William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

accident that had taken his memory. There were things that it was kind for forgetfulness to cleanse from the mind.
    “But you’re going to find out,” she said, watching him.
    “Yes, I have to. She’ll be buried in unhallowed ground if she meant to do it.”
    “I know.” Tears filled Hester’s eyes.
    Instantly he wished he had not uttered this bit of truth. He should have lied if necessary.
    Hester saw that too. “There’s no such thing as unhallowed ground, really.” She swallowed. “All the earth is hallowed, isn’t it? It’s just what people think. But some people care very much about being buried with their own, belonging even in death. See what you can find. Her sister may need to know the truth, poor woman.”

TWO
    T he tide was high the next morning and the river, with its smells of mud and salt, dead fish and rotting wood, seemed to be lapping right at the door as Monk walked across the dockside. The wind had fallen and it was calm, the surface of the water barely rippled as it seeped higher around the pier stakes and up the stone steps that led to the quaysides and embankments. The rime of ice overnight had melted in places, but there were still patches as slippery as oiled glass.
    “Morning, sir,” Orme said briskly as Monk came into the station. The stove had been burning all night and the room was warm.
    “Good morning, Orme,” Monk replied, closing the door behind him. There were three other men there: Jones and Kelly, busily sorting through papers of one kind or another, and Clacton, standing by the stove, his clothes steaming gently.
    Monk greeted them and received dutiful acknowledgment, but no more. He was still a stranger, a usurper of Durban’s place. They all knew that it was in helping Monk that Durban had contracted the terrible disease that had brought about his death, and they blamed Monk for it. That Durban had gone on the mission both because he wished to, understanding the enormity of the danger, and because he considered it his duty, was irrelevant to their anger and the sense of unfairness that lay behind it. Monk had gone on the same mission, and he was alive. They could not excuse that. They would have chosen Monk to die, every man of them.
    Kelly, a soft-spoken Irishman, small-boned and neat, handed him the reports of crime overnight. “Nothin’ out o’ the usual, sorr,” he said, meeting Monk’s eyes, then looking away. “Barge ran aground at low tide, but they got it off.”
    “Run aground intentionally?” Monk asked.
    “Yes, sorr, I’d say so. No doubt the owners’ll be reportin’ some o’ their cargo missin’.” Kelly gave a bleak smile.
    “Dragging it up through the mud, at low tide?” Monk questioned. “If they worked as hard at something honest, they’d probably make more.”
    “Clever an’ wise was never the same thing, sorr,” Kelly said dryly, turning back to his work.
    Monk took reports from Jones and Clacton as well, and spoke briefly to Butterworth as he came in. Kelly made tea, hot and as dark as mahogany. It would take Monk a long time to drink it with pleasure, but it would set him apart to refuse. Additionally, tea had the virtue of warming the inside and lifting the spirits, even when it was not laced with the frequently added rum.
    When the last patrols had landed and reported, and the next were gone out, Monk told them of his decision.
    “The two people off Waterloo Bridge yesterday,” he began.
    “Suicides,” Clacton said with a pinched expression. “Lovers’ quarrel, I expect. Seems stupid for both of ’em to jump.” He was a slender, strong young man of more than average height, who took himself very seriously and was prone to take offense where it was not intended. He could be helpful or obstructive, depending upon his opinion, which he rarely changed, whatever the circumstances. Monk found him irritating and was aware of his own temper rising. He had caught the other men watching him to see how he would handle Clacton. It was another test.
    “Yes, it does,” he agreed aloud. “Which makes me wonder if that was what happened.”
    “Thought you saw it,” Clacton challenged, moving his weight a little to stand more aggressively. “Sir,” he added as an afterthought.
    “From the river,” Monk replied. “It could have been accidental during a quarrel, or she jumped and he tried to stop her. Or even that he pushed her.”
    Clacton stared at him. “Why would ’e do that? No one else said so!”
    “I