Corridors of the Night (19 page)

‘Papa!’ Adrienne was overwhelmed with relief. She grasped his hand and held it to her face, kissing it again and again.

Hamilton Rand looked at Hester and very slowly smiled.

‘Thank you, Mrs Monk. You were true to your highest calling.’

Hester looked at Radnor and met his eyes. In them she saw arrogance and victory, and the second after, his knowledge that she had seen it and knew it for what it was.

She felt as if ice had touched her heart.

MONK SEARCHED every avenue he could to find Hester. He spoke with all his own contacts along the river, including Crow, who told him of his visit with Hester to the Roberts family, where they had learned that the children had been taken to the hospital with their father’s consent, albeit also with payment. Monk spoke privately with Sherryl O’Neill, the nurse with whom Hester had worked most closely, but Sherryl knew even less than Monk did. She was distressed herself about Hester’s disappearance, but could offer no suggestions. She was also afraid of endangering Hester by making a fuss, which Monk noted with a chill to his heart. And she confirmed that the children were no longer in the hospital.

He informed all his own men, up and down the river, of Hamilton Rand’s disappearance, but that in itself was not a crime, as Dr Magnus Rand reminded him.

Radnor and his daughter had no doubt gone willingly. But where?

It did not take long to find out where Radnor lived. His butler watched while Monk conducted a thorough search of the entire beautiful house with all its paintings, ornaments and mementoes, but they turned up nothing that indicated where Radnor had gone. It was more than possible that he had not known in advance.

Similarly there was no sign of Adrienne. Her maid said that none of her clothes was missing, except the dress she had worn the last day she had been at home. The woman had no idea where her mistress might be. In fact she was concerned that Radnor had died, and that Adrienne was so frantic with grief that she was out of her mind, wandering somewhere alone and unable to face reality.

For once Monk could think of nothing to say except to suggest she consult whatever legal or financial counsellor whose name she could find in Mr Radnor’s papers. The one thing he learned was the name and whereabouts of Radnor’s lawyer, and he determined to send Hooper to interview the man. Not that he expected much from that. Radnor had the right to come and go as he pleased, and no obligation to inform anyone. He had committed no offence whatever.

Monk left with his mind whirling. He walked down the quiet street in the sun and felt neither its brightness nor its warmth.

Hamilton Rand had taken Hester for the obvious reason that he needed her skills. He was a chemist, not a doctor, and he had no practical experience of nursing, let alone caring for a man dying of white blood disease, and either the victim or the instigator of an experiment.

Rand would keep Hester alive as long as she was more help than trouble to him. Did she realise that? Hester was a fighter – one to fight first and think of the cost afterwards. Not this time! Not if she wanted to live as badly as Monk wanted her to. It was terrifying how much of his happiness was tied to her presence, her love, her belief in him. He wondered if he would even have had the will to carry on when he had no memory, no knowledge of who he was if she had not believed he was worth fighting for.

He had become a better man in order to live up to what she saw in him, and he could not see in himself.

That was a chill thought. What might he have been if they had never met, or if she had abandoned him in the darkest days of his awakening after the accident? He had in a sense been given a new life, a chance to recreate himself in a better mould.

Without being aware of it he had increased his speed. He hailed a hansom and gave the driver the Wapping Police Station address. He had no idea what to do next to find Hester. He had made enquiries as to any other property Radnor might own, asking all Radnor’s known associates, business or social, though he had few friends. No one knew of anywhere.

Hooper looked up the moment Monk came in. He was still pale and moved with the occasional wince of pain. Monk would like to have given him leave to recover, but he could not do without him. He thought with deep loss of how often Orme had run the station in the early days while Monk was learning the ways of the river, getting to know the men and they to trust him.

Orme’s death had moved them all deeply. There was grief in each man’s face in unguarded moments. They would have missed him cheerfully were he at home down the river, fishing, swapping gossip with his neighbours, tending his garden. They would all intend to drop by some day and see how he was, share a cup of tea, or a mug of ale at the tavern. Even if they never did it, the possibility was there.

They would have cursed his absence, but with a smile. Now it was irrevocable.

Monk missed not only Orme’s skill and all the quiet managing he did without speaking of it, but more than that, he was aware as never before of his own loneliness in command. There was no one to catch his omissions, smooth out the occasional roughness he created with his manner, his still imperfect knowledge of the water and its customs. Most of all he missed the warmth of feeling Orme had created with his trust in eventual good. He had never spoken of faith, but something of it was there beneath his words.

‘Morning, Hooper,’ Monk said with as much cheer as he could manage. ‘Been to Radnor’s house. Searched the place but found nothing useful, except the name of his lawyer. The man’s not obliged to tell us anything. Radnor’s not wanted by us, even as a witness.’ He realised how futile it sounded. ‘But if he has property somewhere else it could be where they’ve gone to.’

Hooper took the piece of paper Monk handed him, but it was clear from his expression that he did not believe it would be useful any more than Monk did.

‘Anything gained?’ Monk asked.

‘No, sir. But Laker’s following up on McNab. He’s got a few connections in Customs. I think the bastard left us in the wind on purpose.’

Monk agreed with him, but with the added misery of believing that it was in repayment for some old wrong he felt Monk had committed against him. He had lain awake struggling to remember what it was, but nothing whatever came to him.

Hooper was watching him, waiting for a response.

‘I think it’s personal to me,’ Monk said quietly. It was difficult to admit. All of his men were now paying for whatever it was, and he couldn’t even tell them because he didn’t know himself. It might be better than his imagination conjured up . . . or worse.

He must give Hooper some reply. Should it be the truth – that he could not recall anything but vague shadows and snatches from before his carriage accident? How could he expect his men to have confidence in him, knowing that?

But Hester trusted him. John Devon had, even Runcorn had learned to. Was the real issue that he did not trust Hooper? What would he make of it, on top of the death of Orme?

What was he thinking now? That Monk was evasive at best, at worst a liar.

‘Come into my office,’ he said at last, then turned and led the way.

Once in the room he closed the door and remained standing, Hooper facing him, now looking even graver than before.

‘McNab,’ he said awkwardly. He hated having to do this, but he had trusted Hooper with his life many times before now. Perhaps it was unfair not to have trusted him with this earlier. But when was the right time to tell anyone such a thing.

Hooper was waiting silently, his eyes steady on Monk’s face.

‘It may be my fault. I don’t know, because after the end of the Crimean War I had a very bad traffic accident. When I woke up in hospital I couldn’t remember anything. I mean not anything at all. Not my name, what I looked like, where I lived. I learned a lot about myself from others, from deduction. I never told anyone at that time except one colleague. I didn’t dare, because I was totally vulnerable.’

He saw the amazement and the compassion in Hooper’s eyes.

‘I could remember most of my skills, bit by bit. Perhaps they are part of my nature. And I gradually and often painfully learned who liked me and who didn’t, but not always why. I never got any memory back. I learned how to function without it. Hester believed in me, more than I did in myself.’

He saw the quick flash of understanding in Hooper’s face. He knew Hester and could not be surprised.

‘I don’t know if McNab has a grudge against me, but it looks like it. I have no idea what it is, or whether it is based on a genuine wrong or not.’ The next thing was the hardest to say, but he had to acknowledge it. ‘But I wish Orme had not paid my debt. If it’s real, it should have been me.’

‘Real or not, McNab shouldn’t have collected, sir,’ Hooper replied. ‘If we collect from everyone we think owes us, we may not have enough to pay all that we owe, when others come collecting.’

Monk smiled in spite of himself. ‘Thank you, Hooper.’

‘Do the other men know, sir?’

‘No. ’ He did not want to go into explanations; they would sound like he was trying to excuse himself.

‘Right, sir. I’ll leave Laker on it, if you don’t mind while I’m busy with looking for Mrs Monk. I want to get this bastard. We all do. A good man died because we were double-crossed. We’ll be prepared for McNab next time.’

‘Yes . . . thank you.’

Mornings and evenings were the worst. Monk went home to what for him was even more painful than an empty house. Scuff was always waiting for him. The look of hope in his face evidently took a greater effort to summon each time and it twisted like a knife in Monk’s gut. Scuff never gave words to his feelings. Monk did not know if he even had the words to say how much he hurt, or whether he felt it too private a thing to speak of at all. Or maybe he was afraid of causing Monk too deep a sorrow. What do you say to someone who fears the worst loss of their lives, one they could see nothing beyond?

Sometimes Monk wished he would speak, and then they both could talk about their fears for Hester’s safety. They were too busy tiptoeing around each other, as if not sharing their fears made them less real.

The worst of all for Monk was the sinking into sleep when he was too exhausted to stay awake any longer, the blessing of oblivion, then the waking up in the morning when it all flooded back again, sharp, powerful with the strength of new pain.

The evening after he’d searched Radnor’s house he walked the last few steps up Paradise Row and opened the door. Scuff was standing in the hall waiting. He must have been listening for Monk’s step.

Monk took a deep breath and tried to smile in recognition, not because of good news. Actually it would not have mattered what he had said. Failure was in his eyes and Scuff read it.

‘I’m glad you’re ’ome. I made dinner. It in’t much good, but it’s ’ot, an’ it’s ready.’ His grammar had slipped since Hester had gone, even in those few days, as if he were willing time to go backwards.

‘Thank you,’ Monk said absently. He did not want to eat. Then he looked at Scuff’s pale face and realised how much time and effort it must have taken him. He hated domestic chores. They were women’s work! It was the best way he could show Monk that he loved him, and he cared intensely that he had done it well enough.

Monk made the effort. ‘I’ll just wash my hands. I’ll be at the table in a few minutes.’ He turned his back so Scuff would not see the emotion in his face. It was ridiculous. He could feel the tears sting his eyes. Scuff needed more from him than this.

He went upstairs. The water he dashed on his skin was clean, and sharply cold, enough to make him wince. Then he roughly dried himself on the towel he liked most, put a comb through his hair, and went downstairs again.

The meal was set out on the kitchen table as Hester would have done it. It was simple fare: potatoes boiled and mashed, then fried with a little onion. The sausages had already been fried before and were a bit overdone, so bursting out of their skins, but smelled inviting.

Monk took another deep breath, and sat down. ‘Didn’t think I was hungry,’ he remarked, almost in his usual voice. ‘But this changes my mind.’ He started to eat, slowly, concentrating on what he was doing. It really was not bad. Perhaps Scuff’s own relish for food had taught him a thing or two.

He ate every last mouthful, aware of Scuff’s eyes on him all the time.

Afterwards they sat opposite each other in the sitting room with a cup of tea each and a slice of cake that Scuff had bought from the local baker. Scuff asked him about the day. Very carefully Monk skirted around the subject of Hester, as too painful a wound to touch. It was like discussing the weather while the ship sinks beneath you.

‘Mr ’Ooper getting better?’ Scuff asked.

‘I think he hurts pretty badly,’ Monk replied, ‘but he’s improving. He should be taking time off, but he won’t.’

‘’Course ’e won’t,’ Scuff said immediately, his eyes wide. ‘Nobody’s gonna do that, less they can’t stand up!’

Monk smiled in spite of himself. ‘Laker can hardly stand up, but he’s in there doing paperwork, which he hates.’

Scuff was impressed. He hated paperwork too. His face reflected his respect for Laker’s sacrifice.

‘Have you see Worm?’ Monk asked, largely for something to say. ‘Is he all right? And Mrs Burroughs?’

Scuff shrugged and put his cake down on his plate. ‘Yer really wanna know? Worm’s awful! ’E’s dyin’ ter get out an’ do summink useful, summink ter ’elp. Mrs Burroughs is working like someone’s got a whip at ’er back. And Mr Robinson’s got a face like a rotten egg and a temper ter match. I reckon ’e’d like ter kill someone, ’e just don’t know who.’ He looked at Monk. ‘I told ’im we’d find ’er and get ’er back, and I thought ’e were gonna hit me. Then ’e stormed out the door an’ slammed it behind ’im. ’E looked like I feel when I want ter cry, but I don’t want nobody ter know, ’cos I in’t a little kid no more.’

‘It isn’t only little kids that cry,’ Monk told him.

‘I know that!’ Scuff replied, picking up his cake again. ‘But we in’t gonna cry, ’cos we’re gonna get ’er back. They won’t ’urt ’er ’cos they need ’er. We just gotter be quick, in case that old bastard dies on them.’ He took a bite out of the cake and went on with his mouth full, ‘We gotter think who else cares as much as we do, and then trust them a little. I bin thinking about that. If them little kids die, they’ll ’ang the man wot took ’em, won’t they?’