William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

certain if that was because he had actually been killed on deck and then carried down there, but I couldn’t find any blood on deck either. I was told he had a woollen hat on, and that might have absorbed a lot of it.” Monk took a deep breath. “Hodge was buried properly, as an accident. But the morgue attendant made a record of his injuries, and Louvain gave me his word, in writing, which I have, that once the ivory was recovered he would see that Hodge’s murderer was caught and tried. He just needed to get his money first, or he could lose everything.”
    Rathbone found that impossible to believe. “Why—” he started.
    Monk interrupted his question. “If his rival buys the clipper coming up for sale, then he will be first home in every voyage. First home gets the prize; second gets the leavings, if any.”
    “I see.” Rathbone was beginning to understand more. “Now he has gone back on it, and you want me to pursue it in law?”
    The ghost of a smile crossed Monk’s face, but so grim it was worse than nothing at all. “No. The alleged murderer is in custody. He took me to the ivory, and he admits he was the only one to go on board and below deck. The other man stayed above and couldn’t have killed Hodge, didn’t even know he was there. But Gould swears he found Hodge senseless but unharmed. He thought he was just dead drunk. I believe him. And I promised I would get him the best defense I could.”
    Rathbone was now deeply troubled. Monk was the least gullible of men, and this story was absurd, on the face of it. There had to be something else of crucial importance that Monk was not telling him. Why not? Rathbone leaned back against his desk. It was uncomfortable, but while Monk was standing he did not feel able to sit. “Why do you believe him?” he asked.
    Monk hesitated.
    “I can’t help you if I don’t know the truth!” Rathbone said with an edge that surprised himself. Something of the darkness inside Monk was disturbing him, although he had heard nothing yet except the story of a very ordinary robbery, and a concealed murder. That was it—why would Monk, of all men, hide a murder in this way? “The rest of it!” he demanded. “For heaven’s sake, Monk, haven’t you learned to trust me yet?”
    Monk flinched. “You don’t know what you’re asking.” Now his voice was low. His eyes were hollow, only horror left.
    Rathbone was truly afraid. “I’m asking for the truth.” He felt his throat so tight the words were forced out. “Why do you think this man is innocent? Nothing you’ve said so far makes sense of it. If he didn’t kill Hodge, who did and why? Are you saying it was one of the crew, or Louvain himself?” He jerked his hands, slicing the air. “Why would he? Why would a shipowner give a damn about one of his crewmen? What is it? Blackmail, mutiny, something personal? What would a shipowner have personal with a seaman? I’m no use to you half blind, Monk!”
    Monk stood perfectly still, a momentous struggle raging inside him so clearly that Rathbone could only stand and watch, helpless and with a cold hand tightening inside him.
    The clerk knocked on the door.
    “Not yet!” Rathbone said tensely.
    Monk focused his eyes; his face was even whiter than before. “You must listen . . .” he said hoarsely, his voice a whisper.
    Rathbone felt himself go cold. He brushed past Monk to the door, opened it and called for the clerk. The man appeared almost instantly.
    “Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day,” Rathbone told him. “An emergency has arisen. Apologize and tell them I will see them at their earliest convenience.” He saw the man’s face crease in bewilderment and dismay. “Do it, Coleridge,” he ordered. “Tell them I am very sorry, but the circumstances are beyond my control. And do not interrupt me or come to the door for any reason until I send for you.”
    “Are you all right, Sir Oliver?” Coleridge asked with deep concern.
    “Yes, I am. Just deliver my message, thank you.” And without waiting he went back into his office and closed the door. “Now . . .” he said to Monk. “Tell me the truth.”
    Monk seemed to have ceased struggling with his decision. He was even sitting down, as if exhaustion had finally taken him over. He looked so ashen Rathbone was afraid he was ill. “Brandy?” Rathbone offered.
    “Not yet,” Monk declined.
    This time it was Rathbone who could not sit down.
    Monk began, looking not at Rathbone