The men rested on their oars. It was just about slack tide.
“Right, sir,” one of them said. “Where’d yer be wantin’ ter begin, then?”
It was time to seek the counsel of experts.
“If a man wanted to sink a barge with the least chance of its being found, where would he choose?” he asked. It sounded ridiculous even as he listened to himself.
Overhead, gulls wheeled and cried. The wind was rising and the water slurped against the sides of the boat, rocking it very gently.
It was the man who had begun helping Monk dress who answered.
“In the lee o’ one o’ the sandbanks,” he answered without hesitation. “Water’s deep enough ter ’ide a barge even at the lowest tide.”
“What would sink a barge?” Monk asked him.
The man screwed up his face. “Not much, actual. Mostly age, overloading, which some fools do.”
“But if you wanted to sink one?” Monk pressed.
The man’s eyes widened. “Bash an ’ole in it, I reckon. Below the waterline, o’ course. Not the bottom. That’s made of elm. Too ’ard. Sides is oak.”
“I see. Thank you.” He had all he needed. Now there was no avoiding putting on the rest of the suit and going over the side and into the murky water.
A few more pulls on the oars, five minutes perhaps, and he was climbing into the diving suit with the help of two of the men. It looked rather like a very baggy, all-in-one jacket and trousers made of two layers of waterproof cloth with india rubber between. It felt as though he were pulling on a heavy sack, but with arms and legs in it.
He had had no idea how difficult it would be to force his hands through the tight india rubber cuffs. He was obliged to grease his hands with soft soap and then narrow his palms as much as possible while an attendant opened the cuff and he pushed his hand into it so violently he was afraid he was going to tear his flesh.
The dresser nodded with approval. If he noticed the cold sweat on Monk’s face he made no comment on it.
“Sit down!” he ordered, pointing to the thwart behind Monk. “Gotta get yer boots on, an’ yer ’elmet. Gotta make sure everything’s right.” He bent down and began the process with the enormous weighted boots. “If they in’t right, you’ll lose them in the mud. Sucks summink awful down there. an’ ’old still while I put on yer breastplate. That comes loose an’ yer a gonner.”
Monk felt his stomach clench as his imagination visualized the darkness and the bottomless, greedy mud. It cost him all his self-control to sit obediently motionless while the helmet was placed over his head and screwed, metal rubbing against metal, until it was tight. The front glass was left off for now. Monk was surprised by the almost crushing weight of the helmet. The air hose was passed under his right arm and the end attached to the inlet valve, then the breast line was brought up under his left arm and secured. Next came the belt and the heavy, razor-sharp knife in its leather sheath. The man looped a rope around Monk’s waist.
“ ’Ere now, ’old this in yer ’and, and if yer get in trouble pull on it six or seven times an’ we’ll get yer up. That’s w’y we call it the lifeline.” He grinned. “This ’ere other rope we’ve tied to yer, we’re gonna tie the other end ter the ladder-we don’t wanter lose yer-least not until we’re paid.” He laughed heartily.
“All right, lad?” the man asked.
Monk nodded, his mouth dry.
He looked at the brown water around their vessel, still drifting idly on the slack tide, and felt as if he were about to be buried alive. The three men were busy at their tasks, careful, professional.
Trace sat on the other thwart, dressed exactly the same. He smiled, and Monk smiled back, wishing he felt as confident as the gesture implied.
One of the men straightened up. “All right, boys, let’s get the pump going!” There was a loud
The front glass of his helmet was screwed into place and for a moment Monk was overcome with panic. He gasped for air and drew it into his lungs. Gradually his wild heartbeat subsided.
“Right,” the man said with a slightly forced smile. “Time ter go!”
Monk lumbered towards the ladder, thinking with each step that the weight of the helmet would buckle him at the knees. He climbed down awkwardly, and when the water was to his waist two fifty-pound leads were fastened to his chest and back. He gasped at the sudden increase in weight.
He was handed a waterproof lantern with a candle in it.
His suit began to inflate slightly as the air expanded it. Now he appreciated why it needed to be so large on him.
Trace was already below him in the water, almost submerged.
The river closed over his head and in moments he was blinded by gloom. The only contact with Trace and the surface was by rope, and he tried to unscramble what the men had told him: Stay calm. Don’t panic. Remember, you are not on your own. Pull on the rope if you’re in trouble. We’ll get you up.
The pressure built up in his eardrums. He swallowed to clear it.
Gradually his sight cleared a little as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. He could make out the form of Trace, coming towards him, taking Monk by the hand.
With leaden feet just touching the muddy bottom, Monk followed after him.
He lost all sense of time. He was amazed how difficult it was to keep his balance. The tide was far more powerful than he had foreseen, pulling one way and another at him as current eddied and swirled, sometimes going one way at chest height, the opposite way at his thighs and knees. More than once he found himself falling and regained his footing with difficulty. And all the time he was acutely aware that only one thin hose of pumped air supported his life, one thin set of ropes could pull him back to the surface.
The ground sloped up beneath his giant boots. They were on the mud bank. It was hard work trying to climb up it. He was sweating as he went, but his hands and feet were cold. The murky water swirled around his head, a brown, blinding mass.
The dim figure of Trace was still just ahead of him, close enough to hold his hand, but was no more than a deepening of the gloom.
Time seemed endless. He longed for light. This was all an idiotic idea. What had made him think the barge had been sunk, simply because he could find no trace of its going back upstream again? And if it were down here, what did that prove? Only that fraud had been the intention all along. Would it prove by whom? Or who had murdered Alberton?
It was impenetrably dark ahead. How long had they been down here?
Trace was still guiding him along, turning slowly in the water, raising his other arm.
Monk lost his balance again. He should have left this to professionals. Except he could not; he must find this himself, hold the proof in his own hands, see everything there was, miss nothing, destroy nothing.
Still holding Monk’s hand, Trace swung his arm around and pointed. Ahead of them was a deeper murk, blocking off even the swirling brown of the water.
Trace started to move again and Monk followed, agonizingly slowly.
Then suddenly his feet were swept from under him and he felt a hard yank on the ropes. Awkwardly he tried to look down at what had caught him. It was the boards of a sunken wreck.
Trace was climbing up onto an angle of the boat.
Monk went after him. The effort to move made his muscles ache. They seemed to be on a deck, slipping slightly as the bow settled deeper into the mud. Moving hand over hand they found the cabin.
It took a long, slow examination, a foot at a time, holding on to each other, to discover what was inside.
It was Trace who found the crates. It was impossible to tell how many there were of them, but moving with infinite slowness they found at least fifty. Far more than Monk had expected. More like the original shipment to Breeland.
But why here at the bottom of the river and not on their way over to America, or to the Mediterranean?
Monk felt Trace’s hand on his shoulder. He could see almost nothing. There was barely sufficient light to tell
