William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

was the question of the young man’s death as well. Perhaps there was no point in arguing it, but Monk did so instinctively. “Was he trying to stop her?”
    The boat was moving slowly, against the tide. The water was choppy, slapping at the wooden sides and making it difficult for two oarsmen to keep her steady.
    Orme hesitated for several moments before answering. “I dunno, Mr. Monk, an’ that’s the truth. Could’ve bin. Could’ve bin an accident both ways.” His voice dropped lower. “Or could’ve bin ’e pushed ’er. It ’appened quick.”
    “Do you have an opinion?” Monk could hardly get the words out clearly, he was shaking so much.
    “You’d be best on an oar, sir,” Orme said gravely. “Get the blood movin’, as it were.”
    Monk accepted the suggestion. Senior officers might not be supposed to row like ordinary constables, but they were not much use frozen stiff or with pneumonia, either.
    He moved to the center of the boat and took up one of the oars beside Orme. After several strokes he got into the rhythm and the boat sped forward, cutting the water more cleanly. They rowed a long way without speaking again. They passed under Blackfriars Bridge towards the Southwark Bridge, which was visible in the distance only by its lights. The wind was like a knife edge, slicing the breath almost before it reached the lungs.
    Monk had accepted his current position in the River Police partly as a debt of honor. Eight years ago he had woken up in hospital with no memory at all. Fact by fact he had assembled an identity, discovering things about himself, not all of which pleased him. At that time he was a policeman, heartily disliked by his immediate superior, Superintendent Runcorn. Their relationship had deteriorated until it became a debatable question whether Monk had resigned before or after Runcorn had dismissed him. Since the detection and solving of crime was the only profession he knew, and he was obliged to earn his living, he had taken up the same work privately.
    But circumstances had altered in the late autumn of last year. The need for money had compelled him to accept employment with shipping magnate Clement Louvain, his first experience on the river. Subsequently he had met Inspector Durban and had become involved with the
Maude Idris
and its terrible cargo. Now Durban was dead, but before his death he had recommended Monk to succeed him in his place at the Wapping station.
    Durban could have had no idea how Monk had previously failed in commanding men. The former policeman was brilliant, but he had never worked easily with others, either in giving or taking orders. Runcorn would have told Durban that, would have told him that—clever or not, brave or not—Monk was not worth the trouble he would cost. Monk had been mellowed by time and circumstance, and above all, perhaps, by marriage to Hester Latterly, who had nursed in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale and was a good deal more forthright than most young women. She loved him with a fierce loyalty and a startling passion, but she also very candidly expressed her own opinions. Even so, Runcorn would have advised Superintendent Farnham to find someone else to take the place of a man like Durban, who had been wise, experienced, and profoundly admired.
    But Durban had wanted Monk, and Monk needed the work. During his independent years, Hester’s friend Lady Callandra Daviot had had the money and the interest to involve herself in his cases, and support them in the leaner months. Now Callandra had gone to live in Vienna, and the grim choice was either for Monk to obtain regular and reliable employment or for Hester to return to private nursing, which would mean most often living in the houses of such patients as she could acquire. One could not nurse except by being there all the time. For Monk to see her as little as that was a choice of final desperation. So here he was sitting in the thwart of a boat throwing his weight against the oar as they passed under London Bridge heading south towards the Tower and Wapping Stairs. He was still bone-achingly cold and wet to the shoulders, and two dead bodies lay at his feet.
    Finally they reached the steps up to the police station. Carefully, a little stiffly, he shipped his oar, stood up, and helped carry the limp, water-soaked bodies up the stairs, across the quay, and into the shelter of the station house.
    There at least it was warm. The black iron stove was burning, giving the whole