William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

he was innocent, but because it was a clear duty. He realized as he left that he was inclined towards accepting Gould’s story that he really had found Hodge unconscious but not apparently injured. He admitted freely that he had stolen the ivory, but his indignation at the charge of murder had a ring of honesty that Rathbone had not expected.
    However, on speaking to the undertaker who had buried Hodge, there could be no doubt whatever that he had suffered an appalling blow to the head. It had crushed the back of his skull, and was presumably the cause of his death. The undertaker had done as he was asked in burying Hodge, being assured both by Louvain and by Monk that all evidence had been recorded under oath and would be passed to the appropriate authorities. The perpetrator of the crime was being sought, and when found would be brought to justice.
    Rathbone returned to his office and began to consider what possible courses were open to him. He was thus occupied when Coleridge informed him that Monk was at the door. It was a little after half past eight in the morning.
    “Now?” he said incredulously.
    Coleridge’s face was studiously without expression. “Yes sir. I daresay he is also concerned about the case.” He had no idea what the case was, and he was apparently offended by the omission. He also desired Rathbone to realize that Monk was not the only person working long and remarkable hours.
    “Yes, of course,” Rathbone acknowledged. He had no intention of telling Coleridge what the case was; he could not afford to until it was absolutely necessary. Even then, it would be only what he was going to say in court, and not include the reason for any of his extraordinary silences. But Coleridge did deserve to be treated with consideration. “He would be,” he said, referring to Monk. “It is a grave matter. Will you show him in, please.”
    “Would you like a cup of tea, Sir Oliver? Mr. Monk looks unusually . . .” The clerk searched for an adequate phrase. “In need of one,” he finished.
    Rathbone smiled. “Yes, please. That is most thoughtful of you.”
    Coleridge retreated, mollified.
    Monk came in a moment later, and Rathbone saw immediately what Coleridge had meant. Monk was wearing the same clothes he had had on last time and his face looked even hollower, as though he had neither eaten nor slept well since then. He came into the office and closed the door behind him.
    “Coleridge is coming back with tea in a few minutes,” Rathbone warned. “Have you found any of the crew yet? You’ll have to tell them, even if you keep them by force. You can’t put them into the clinic, can you?”
    “We haven’t found them,” Monk replied, his voice low and rasping with exhaustion. “Not any of them. They could be anywhere in the country, or back at sea on other ships going God knows where.” He remained standing. Rathbone noticed that Monk’s body was rigid. His right hand flexed and unflexed and the muscles of his jaw twitched in nervous reaction. He must be in agony over Hester alone in Portpool Lane. He would have no idea whether there were more people dead, plague raging through the place with all its horror and its obscenity. Or if they were cooped up waiting, dreading every cough, every chill or flush of heat, every moment of faintness whether mere exhaustion or the beginning of the measured agony of fever, swelling, pain, and then death.
    Rathbone was overcome with relief that Margaret was not in there; it welled up inside him like an almost physical escape from pain, like the fire of brandy felt in the stomach and the blood when one has been numb with cold.
    He stood facing Monk, who was gray with dread of losing all that mattered most to him and gave his life purpose and joy. If Hester died, he would be alone in a way that would be a constant ache inside him, increasing every burden, dulling any possible happiness. And Rathbone was awash with relief at his own safety. It filled him with shame.
    “I saw Gould,” he said aloud, trying for his own sake almost as much as Monk’s to occupy their minds with the practical. Pity would be no help. “I believed him.” He saw the slight lift of surprise in Monk’s face. “I didn’t expect to,” he said. “He’ll make a good witness, if I have to put him on the stand. The trouble is, I don’t know what the truth is, so I’m afraid of what I’ll uncover.”
    Monk was pensive. “Well, so far as we know there was no one on board the