Lanyon stiffened. “A heavy-laden barge?”
“That’s right. Went on down the river, but I never saw no ship.”
“How close were you to it?” Lanyon pressed, leaning forward now, his face eager. Gulls wheeled and circled overhead. The heavy mud smell of the water was thick in the air. The low marshes lay ahead of them.
“Twenty yards,” the waterman replied. “Reckon they ’ad yer guns?”
“What did you notice? Tell me everything! It’s the men I’m after. They murdered three Englishmen to get what they took. One of them anyway was a good man with a wife and daughter; the other two were decent enough, worked hard and honestly. Now, describe that barge!”
“Do you wanter go ter the Marshes or not?”
“Not. Tell me about the barge!”
The waterman sighed and leaned on his oars, letting the boat drift gently. The tide was on the turn and he could afford to allow the slack current to carry him. He was concentrating, trying to picture the barge in his mind again.
“Well, it were very low in the water, piled ’igh wi’ cargo,” he began. “Couldn’t see what it were ’cos it were covered over. It weren’t proper light, but there was streaks in the sky like, so I could make out the shape of it plain. an’ o’ course it ’ad riding lights on it.” He was watching Lanyon. “Two men, I saw. Could ’a bin more, but I jus’ saw two at any time … I think. One were tall an’ thin. I ’eard ’im yell at the other one, an’ ’e weren’t from ’round ’ere. Mind, I got proper cloth ears w’en it comes ter speech. I dunno a Geordie from a Cornishman.”
Neither Lanyon nor Monk interrupted him, but they glanced at each other for an instant, then back at the waterman sitting slumped over his oars, his eyes half closed. The boat continued to drift very gently in the slack water.
“I don’ remember the other one sayin’ much. Tall one seemed ter be in charge, like, givin’ the orders.”
Lanyon could not contain himself. “Did you see his face?”
The waterman looked surprised; his eyes suddenly opened very wide and he stared past Lanyon at the river beyond. “No—I never saw ’is face clear. It were still afore dawn. They must ’a come down the river pretty good if they was from north o’ Rother’ithe. But ’e ’ad a pistol in ’is belt, I can see that clear as if ’e were in front o’ me now. An’ ’e ’ad blood on ’is hands, smeared like.…”
“Blood?” Lanyon said sharply. “Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure,” the waterman replied, his eyes steady, his face set grimly. “I saw it red w’en ’e passed under the riding light, an’ summink dark on ’is shirt an’ trousers, splattered. I never took no thought ter it then.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Yer reckon it were ’im as killed your three men in Tooley Street, then?”
“Yes,” Lanyon said quietly. “I do. Thank you, you have been extremely helpful. Now I need to find out where the barge went back to, whose it is, and what happened to the other man. Someone took it back up the river again.”
“Never seen it come back. But then I were gorn ’ome by then, mebbe.”
Lanyon smiled. “We’ll go back too, if you please. I’ve no desire to get out at Bugsby’s Marshes. It looks disgusting.”
The waterman grinned, although his face was still pale and his hands were clenched tight on the oars. “Told yer.”
“Just one more thing,” Monk said quietly as the man leaned his weight on the oars to turn the boat. The tide was beginning to run the other way, and suddenly he needed to put his back into it. Monk could almost feel the pull on his own muscles as he watched.
“What’s that?”
“Did you see any sign of a woman … a young girl? Or she could even have been dressed as a boy, perhaps?”
The waterman was startled. “A woman! No, I never seen a woman on one o’ them barges. What would a woman be doing out ’ere?”
“A hostage, perhaps. Or maybe willingly, going to board the seagoing ship farther down the river.”
“I never saw ’er. But then them barges ’as cabins, sort o’. She could ’a bin below.… Gawd ’elp ’er. Wish I’d ’a known. I’d ’a done summink!” He shook his head. “There’s river police!” His expression betrayed that that would have been a last resort, but in times of extremity he would have abandoned his own principles and turned to them.
Lanyon shrugged ruefully.
Monk said nothing, but settled in his seat for the journey back to Blackwall, and then eventually to the city, to tell Mrs. Alberton that Breeland had got away and there was nothing he and Lanyon, or anyone else, could do about it.
Monk arrived at Tavistock Square early in the evening. He was not surprised to find Casbolt there. And in truth he was relieved to see him. It was easier to tell him such bare facts as he had, simply because his emotion could not possibly be as deep or his bereavement as dreadful as Judith’s.
He was shown into the withdrawing room immediately. Casbolt was standing by the empty hearth, the fireplace now covered with a delicate tapestry screen. He looked pale, as if his composure cost him great effort. Judith Alberton stood by the window as if she had been gazing out at the roses just the other side of the glass, but she turned as Monk came in. The hope in her face twisted inside him with pity, and with guilt because he could do nothing to help. He brought no news that was of any comfort.
The atmosphere was electric, as if the air even inside the room were waiting for thunder.
She stared at him, as if to guess from his face what he would say, trying to guard herself from pain, and yet she could not let go of all hope.
