Page 73 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

“No.”

“What do you want from me?” He refused to visualize it; the reality was more than he could endure. He needed to be busy. It would excuse him from knowing anything else; he would be doing what he could. “Did you say the man’s name was Gould-the thief, I mean?”

“Yes. He’s held at Wapping. The man in charge is called Durban. He knows the truth.”

Rathbone was jolted. “The truth? You mean he knows whether Gould killed Hodge or not?”

“No! He knows how Ruth Clark died!” Monk said sharply. “He knows we have to find the rest of the crew from the Maude Idris. He and I have been looking, and we haven’t found any trace of them yet.”

“God Almighty! Aren’t they on the ship?” Rathbone exclaimed.

“No. The crew now is only skeleton, just four men, in

cluding Hodge. They were supposedly enough to guard it until it can come in for unloading,” Monk replied.

Rathbone gulped, his heart pounding in his chest. “Then they could be anywhere! Carrying. .” He could not even say it.

“That’s why I haven’t time to search for the truth to clear Gould,” Monk answered, still looking at Rathbone steadily.

Rathbone started to ask what one man mattered when the whole continent was threatened with extinction, and in a manner more hideous than the worst nightmare imaginable. Then he knew that in its own way, it was the shred of sanity they had to cling to. It was one thing that perhaps was within their power, and in that they could hold on to reason, and hope. When he spoke his voice was rough-edged, as if his throat pained him. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll go and see him. If I can’t find out who did kill Hodge, at least I may be able to raise reasonable doubt. But isn’t there something else I can do? Anything. .”

Monk blinked. There was not even the ghost of his usual humor in his face. “If you believe in any kind of God, I mean really believe, not as a Sunday conformity, you could try praying. Other than that, probably nothing. If you ask your friends for money for Portpool Lane, and you haven’t before, they’ll become suspicious, and we can’t afford that.”

Rathbone froze. Margaret might go to the clinic. He felt the blood draining from his body. “Margaret. .” he whispered.

“She knows,” Monk said very quietly. “She won’t go in.”

Rathbone began to see the full horror of it. Hester was in Portpool Lane, imprisoned beyond all human help. Monk knew it, even as he tried to reassure Rathbone about Margaret, while he himself could do nothing but try to find the rest of the crew. Rathbone could only try to save one thief from hanging for a murder he probably had not committed. And Margaret could do no more than struggle to raise, from a blind society which could never be told the truth, enough money to provide food and heat as long as there were survivors, and do it without telling anyone the truth-not even him.

“I understand,” he said quietly, overwhelmed with gratitude-and shame. “I’ll give her money myself, but I’ll ask no one else. Speak to me when you can, and if there is anything else I can do, tell me.” He stopped abruptly, not knowing how to offer Monk money without offending him. And yet it was absurd to let a fear of asking stand between them now.

“What is it?” Monk asked.

Rathbone put his hand in his pocket and pulled out six gold sovereigns and small change in silver. He passed over the sovereigns. “In case you need it for transport, or anything else. I don’t imagine Louvain is still paying you.”

Monk did not argue. “Thank you,” he said, picking up the coins and putting them in the inside pocket of his coat. “I’ll tell you what I find, if I do. If you want me for anything, leave a message at the River Police station at Wapping. I’ll call in there, or Durban will.” He stood up slowly, as if he were stiff and it hurt to move. He smiled very slightly, to rob his words of offense. “Nobody’s going to pay you for defending Hodge.”

Rathbone shrugged and did not bother to reply.

As soon as Monk left, Rathbone poured himself a full glass of brandy, then looked at it for a moment, seeing the light burn through its golden depths like a topaz in a crystal balloon. Then he thought of Monk going out alone to the dark river and the backstreets where he must look for a ship’s crew carrying death, leaving Hester in a place which must surely be as close to hell on earth as was possible, and he poured the brandy back into the decanter, his shaking hand spilling a little of it.

He barely spoke to Coleridge on the way out, only sufficient to be civil to the anxious enquiry for his well-being. Outside on the footpath he hailed the first hansom that passed, running out into the street to clamber into it and giving Margaret Ballinger’s address.

He sat down as the cab started forward. At last he understood her extraordinary behavior yesterday. She had honor! She must have been desperate to raise money for Hester, and of course she could not possibly tell anyone why! How farcical, like some insane, satanic joke-she was trying to save them all, and she could not tell them.

But why had she not told him? If she had sent him some message he would have come immediately, and she could have told him somewhere in private. . His brain was racing, skidding off the rails like a high-speed train with a drunken driver, no control. When had Margaret heard? The same day as Monk, or not? Perhaps she had had no time to tell Rathbone? Perhaps she had not trusted him? Or was she protecting him from having to know about it?

Why would she do that? Did she know the horror of disease that rose like a tide inside him, drowning reason, courage, even sense? He had never been a moral coward in his life, nor a physical one. He had faced danger-not willingly, but certainly without ever quailing or even imagining running away.

But disease was different. The terror, the nausea, the delirium, the inescapable certainty of death, helpless and without dignity.

Why was the hansom taking so long? Rain was causing traffic congestion as drays, hansoms, and private carriages all fought for space in the narrow, wet streets, trying not to bump into each other and tangle, or mash wheels and break them in the dark.

What a relief it would be to see Margaret, tell her that he knew, savor the precious time together before. . What? He went to try to defend Monk’s thief and she to-please God, not the clinic! No, she would not be able to! Monk had said no one would be let in or out. Thank heaven for that! His body broke out in a sweat of relief. He was ashamed of it, but it was impossible to deny.

But Hester was in Portpool Lane alone. She had only the street women and Bessie to help her, and Squeaky Robinson, for whatever that was worth-probably nothing. He would be the first to run away. And she would have to set the dogs on him. Rathbone refused to imagine that. But she could. She would do it. She would know what it would mean if he escaped and carried the plague to the rest of London. She would have the courage, the strength of mind.

He had never realized what that meant until now. He remembered some of their early conversations with a stab of self-disgust. He had condescended to her, as if she were a woman finding a second-best kind of career to fill in the space where her emotional fulfillment ought to have been. And she was stronger and better than any other human being he knew.

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