, and gray hair that was straggling out of an irregular knot. Then she saw the money Monk offered and she changed her mind.

“Gotta share!” she warned. “But there’s clean straw on the floor, an’ yer out o’ the wind.” She took the few pence and put it away in a pocket well in the inside of her voluminous skirts, then she led them to a small room at the back of the house. It was as primitive as she had said, and already occupied by two other men, but it was tolerably warm.

Monk found himself a place to lie down in the straw, bunching some of it together to form a pillow, and tried to sleep. He was tired enough, and his muscles ached from walking the endless alleys in the damp with the wind off the water cutting the flesh. But he was too cold, and thoughts of his own bed and Hester beside him—not only the warmth of her body but the deeper warmth of her thoughts, her dreams, her whole being—made this sour room with its restless and hopeless men a unique kind of hell.

He drifted into a kind of sleep, but it did not last long. He was too cold and the floor was too hard for him to relax. He could not bear to imagine where she was now, how much worse it was for her than for him, how much greater the danger. He lay in the dark listening to the rustle of straw, the heavy breathing of the men, and forced his mind to think.

He pieced together everything he knew and tried to make sense of it. Where would a sailor go ashore? They had already tried taverns, brothels, and doss-houses along this stretch of the river. They had found a score of men more or less like the ones from the Maude Idris, but never the right ones. Was it a hopeless task, one only a desperate man, or a fool, would even try?

What were the alternatives? To alert the police forces everywhere, and hunt down the men as if they were murderers on the loose? Would that catch them? Or drive them so far underground they would never be found? And how many people would they infect in the meantime?

His thoughts drifted, and then suddenly he was awake again. He heard the scrape of rats’ feet and felt his flesh cringe. Someone in the next room was coughing over and over, a raw, hacking sound. They were looking for someone ill! That was how plague started, wasn’t it, in the chest, with something like pneumonia? He was too cold to move, but he should go and see if that was one of the crew, or worse than that, someone already infected by them.

He lay shivering, muscles locked, body curled up, until a long spasm of coughing next door made him force himself to roll over and stand up slowly. He picked his way to the door through the forms of sleeping men and went out into the narrow passage. It was faintly lit by one candle on a shelf, so anyone needing to relieve himself would not get lost or fall over and waken everyone else.

He reached the door of the next room and turned the handle very slowly and pushed. It swung wide with a faint creak. It took him a moment to accustom his eyes to the deeper gloom, then he moved very quietly, stepping over and around the sleeping bodies until he came to the one turning restlessly, hunching his shoulders over, his breath labored.

Monk bent over and touched him. The next instant the man lashed out, sending Monk flying backwards, landing hard and awkwardly on a sleeping man behind him, who let out a yell of fury. It turned into a melee of thrashing arms and legs, and cries of “Thief!”

Monk tried to extricate himself, but he was one against half a dozen. He was generally getting the worst of it, failing to explain his motives, when a candle appeared in the doorway and he saw Durban’s face with an expression of exasperation and amusement. The next moment the candle was set on a chair and Durban plowed into the battle with gusto. He worked his way closer to where Monk was struggling to avoid being knocked senseless without actually doing the same to anyone else.

Finally, Monk leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath while the original man with the cough sat doubled over on the floor breathing with difficulty. Three other men glared at Durban, who was grinning hugely.

“I only wanted to know”—Monk gasped—“if any of you are off the Maude Idris.”

“Wot d’yer come creeping in ’ere for like a bleedin’ thief, then?” one of the men demanded.

“I wasn’t going to waken anyone!” Monk said, thinking reasonably.

He was greeted by hoots and jeers.

“Well, have yer?” he shouted.

“Never ’eard of it,” another replied.

“Course yer ’ave, yer fool!” the man next to him retorted. “One o’ Clem Louvain’s ships. Come back from Africa. In’t put ashore yet.”

“Paid three men off at Gravesend,” Durban told him.

“In’t seen none of ’em.” The man shook his head.

“Stope, Carter, and Briggs,” Monk supplied.

“Stope? Know Cap’n Stope, but I in’t seed ’im in more’n a year. Now can I go back ter sleep again, an’ yer get to ’ell out of ’ere?”

Monk glanced at the rest of the men, but there was nothing in the faces of any of them to indicate guilt, recognition, or anything beyond weariness and wretchedness. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.” He followed Durban out, picking up the candle as he went. By some miracle it was still burning.

He put it back on the shelf in the passage as he passed it. He was beginning to be aware of several bruises, and the fact that he was no longer cold. Durban was laughing to himself. He glanced at Monk as they reached the door of the room they had come from, and in the wavering light from the flame his eyes were bright. His expression was as eloquent as a score of words.

In the morning Monk woke stiff and his body ached in every muscle. No doubt if he looked he would have blackening bruises all over. He glanced across at Durban and saw him still smiling. He shrugged, and winced. The whole episode was absurd, and they had learned nothing, but he still felt a warmth inside him that he had not had before.

Breakfast was porridge and bread. Only hunger could have driven him to eat it. But with daylight they saw their companions in the room more clearly. One was a heavyset young man with a sullen face; the other was elderly, his skin pockmarked. He was a great talker and eager to tell anyone about his adventures. He had been around Cape Horn and dined out more than a few times on his memories of the storms off that notorious coast, the wild weather, waves like moving mountains, winds that tore the breath from a man’s lungs, coasts like nightmares drawn from the landscapes of the moon. He had rounded Tierra del Fuego in the teeth of a gale, and that was where a loose halyard had shattered his arm. The ship’s surgeon had cauterized the stump, sawing the bone with no more anesthetic than half a bottle of rum and a leather gag to bite on.

Monk watched the man’s face, and then Durban’s as he listened. He saw many emotions: respect for courage; awe at the splendor and violence of the sea; admiration for the audacity of men who built boats of wood and set out to sail. It seemed an impossible hubris; although Durban would probably not be familiar with the word, he certainly understood the concept of mortals daring and defying the gods to snatch glory from the hands of heaven. Monk saw also a tenderness and willing patience that he guessed some deep meaning lay behind.

When they left and were back in the street again in a slightly milder morning, he asked the question that had taken shape in his mind.

“Was your father at sea?”

Durban looked at him with surprise, then something like pleasure. “That clear, is it?”

Monk smiled back. “Just a guess.”

Durban kept his eyes ahead now, avoiding Monk’s gaze, which had proved too keen. “Lost in the Irish Sea in ’35. I can still remember the day they brought us the news.” His voice was quiet, but there was a gentleness and a pain in it he could not disguise. “I suppose families of seamen always half expect it, but when you grow used to the fear without the reality, it takes you longer to believe that this time it isn’t going to be just a scare. It’s here to stay, day in, day out.” He jammed his hands farther into his pockets and walked in silence. He expected Monk to understand without words and details.

They went to more doss-houses, more street corner peddlers, more brothels, taverns, and pawnbrokers. No one could help. One even knew the family of the cabin boy, and for an hour and a half hope boiled up that they had achieved one breakthrough at last.

But he was not there, nor had his father heard of him since his ship left for Africa nearly six months ago. They were confused and then worried when Durban said that the Maude Idris had docked and paid off.

“Don’ worry yerself, Ma,” his elder brother said gently. “ ’E’s a growed lad. ’E’ll be ’avin’ ’isself a good time. ’E’ll come ’ome when ’e’s ready. ’E’ll ’ave suffink special for yer from Africa, I’ll be bound.”

They left somberly, with a growing weight of urgency and sadness on them, and moved on southwards along the river.

“Trafalgar,” Durban said with a ham sandwich and a pint of ale in his hands. “My grandfather fought there. Not on the Victory, but he remembers Nelson.” He smiled a little self-consciously. “I wanted to go to sea then.”

Monk waited. It would be indelicate to ask why he had not. The reason might hold any kind of pain. He would speak of it if he wanted to.

“Then my brothers died of scarlet fever,” Durban said simply. “So I stayed at home.” He straightened up and walked back towards the street and the next place to ask.

Monk followed. He said nothing. Durban did not want sympathy, or even comment; he was simply revealing something of himself. It was an act of trust.

They worked the rest of the day, occasionally separately, mostly together, because this was not an area where a man should have no one guarding his back. They did get involved in a brief fight, and Monk was startled at how hard he struck, how instinctively he looked for the crippling blow.

Afterwards he and Durban leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard, and for no reason whatever laughing. Possibly it was because of the other absurd fight in the doss-house. Monk was further bruised, and his cheek was cut, but, extraordinarily, the exertion, even the physical pain, had invigorated him. He looked across at Durban and saw exactly the same thing mirrored in his eyes.

Durban straightened up and pulled his jacket straight. He pushed his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Next one?” he asked.

“I haven’t got a better idea,” Monk replied. “Do you think it means we’re getting closer?”

“No,” Durban said honestly. “They seem to have vanished.” He did not elaborate his fears that they had taken other ships out straightaway, or that they were already dead, but the same thoughts raced through Monk’s mind.

“We haven’t checked the deaths,” Monk said aloud.

“I did,” Durban answered. “When you were talking to the brothel up in Thames Street. The police have identified everyone that might have been ours.”

“How can you know?” Monk challenged.

“Because they know the ones they have,” Durban said simply. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t dead, though, just not found and not buried.” He looked at Monk and his face was rueful. “C’mon, let’s try the next one.”