William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

silent. What Applegate said was true. There were tens of thousands like the Collards: proud, angry, stubborn, desperate.
    She stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Applegate. I will do all I can to find the proof Mary Havilland was looking for. As soon as I have something I shall return.”
    “Or if we can help,” Rose added. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Monk.”
     
    “No!” Monk said firmly when she told him that evening. “I’ll pursue it until I find what happened to both Mary Havilland and her father.”
    “There’s going to be a disaster if nothing is done, William,” she argued urgently. “Do you expect me to sit by and let that happen?” She made no reference to giving up Portpool Lane, but it hung unsaid between them.
    They were standing in the kitchen, the dishes cleared away and the kettle pouring steam into the air as Hester prepared to make the tea.
    “Hester, Mary Havilland may have been murdered to prevent her doing precisely that!” Monk said angrily. “For the love of heaven, isn’t that what you’ve just been telling me?”
    “Of course I can see it!” she retorted as she yanked the kettle off the hob. “Are you going to stop your investigation?”
    “Am I…? No, of course not! What’s that got to do with it?”
    “It has everything to do with it!” she answered, raising her voice to match his. “You can risk your life every day, but if I want to do something I believe in, suddenly I’m not allowed to?”
    “That is completely different. You are a woman. I know how to protect myself,” he said, as if it were a fact beyond dispute. “You don’t.”
    She drew in a deep breath. “You pompous—” she began, then stopped, afraid she would say too much and let all her frustration and loss pour through. She would never be able to retract it because he would know it was true. She forced herself to smile at him instead. “Thank you for being afraid for me. It’s really very kind of you, but quite unnecessary. I shall be discreet.”
    For a moment she thought he was going to lose his temper entirely. Instead he started to laugh, and then laughed harder and harder until he was gasping for breath.
    “It is not all that funny!” she said waspishly.
    “Yes, it is,” he replied, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
    “You’ve never been discreet a day in your life.” He took her by the shoulders, quite gently but with thorough strength that she could not escape.
    “And you are not going to pursue Mary Havilland’s path finding proof that any of the construction machines are being used dangerously!”
    She said nothing, but when she turned her attention back to the tea she realized that the kettle was almost empty; it had boiled nearly dry. She would have to refill it and begin again.
    “William,” she said gently, “I’m afraid the tea will have to wait a little. I’ll bring it through to you when it’s ready, if you like.” If he wanted to think that was any kind of admission of defeat or of obedience, this was not the time to point out to him that it was nothing of the sort.
    “Thank you. That is a good idea.” He turned and went back into the sitting room.
    “Really!” she said under her breath, but glad it was over for the moment, and she could be alone to gain control of her feelings again.

FOUR
    M onk was in the stern of the ferry next morning as it made its way across the choppy waters. Waves were slapping the sides of the small boat, and the damp, raw wind stung the skin, freezing the cheeks and arms. The boatman needed not only his strength but his skill to keep from “catching crabs” with the oar blades and drenching them both.
    At least the wind had driven the fog away and the long strings of barges were going downriver on the tide, carrying goods from the Pool of London to everyplace on earth.
    He had spoken to Hester last night as if he was afraid for her safety, and indeed that was his concern. He did not want to prevent her from doing what she believed was right, but when she became involved in a cause she lost all sense of proportion. More than once it had endangered her.
    He looked at the choppy water, dark, turgid, and filthy. Perhaps if he could remember all his youth, his other experiences of women, of love, he would be more realistic. But he remembered nothing, and he wanted Hester as she was: naive, rash, stubborn, vulnerable, passionate, opinionated, loyal, sometimes foolish, always honest—too honest—never mean of spirit, and never,