William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

Tooley Street, then?”
    “Yes,” Lanyon said quietly. “I do. Thank you, you have been extremely helpful. Now I need to find out where the barge went back to, whose it is, and what happened to the other man. Someone took it back up the river again.”
    “Never seen it come back. But then I were gorn ’ome by then, mebbe.”
    Lanyon smiled. “We’ll go back too, if you please. I’ve no desire to get out at Bugsby’s Marshes. It looks disgusting.”
    The waterman grinned, although his face was still pale and his hands were clenched tight on the oars. “Told yer.”
    “Just one more thing,” Monk said quietly as the man leaned his weight on the oars to turn the boat. The tide was beginning to run the other way, and suddenly he needed to put his back into it. Monk could almost feel the pull on his own muscles as he watched.
    “What’s that?”
    “Did you see any sign of a woman … a young girl? Or she could even have been dressed as a boy, perhaps?”
    The waterman was startled. “A woman! No, I never seen a woman on one o’ them barges. What would a woman be doing out ’ere?”
    “A hostage, perhaps. Or maybe willingly, going to board the seagoing ship farther down the river.”
    “I never saw ’er. But then them barges ’as cabins, sort o’. She could ’a bin below.… Gawd ’elp ’er. Wish I’d ’a known. I’d ’a done summink!” He shook his head. “There’s river police!” His expression betrayed that that would have been a last resort, but in times of extremity he would have abandoned his own principles and turned to them.
    Lanyon shrugged ruefully.
    Monk said nothing, but settled in his seat for the journey back to Blackwall, and then eventually to the city, to tell Mrs. Alberton that Breeland had got away and there was nothing he and Lanyon, or anyone else, could do about it.
    Monk arrived at Tavistock Square early in the evening. He was not surprised to find Casbolt there. And in truth he was relieved to see him. It was easier to tell him such bare facts as he had, simply because his emotion could not possibly be as deep or his bereavement as dreadful as Judith’s.
    He was shown into the withdrawing room immediately. Casbolt was standing by the empty hearth, the fireplace nowcovered with a delicate tapestry screen. He looked pale, as if his composure cost him great effort. Judith Alberton stood by the window as if she had been gazing out at the roses just the other side of the glass, but she turned as Monk came in. The hope in her face twisted inside him with pity, and with guilt because he could do nothing to help. He brought no news that was of any comfort.
    The atmosphere was electric, as if the air even inside the room were waiting for thunder.
    She stared at him, as if to guess from his face what he would say, trying to guard herself from pain, and yet she could not let go of all hope.
    He cleared his throat. “They put the guns on a barge and took them downriver as far as Greenwich. They must have had a ship waiting, and loaded them there.” He looked at Judith, not at Casbolt, but he was acutely conscious of him watching, hanging on every word. “There was no sign of Merrit,” he added, dropping his voice still further. “The last witness we spoke to, a waterman near Greenwich, saw two men, one tall and upright with an accent he couldn’t place, and a shorter, heavier man, but no woman. Sergeant Lanyon, who is in charge, won’t give up, but the best we can hope for is that he finds the barge owner and proves his complicity. He could prosecute him as an accomplice.”
    He thought of adding something about there being no evidence that Merrit had come to any harm, then knew it would be stupid. Nothing would have been easier than to take Merrit along and dump her body as soon as they were clear of the estuary. Judith must surely have thought of that too, if not now, then she would soon, in the long days ahead.
    “I see …” she whispered. “Thank you for coming to tell me that. It cannot have been easy.”
    Casbolt moved toward her. “Judith …” His face was gray, twisted with pity.
    She held up her hand quite gently, but as if to keep him from coming any closer. Monk wondered whether if he touched her she would not be able to keep her control. Sympathymight be more than she could bear. Perhaps any emotion would be too much.
    She walked forward very slowly to Monk. Even in this state of distress she was remarkably beautiful, and quite unlike any other