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
The 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 thought it could be,' Orme contradicted him. He was visibly irritated by Clactons attitude as well. His blunt, weathered face showed a quiet anger.
'If 'e was goin' to push 'er in, why wouldn't 'e wait 'alf an 'our, until dark?' Clacton demanded, his expression tightening. He moved a little closer to the stove, blocking it from Orme. 'Don make sense. An' with a police boat right in front of 'im! No, she jumped, and 'e tried to stop 'er and lost 'is own balance. Clear as day.'
'Don suppose 'e saw us,' Jones answered him. ' 'E'd a' bin lookin' at 'er, not at us was on the water below.'
'Still make more sense ter wait until dark,' Clacton retorted.
'Wot if she weren't goin' ter stand there on the bridge waitin' until it were dark?' Jones countered. 'Mebbe she weren't that obligin'.' He helped himself to more tea, deliberately taking the last of it.
'If 'e planned to push 'er over, 'e'd 'ave planned to get there at the right time!' Clacton said angrily, looking at the teapot, then moving to block the fire from Jones rather than from Orme.
'And o' course plans always go exactly right,' Jones added sarcastically. 'I seen 'at!'
There was a guffaw of laughter, probably occasioned by some failure of Clactons in the past. Monk was still trying to learn not only the job it-self but, at times even more important, the relationships between the men, their strengths, and their weaknesses. Lives could depend on it. The river was a more dangerous place than the city. Even the worst slums-with their creaking, dripping tenement houses, blind alleys, and occasional trapdoors-gave you ground to stand on and air to breathe. It had no tides to rise, to slime the steps, to carry things up- or downstream. It was not full of currents to pull you under and drifting wreckage just beneath the surface to catch you.
'We don't know,' Monk said to all of them. 'Mary Havilland's father died recently, and according to her sister, Mary was convinced that he was murdered. I have to investigate that possibility. If he was, then perhaps she was murdered also. Or her death and Toby Argyll's may have been a quarrel that ended in a tragic accident, not suicide by either one of them.'
Kelly put down the final pieces of paper. 'And then we could have them buried properly. Their families'd want that.'
'Very much,' Monk agreed.
'But if she wasn't murdered, it's not our job.' Clacton looked at Kelly, then at Monk.
Monk felt his temper rising. One day he was going to have to deal with Clacton.
'It's my job now,' he replied, an edge to his voice that should have been a warning to Clacton, and anyone else listening. 'When I've done it, I'll give the results to whomever needs them-family, church, or magistrate. In the meantime, attend to the theft on Horseferry Stairs, and then see if you can trace the lost barge from Watson and Sons.'
'Yes, sir,' Clacton said unhesitatingly.
With that, Monk departed on the long cab journey from Wapping to Mary Havilland's address in Charles Street, just off Lambeth Walk.
The house was not ostentatious, but it was handsome enough, and had an appearance of considerable comfort. There was a mews behind for the keeping of carriages and horses, so presumably the residents were accustomed to such luxuries. As he expected, the curtains were drawn and there was a wreath on the door. Someone had even laid sawdust in the street to muffle the sound of horses' hooves.
The door was opened by a footman of probably no more than eighteen years. His face was so white his freckles stood out, and his eyes were pink-rimmed. It took him a moment or two to collect his wits when he saw a stranger on the step. 'Yes, sir?'
Monk introduced himself and asked if he might speak to the butler. He already knew there was no other family resident. Jenny Argyll had said that Mary had been her only relative.
Inside, the house was in traditional mourning. The mirrors were covered, the clocks stopped, lilies in vases
