The Shifting Tide

very levelly at Monk, his eyes seeming to look into his brain. “That is an order.” He did not elaborate but walked past him and through the outside office, calling for Orme as he went.

He gave his orders concisely and with a clarity no man could misunderstand, like a commander going into a last battle.

The rain had cleared away and the water was bright and choppy with a knife-edge wind blowing from the west when they rowed out.

Monk sat in the stern of the boat, cradling his loaded gun as they plied between the ships and the Maude Idris came clearly into view.

Durban sat in the bow, a little apart. He glanced at each of his men, then gave a barely discernible nod as they drew alongside and he stood up, balancing easily even in the pitching boat. He hailed the ship, and Newbolt’s head appeared over the railing.

“River Police!” Durban called out. “Coming aboard.”

Newbolt hesitated, then disappeared. The next moment the rope ladder came pitching over, uncurling to fall almost in Durban’s hands. He caught it and climbed up-it seemed to Monk, watching from below-less agilely than before.

Two of the River Police went up after him, Orme and another man, guns tucked in their belts, and lastly Monk, leaving only the oarsman in the boat. Monk climbed over the rail onto the deck where three River Police faced Newbolt and Atkinson. There was no sound except the whine of the wind in the rigging and the slap of water against the hull below them.

“What d’yer want this time?” Newbolt asked, staring sullenly at Durban. “None of us killed ’Odge, and none of us ’elped anyone take the bleedin’ ivory.”

“I know,” Durban replied steadily. “We don’t think anyone killed Hodge; he died by accident. And we know that Gould stole the ivory because we have it back.”

“So wot d’yer want ’ere then?” Newbolt said irritably. “If yer wanter do summink useful, get bleedin’ Louvain ter unload this ship an’ pay us off!”

“I want to see below deck, then we might do that,” Durban replied, watching him curiously, his face intent. “Where’s McKeever?”

“Dead,” Newbolt said tersely. “We got the typhoid. Still wanna go below?”

“I know you have,” Durban replied. “That’s why you’ve not berthed. Now open the hatch.”

Newbolt’s eyes flickered and his head came up as if at last he was paying real attention. “Right! Wot d’yer wanter see?”

“I’ll find it for myself,” Durban said grimly. “You stay up here.”

“I’m coming wi’ yer,” Newbolt insisted.

Durban took the gun out of his belt and glanced at Orme, who did the same. “No you aren’t.”

Newbolt looked startled, then suspicious. “Yer no better than the bleedin’ Revenue men!” he snarled. “Bloody thieves, the lot o’ yer!”

Durban ignored him. “Keep them here!” he ordered his men. “Shoot them if you have to.” There was no possibility whatever of doubting his intent. He took a bull’s-eye lantern from Orme and walked over to the hatch. Monk followed after him. As Durban reached the hatch he yanked it open, and the stench of the enclosed air caught in Monk’s throat, turning his stomach. He had not remembered it being so strong.

“I’m going down,” Durban said, his face pinched with revulsion. “You stay here. I’ll tell you if I find anything.”

“I’m coming-” Monk started.

“You’re doing as you’re told!” Durban snapped at him. “That’s an order! Or I’ll have Orme hold you at gunpoint!”

Monk saw in Durban’s eyes that there was no point in arguing, and no time. He stood back and watched as Durban swung over the edge, found the ladder, then took the lantern in his other hand and started down. He saw him reach the ledge and look up, his eyes dark in the small circle of yellow light. He knew as well as Monk did that had any of the jury seen the hold of the Maude Idris, they would have known that a man who slipped off the ladder would not land on the ledge, injure his head fatally, and then lie there. His body would have pitched off and gone on down, probably breaking his neck or his back when he hit the bottom.

Then Monk turned and held the lantern out so he could see as much as possible of the stacked wood and the boxes of spice. As far as Monk could remember, peering down from the top, it all seemed exactly the same as when he had been there approximately three weeks before with Louvain.

Durban went on down. At the bottom he stood still. He was directly above the ship’s bilges.

Monk could not wait. He threw his leg over the edge of the opening and started down. Durban shouted at him, and he ignored it. He could not leave Durban alone with what he now dreaded they would find.

Below him Durban knelt, holding the light only inches from the boards. The marks of a crowbar were clear.

“Go back up,” Durban ordered as Monk reached the ledge above him. “It doesn’t need two of us.”

Monk found himself shaking, and he had trouble swallowing the nausea from the sickening smell in the air. He ignored the command.

“Do as you’re told,” Durban said between his teeth.

Monk stayed exactly where he was. “What’s under there?”

“The bilges, of course!” Durban snapped.

“Somebody’s taken them up,” Monk observed.

Durban’s eyes flashed. “I can see that! Get out!”

Monk was frozen, unable to move even if he had wanted to. His skin crawled with the horror he imagined.

“Get out,” Durban said, looking up at him, emotion naked on his face. “There’s no point in both of us being here. Pass me the crowbar from over there, then go back to the deck. I’ll not tell you again.”

Somewhere in the darkness a rat dropped onto the floor and scuttled away. At last Monk obeyed, climbing up hand over hand until he reached the air and gasped it, freezing and clean, into his lungs.

“What is it?” Orme said hoarsely. “What’s down there?” He put out his hand and half hauled Monk over the hatchway and onto the deck.

“I don’t know,” Monk replied, straightening up. “Nothing yet.”

“Then what are you doing back here? Why ’ave you left ’im down there? Smell o’ bilges got to yer, ’as it?” There was infinite contempt in Orme’s voice and in the curl of his lip, not for a queasy stomach but for a man who deserted another in the face of trouble.

“I came back up because he ordered me to!” Monk said wretchedly. “He wouldn’t move until I did.”

Orme stared at him coldly.

“What’s ’e doin’?” the other officer asked.

“You’ll find out when he wants to tell you,” Monk retorted.

They looked at each other but remained silent. Newbolt and Atkinson were standing near the rail, sullen and anxious. Neither moved because the policemen’s pistols were at the ready, and there was enough firepower to stop both of them.

The wind was whining more shrilly in the rigging. A large schooner passed going upriver, tacking back and forth. Its wake rocked the ship slightly.

Finally, Durban’s head appeared above the hatch opening. Monk was the first to move, striding over towards him, clasping his hand and hauling him out. He looked paper-white, his eyes red-rimmed and shocked, as if he had seen hell.

“Was it. .” Monk said.

“Yes.” Durban was shuddering uncontrollably. “With their throats cut, all eight of them, even the cabin boy.”

“Not. .”

“No. I told you-throats cut.”

Monk wanted to say something, but what words could possibly carry the horror that was in him?

Durban stood on the deck breathing slowly, trying to gain control of his limbs, his racing heart, the trembling of his body. Finally he looked at Orme. “Arrest these men for murder,” he commanded, pointing at Newbolt and