William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

controlled himself from retching. The rest of the body was there, almost whole, huge, disintegrating at the touch.
    He saw Trace’s light in the gloom, waving around. Another body floated across his vision and disappeared.
    It made no sense. Who were they? Why were they dead? He forced himself to govern his revulsion and move slowly after one of them. Deliberately he felt around until he found the head. He shone his light on it, close up, trying not to look at the unrecognizable features. The bullet hole was still there, not easy to see in the white, half-eaten flesh of the forehead, but plain enough in the splintered skull.
    It seemed to take endless time swishing around almost helplessly in the current inside the cramped cabin, bumping into each other, into the trapped and hideous corpses, before they ascertained beyond doubt that there were three men, all of whom had been shot dead.
    Trace came right up to him, holding Monk by one arm and touching his helmet to Monk’s. When he spoke, incredibly, Monk could hear him almost as normal.
    “Shearer!” Trace said distinctly, waving his other arm, with the lantern, in the direction of one of the corpses.
    Shearer. Of course! This abomination was why no one had seen Walter Shearer since the night of Alberton’s death. He had been loyal to Alberton after all. He had followed the barge down here, and been shot with these other two. Were they the ones who had actually committed the murders? Why? On whose orders?
    He made a sign of acknowledgment, then turned andblundered out of the fearful cabin and stopped abruptly as his air hose tightened and almost broke. Terror stifled his breath. He was covered in cold sweat. Trace! Of course! He would die down here in this filthy water, alone with his murderer. He would never see light again, breathe air, hold Hester in his arms or look at her eyes.
    When Monk left home that afternoon, Hester had tried, at first, to busy herself with domestic tasks. Mrs. Patrick arrived at exactly two o’clock, the agreed time. She was a small, thin woman with crisp white hair full of natural curl, and very blue eyes. Hester judged her to be about fifty years old. She had a strong face, albeit a little gaunt, and a brisk manner. She spoke with a slight Scottish burr. Hester could not place it, but she knew it was not Edinburgh. She had too many memories of that city to mistake its tones.
    Mrs. Patrick, neat in a white, starched apron, began to clear up the kitchen and consider what other tasks needed doing: clean and black the small stove, put on the laundry, scrub the kitchen floor, clean out the larder and make a note of what needed restocking, take out the rugs, sweep the floors, beat the rugs and return them, hang the laundry out, and do the ironing from the previous day. And of course prepare the dinner.
    “What time will Mr. Monk be home?” she enquired while Hester was sitting in the office out of the way, stitching on a shirt button.
    “I don’t know,” Hester replied honestly. “He’s gone diving.”
    Mrs. Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”
    “He’s gone diving,” Hester explained. “In the river. I’m not sure what he expects to find.”
    “Water and mud,” Mrs. Patrick said tartly. “For heaven’s sake, why would he be doing such a thing?” She looked at Hester narrowly, as if she suspected she had been lied to regarding the nature of Monk’s employment.
    Hester was very keen to keep Mrs. Patrick’s services. Life had been altogether much easier since her advent. “He isstill trying to find out who killed Mr. Alberton in the Tooley Street murder,” she said tentatively.
    Mrs. Patrick’s eyebrows were still raised and a trifle crooked, her mouth twisted into profound skepticism.
    “There are other guns,” Hester went on, not sure if she was making matters better or worse. “Something went down the river on the barge from Hayes Dock. It might have been to pay the blackmailers.”
    Mrs. Patrick had not intended to admit that she had been following the case. She disapproved of reading about such things, but the words were out of her mouth before she realized their implication. “That was why they asked for Mr. Monk in the first place, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes, it was,” Hester admitted.
    “If you ask me, they don’t exist.” Mrs. Patrick smoothed her apron over her narrow hips. “I reckon as Mr. Alberton did that himself … probably sold the guns to the pirates anyway!”
    “That