morning.
“Now?” he said incredulously.
Coleridge’s face was studiously without expression. “Yes sir. I daresay he is also concerned about the case.” He had no idea what the case was, and he was apparently offended by the omission. He also desired Rathbone to realize that Monk was not the only person working long and remarkable hours.
“Yes, of course,” Rathbone acknowledged. He had no intention of telling Coleridge what the case was; he could not afford to until it was absolutely necessary. Even then, it would be only what he was going to say in court, and not include the reason for any of his extraordinary silences. But Coleridge did deserve to be treated with consideration. “He would be,” he said, referring to Monk. “It is a grave matter. Will you show him in, please.”
“Would you like a cup of tea, Sir Oliver? Mr. Monk looks unusually . . .” The clerk searched for an adequate phrase. “In need of one,” he finished.
Rathbone smiled. “Yes, please. That is most thoughtful of you.”
Coleridge retreated, mollified.
Monk came in a moment later, and Rathbone saw immediately what Coleridge had meant. Monk was wearing the same clothes he had had on last time and his face looked even hollower, as though he had neither eaten nor slept well since then. He came into the office and closed the door behind him.
“Coleridge is coming back with tea in a few minutes,” Rathbone warned. “Have you found any of the crew yet? You’ll have to tell them, even if you keep them by force. You can’t put them into the clinic, can you?”
“We haven’t found them,” Monk replied, his voice low and rasping with exhaustion. “Not any of them. They could be anywhere in the country, or back at sea on other ships going God knows where.” He remained standing. Rathbone noticed that Monk’s body was rigid. His right hand flexed and unflexed and the muscles of his jaw twitched in nervous reaction. He must be in agony over Hester alone in Portpool Lane. He would have no idea whether there were more people dead, plague raging through the place with all its horror and its obscenity. Or if they were cooped up waiting, dreading every cough, every chill or flush of heat, every moment of faintness whether mere exhaustion or the beginning of the measured agony of fever, swelling, pain, and then death.
Rathbone was overcome with relief that Margaret was not in there; it welled up inside him like an almost physical escape from pain, like the fire of brandy felt in the stomach and the blood when one has been numb with cold.
He stood facing Monk, who was gray with dread of losing all that mattered most to him and gave his life purpose and joy. If Hester died, he would be alone in a way that would be a constant ache inside him, increasing every burden, dulling any possible happiness. And Rathbone was awash with relief at his own safety. It filled him with shame.
“I saw Gould,” he said aloud, trying for his own sake almost as much as Monk’s to occupy their minds with the practical. Pity would be no help. “I believed him.” He saw the slight lift of surprise in Monk’s face. “I didn’t expect to,” he said. “He’ll make a good witness, if I have to put him on the stand. The trouble is, I don’t know what the truth is, so I’m afraid of what I’ll uncover.”
Monk was pensive. “Well, so far as we know there was no one on board the ship apart from the skeleton crew and Gould, so the only defense can be that if Gould didn’t kill him, then one of the crew did, or else it was an accident.”
“If it was an accident then it can only have happened if he fell and cracked his head open, possibly breaking his neck,” Rathbone reasoned. “And if that were the case, it should have been apparent to whoever found him. Was his neck broken? You didn’t say so.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“And you said there was so little blood you thought he was actually killed somewhere else,” Rathbone went on. “You said . . .”
“I know what I said!” Monk snapped. “That was before I knew about the plague.”
“Don’t say that word!” Rathbone said sharply, his voice rising. “Coleridge will be back any minute!”
Monk winced, as though he had been caused sudden pain.
Rathbone drew in his breath to apologize, although he knew it was the truth which hurt Monk, not his words. Just at that moment there was a brisk tap on the door and Coleridge opened it, carrying in a tea tray and setting it on the table.
Rathbone thanked him and he withdrew again.
“Are you saying he died of . . . illness?” Rathbone asked, passing the tea as he spoke.
“It fits the facts if Gould is telling the truth,” Monk replied, sitting down at last. He looked so weary it was going to be an effort for him to stand up again. “Hodge had to be accounted for. They couldn’t just get rid of the body, so someone took a shovel to the back of his head to make that seem the cause of death.”
Rathbone believed it. “But that’s no use as a defense for Gould,” he pointed out. “All I can think of so far is reasonable doubt, and I don’t know how to raise that without going too close to the truth.” He shivered and put his hands into his pockets. It was an uncharacteristic gesture because it pushed his trousers out of shape. “Who can I call?” he went on. “The prosecution will call the crew, who will say they know nothing. I daren’t call any medical experts, because if I question them, we would raise the issue of whether he was dead already, and if so, what caused it. His neck wasn’t broken, there was nothing to suggest heart attack or apoplexy, and the last thing on earth we can afford is to have them dig Hodge up again.”
Monk shook his head slowly, like a man in a fog of thought, too harried on every side to find his way. “You’ll have to play for time,” he said unhappily. “I need to find something to raise a doubt.”
Rathbone hated forcing the issue. Monk was exhausted, and Rathbone could barely guess at the fear which must be eating him alive. Margaret was safe. Rathbone had everything to look forward to. If he lost her, it would be his own doing: his cowardice, moral or emotional. The solution lay in his own hands. But Monk was powerless. There was nothing he could do to help. He did not even know from hour to hour if Hester was alive, still well, or already infected, suffering terribly. She was imprisoned with virtual strangers. Would they even care for her in her moments of extremity? Would they stay to nurse her, as she had nursed so many others? Would they run away in terror or inadequacy? Or would they be too close to death themselves to be able to raise a hand to fetch water, or whatever one did to ease the terror or pain of the dying? The thought made him sick with misery.
