Page 67 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

When they left and were back in the street again in a slightly milder morning, he asked the question that had taken shape in his mind.

“Was your father at sea?”

Durban looked at him with surprise, then something like pleasure. “That clear, is it?”

Monk smiled back. “Just a guess.”

Durban kept his eyes ahead now, avoiding Monk’s gaze, which had proved too keen. “Lost in the Irish Sea in ’35. I can still remember the day they brought us the news.” His voice was quiet, but there was a gentleness and a pain in it he could not disguise. “I suppose families of seamen always half expect it, but when you grow used to the fear without the reality, it takes you longer to believe that this time it isn’t going to be just a scare. It’s here to stay, day in, day out.” He jammed his hands farther into his pockets and walked in silence. He expected Monk to understand without words and details.

They went to more doss-houses, more street corner peddlers, more brothels, taverns, and pawnbrokers. No one could help. One even knew the family of the cabin boy, and for an hour and a half hope boiled up that they had achieved one breakthrough at last.

But he was not there, nor had his father heard of him since his ship left for Africa nearly six months ago. They were confused and then worried when Durban said that the Maude Idris had docked and paid off.

“Don’ worry yerself, Ma,” his elder brother said gently. “ ’E’s a growed lad. ’E’ll be ’avin’ ’isself a good time. ’E’ll come ’ome when ’e’s ready. ’E’ll ’ave suffink special for yer from Africa, I’ll be bound.”

They left somberly, with a growing weight of urgency and sadness on them, and moved on southwards along the river.

“Trafalgar,” Durban said with a ham sandwich and a pint of ale in his hands. “My grandfather fought there. Not on the Victory, but he remembers Nelson.” He smiled a little self-consciously. “I wanted to go to sea then.”

Monk waited. It would be indelicate to ask why he had not. The reason might hold any kind of pain. He would speak of it if he wanted to.

“Then my brothers died of scarlet fever,” Durban said simply. “So I stayed at home.” He straightened up and walked back towards the street and the next place to ask.

Monk followed. He said nothing. Durban did not want sympathy, or even comment; he was simply revealing something of himself. It was an act of trust.

They worked the rest of the day, occasionally separately, mostly together, because this was not an area where a man should have no one guarding his back. They did get involved in a brief fight, and Monk was startled at how hard he struck, how instinctively he looked for the crippling blow.

Afterwards he and Durban leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard, and for no reason whatever laughing. Possibly it was because of the other absurd fight in the doss-house. Monk was further bruised, and his cheek was cut, but, extraordinarily, the exertion, even the physical pain, had invigorated him. He looked across at Durban and saw exactly the same thing mirrored in his eyes.

Durban straightened up and pulled his jacket straight. He pushed his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Next one?” he asked.

“I haven’t got a better idea,” Monk replied. “Do you think it means we’re getting closer?”

“No,” Durban said honestly. “They seem to have vanished.” He did not elaborate his fears that they had taken other ships out straightaway, or that they were already dead, but the same thoughts raced through Monk’s mind.

“We haven’t checked the deaths,” Monk said aloud.

“I did,” Durban answered. “When you were talking to the brothel up in Thames Street. The police have identified everyone that might have been ours.”

“How can you know?” Monk challenged.

“Because they know the ones they have,” Durban said simply. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t dead, though, just not found and not buried.” He looked at Monk and his face was rueful. “C’mon, let’s try the next one.”

TEN

On the day that Monk was visited by Sutton, Margaret was in her bedroom preparing to return to the clinic. She meant to give Hester at least one night’s uninterrupted sleep. She was sitting at her dressing table when her mother knocked very briefly, and without waiting, came in.

“Margaret, my dear,” she said, closing the door behind her. “You must not give up hope, you know. You have a difficult nature, and you certainly have an unfortunate tongue, but you are not unpleasing to look at, and at the moment your reputation is unmarked.” Her tone altered very slightly. “You are from an acceptable family whose reputation is unblemished. Just a little care, a great deal more discretion about your opinion, a degree of becoming meekness, and you could be very happy. Your intelligence does not need to be your undoing, although I admit I am worried. You seem to have unusually little sense as to when you should display it, and concerning what!”

Margaret would have liked to pretend that she had no idea what her mother was talking about, but since it seemed Lady Hordern had carried out her threat, she could not hope to be believed. She could not think of any answer that her mother would like, so she said nothing, just continued to pin up her hair, a trifle crookedly and too tightly at the back. She could feel the pins digging into her head. She would end up having to take them out again, which was a waste of time.

Her mother’s voice became sharper. “I assume from the fact that you are wearing that shabby blue dress again that you are thinking of going to that miserable institution in the slums! Good works are very worthy, Margaret, but they are no substitute for a social life. I would greatly prefer that you did something connected with the church. They have lots of suitable endeavors where you could work with people, well-bred people whose backgrounds and interests are like your own.”

We are not discussing it, Margaret thought. You are telling me your views, as usual. But she did not say so. “We may have backgrounds in common, Mama, but no interests. And I am more concerned with where I am going than where I have come from.”

“So am I,” Mrs. Ballinger said tartly, meeting her daughter’s eyes in the mirror. “And where you are going, young lady, is onto the shelf, if you do not look to your behavior and bring Sir Ol

iver to the question very soon. He is eminently suitable-most of the time. You will not do better, and obviously he is very taken with you, but it is fast becoming time he declared his intentions and spoke to your father. All it requires is for you to spend less time at that wretched clinic and more paying attention to him. Now, take off that unbecoming dress, put on something of a nice color and a proper cut for this season-your father provides you with sufficient means-and go to some social event where you may be seen.” She drew in her breath. “Nothing concentrates a man’s mind so much as the realization that he is not the only one to appreciate your qualities.”

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