Shifting Tide

he went on. “But if it happened at sea, and the crew buried him over the side, he might, and he might not. Similarly, if that’s what Hodge died of . . .”

Durban stared at Monk. “What are you saying? Hodge was in the pneumonic stage, an’ someone killed him to stop him from going ashore? Or that he died of it, an’ they couldn’t dispose of the body at sea because they were here on the river, an’ they bashed his head so no one would look too closely at the rest of the body?”

“Probably the second,” Monk replied. “Louvain could be innocent or guilty of knowing what happened.”

“We have to find out whose mistress she was.” Durban’s voice was urgent, edged with fear. “Whoever he is, he could have it too. But worse than that, what about the rest of the crew?”

“Louvain told me that he paid off three, and there are three men left, now Hodge is dead. You’ll have to have a boat of men to keep them there. Shoot them if you have to,” Monk answered. “There’s not much point in sending a doctor to them. There’s no cure.”

“We can’t let them unload either,” Durban said thoughtfully. The muscles in his face tightened, his mouth pulling into a thin line. “I hate lying to my men, but I can’t tell them the truth.” There was a question in his eyes, no more than a flicker, as if he still hoped there was another answer and Monk would give it to him.

“Sutton told his men it was cholera,” Monk replied. “Maybe that’s what the crew think it is as well?”

Durban nodded slowly. “Then we’d best be about it. We’ve no time to waste.” He started for the steps again and led the way down, Monk on his heels.

Orme was waiting. He regarded Monk with patient curiosity but little liking. He did not know what to make of him, but he was suspicious.

Durban did not prevaricate. “The Maude Idris has cholera,” he stated quietly, his voice without a tremor as if it were the exact truth he was telling them. “We must stop them from unloading, or anyone at all from coming ashore, until they’re cleared of quarantine. Doesn’t matter what you have to do; shoot them if it comes to that, but it shouldn’t. It’ll be easy enough to see they don’t get a wharf. I’ll do that. We’re going there now, once, to warn them. After that keep your distance—get that?”

“Yes sir.” They spoke as one man.

“You’ll get a relief—eight hours on, eight hours off. Don’t let anything distract you. Keeping the disease in is the most important. If you doubt it, just think of your families,” Durban went on. “Now let’s get back upriver and do it.” He took his place in the boat and motioned Monk to follow him, and almost immediately the oarsmen bent their shoulders and dug the blades deep.

Durban did not speak again, but the other men had an obvious camaraderie, jokes and good-natured insults we swapped all the way. But when the Maude Idris was in sight, suddenly their concentration was complete, as if they were already in the presence of illness.

They came alongside and Orme hailed her. Newbolt’s shaven head appeared over the rail. “River Police!” Orme called back, and the rope ladder came over a moment or two later. Durban glanced at Monk, then went up it hand over hand. Monk followed and heard Orme come up behind him.

Newbolt stood on the deck waiting for them. A heavy coat made him look even more massive, but he was bareheaded and had no gloves on his hands.

“Wot d’yer want this time?” he said expressionlessly. He offered no excuse or explanation, and Monk’s judgment of his intelligence was immediately revised, possibly of his knowledge as well. It was those who talked too much who gave themselves away.

Durban stood motionless on the deck, balancing to the ship’s slight sway with an innate grace. “How many are on board?” he asked.

“Three,” Newbolt replied. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind. That was the moment Monk decided he knew the truth. He glanced at Durban to see if he had understood the same thing, but Durban had not moved his eyes from Newbolt.

“Three,” Durban repeated. “That would have been four with Hodge?”

“Right.”

“What’s your full crew?”

“Nine. Four men paid off downriver. Don’t need seven ter watch ’er ’ere.” He did not refer to the fact that the ivory had still been stolen, or Hodge met his death, or how that had happened, nor did he ask why Durban wanted to know. It was already a battle of wills, undeclared but intensely real.

“Who were the three paid off?” Durban asked.

“Captain, cook, an’ cabin boy,” Newbolt answered without hesitation.

“Names?” Durban specified.

“Stope, Carter, an’ Briggs,” Newbolt said. Again, he did not ask why Durban might want to know.

“Where’d they go ashore?”

“Gravesend.”

It was Durban who hesitated. “Do you know their first names?”

“No.” Newbolt did not blink, nor did he turn as the lean man with the scar came up through the hatchway from below. “There’s me an’ Atkinson an’ McKeever ’ere.”

Durban reached a decision. “We need to contact your captain.”

Newbolt shrugged.

Durban looked beyond him to Atkinson. “Was Stope your captain?”

“Yeah,” Atkinson replied. “ ’e went ashore at Gravesend. Could be anyplace by now.”

“Did he ever say where he lived?”