William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

Sooner or later she would catch it. She had given her life to save London, maybe Europe. He was passionately proud of her, yet so angry he could have killed Louvain with his bare hands and felt the life choke out of him with the nearest he could know to pleasure. He was so full of pain he was buckling under the weight of it. He did not want to eat, and could not sleep, only succumb to unconsciousness now and then.
    “Actually I think you might kill him,” Durban said reasonably. “So I’ll come with you anyway. You can be the one to talk, I’ll just be there.”
    “And if he has men there, and kills both of us?” Monk asked.
    “Chance I’ll take,” Durban replied dryly. “We’ll take him with us; that’ll be something.”
    “Won’t help Gould much.”
    “No, it won’t, will it!” Durban agreed. “Come on. Let’s go and see him.”
    This time it was less easy to gain entrance to Louvain’s office, even though the clerk readily admitted that Mr. Louvain was still in and there was no one with him.
    “It’s to do with the
Maude Idris
and the theft of the ivory,” Monk said curtly.
    “Yes, sir. We have the ivory back, thank you.”
    “I know, damn it! I’m the one who got it back for you. The thief goes on trial tomorrow. A matter has arisen which I need to speak to Louvain about before then.”
    “I’ll ask, sir. And the gentleman with you?”
    “Inspector Durban of the River Police.”
    Ten minutes later they were in Louvain’s office, the fire still burning, the room warm, the gaslight gleaming on the polished surface of his desk. He was standing with his back to the window, as he had been when Monk was there the last time, the lights of the Thames flickering in the dark window behind him. He looked tense and tired.
    “What is it?” he said as soon as the door was closed. “I know the thief goes on trial tomorrow. What of it?” He did not bother to hide his irritation as they faced each other across the room, anger brittle in the air between them. “What the hell have you got the River Police here for?”
    “Gould didn’t kill Hodge,” Monk stated. “I didn’t look at the body closely. As I was meant to, I saw only the back of his head.”
    Louvain’s eyes were hard and steady. Not once did they look at Durban. “And what more did you wish to see?” he asked.
    “The cause of death,” Monk replied instantly. “Or the cause of Ruth Clark’s death—whoever she was.”
    Louvain’s face paled under the windburn on his skin. “She has nothing to do with them,” he said gruffly. For the first time there was an emotion in him quite different from anger.
    Monk wondered if she had been Louvain’s mistress after all. Had it even hurt him to take her to the clinic and leave her there? Monk had thought it possible that Louvain had not known it was plague, believed it to be simply pneumonia, but Durban’s logic was relentless. If Gould had not killed Hodge, then it had to be Louvain who had disguised the cause of his death. If the crew had known the truth, nothing on earth would have kept them on the ship. Which also meant that the other three had been paid off rather than died at sea.
    “She has everything to do with it,” Monk said with a choking hatred inside him. “You took her to the Portpool Lane clinic knowing she had the plague.” He ignored Louvain’s wince of pain. However much he might have cared for her, it did not excuse his taking her to where she could pass on the disease to other people, women other men loved! In fact, the depth of his own loss made it worse. “That is what Hodge died of—isn’t it!” he accused. “It was you who took a shovel to the back of his head to make it look like murder, so he would be buried quickly and no one would ever know the truth. You didn’t care a toss that an innocent man might hang for it!”
    “He’s a thief,” Louvain said bitterly, anger in his voice at being held to account.
    “Is that why you’re hanging him?” Monk was incredulous, and yet the more he thought of it, the more he believed it. “Because he stole from you?”
    Louvain’s mouth twisted. “You think you’re a worldly man, Monk, and that no one dares to defy you, but you’re naÏve. You’re hobbled by your own morals. You’re too weak to survive on the river.”
    A few days ago that insult would have bothered Monk. Today it was too trivial even to answer. What was vanity in the face of the loss that gaped in front of him?
    “Gould is not