Revenge in a Cold River (21 page)

“I enjoyed it myself,” she replied. “I find the enforced silence and lack of any theater, opera, concert, even exhibition of anything that might be considered beautiful or frivolous, to be an addition to grief rather than a respite from it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure that is not what it is meant to be? This is London, you know? Ancient, and magnificent, the complicated heart of empire where manners and conventions are like an enamel on the surface of power. So elegant, but crack it, and you see the raw steel beneath. Your husband was a judge, my dear, one of the arbiters of judgment.”

She looked straight at him, meeting his eyes. “I notice you say ‘of judgment,' not ‘of justice.' ”

“I did,” he agreed. “Do you fault me for it?” He had been smiling; now suddenly he was totally serious.

“Not at all; I am only surprised you are so candid,” she replied.

As if changing the subject, he looked out at the passing street. “I like London. It surely is the heart of things. One might turn a corner and bump into a man from anywhere on earth, and it would all seem perfectly natural.” He hesitated only a second. “Take this policeman, Monk, who is investigating the wretched escape of the man from Customs, and the drowning of their own man, practically on my doorstep. He would be equally at home in San Francisco. Many of the conditions are similar, and the rules. He seems to know cargoes and seamen, as well as thieves and opportunists, and he is able to measure them up pretty quickly. At least that is my estimate of him. Is it correct, do you think?”

“He is a very good policeman,” she said with care. She did not know Monk personally, but she knew he was Oliver's closest friend. He had been loyal when Oliver was in trouble. Nothing had been too arduous or too dangerous for him to risk in helping him. And Oliver held a higher regard for Hester Monk than for anyone else she had heard him speak of. That was a subject she used to find painful, if she allowed herself to think of it too closely. At least it was so until she had gone to the clinic and met her. Now Hester seemed remarkably human. But still from what Oliver had said of her, Hester would never have been weak enough to allow any man to ill-use her, let alone do some of the things that Ingram had done to Beata.

Now as Aaron Clive looked at her, she could feel the hot flush burn up her face at the memory.

“I don't doubt it,” he agreed. “Was he a seaman before he joined the police?”

She had no idea. Oliver had never mentioned Monk's youth or his upbringing in any way, let alone what other professions he might have followed. “I don't know. It seems not impossible as he is in the River Police. Why do you ask?”

He smiled widely and leaned back a little. “Just curious. The man will hold part of my fate in his hands, if his suspicions are correct. I am wondering if there really is a plot to rob me, as he believes, and if so, if he is equal to catching those involved. If they are land-based thieves, then I am not concerned. But if they are operating from the river, then their escape would be straight down into the open sea, and I would probably never get any part of my goods back again, if Monk is basically a landsman.”

“Ask him,” she said with a smile in return, to rob the remark of any sting.

“He reminds me of a seaman I knew very slightly in San Francisco, about twenty years ago,” Aaron said lightly. His words were well chosen, but he made them with a casual air. “Young man then, something of an adventurer; a chancer, one way or another. He had a bit of a lilt to his voice. Piers told me he must be from the north of England, Northumberland, perhaps.”

“Oh, really? I didn't detect that in Mr. Monk,” she answered. “But then I have seen him only a few times, and that mostly in court.”

“In court?”

“Testifying,” she explained. “In his role as commander of the Thames River Police. He has dealt with some very big cases.”

“Of course. I don't think of someone of his rank doing the groundwork where he could testify to anything.”

“Oh, he does.” That she knew both from his testimony in court, and from Rathbone. “He doesn't sit in an office and direct other people.”

“An interesting man,” Aaron observed, completely without emotion. Was he merely making polite conversation during their stop in traffic? His comments now suggested it, and yet the tension in his body, still turned toward her, and the stiffness in his face, said that the subject stirred some kind of feeling in him.

“You think the seaman you knew in San Francisco was Monk?” she asked bluntly.

“I hope not.” This time his emotion was quite open. “He answers exactly the description of the man who murdered Piers Astley.”

Beata barely even noticed the jolt as, without warning, the hansom started moving again, throwing her back in the seat. Thank heaven there was now enough noise of traffic outside that she could be excused from giving any answer. Had Monk been in San Francisco? Was that what Aaron was suggesting? Did he believe that? Did Oliver know?

Or was Aaron Clive, for some reason or other, just making trouble?

It was not until she was nearly at her own door that she finally spoke again.

“Did you tell Miriam this?”

He had been staring forward. Now he turned to her again. “I'm sorry, my attention was elsewhere. I beg your pardon?”

“Did you tell Miriam that Monk might be the man who killed Piers? Or at least he might know who did?”

“No,” he said, smiling gently. “There is nothing that could be done about it now. It was nearly twenty years ago, and thousands of miles away in another country. From here it seems almost like another world. There is nothing she could do, and it would only disturb her.”

“Yes…” she said slowly, not meaning it, but what else was there that she could say? “I see.”

B
EATA KEPT UP HER
habit of walking alone in the park, regardless of the weather. In fact a windy or wet day gave her the excuse to wrap a shawl around her shoulders and keep it high under her chin. A suitable hat for such weather also made her hard to recognize, and thereby made polite and meaningless commiserations easily avoidable. Everyone had the best of excuses—“I'm so sorry, I did not realize it was you!”—and so was free to pass by without discourtesy.

She was glad of it. It became harder and harder to think of something polite to say, and to repeat pleasant and artificial remarks about Ingram. Did she miss him? Yes! And the feeling was like breathing clean air again after the filth of fog and smoke, and the smells of the street.

She had wanted to see Oliver so much she had several times considered writing him a letter asking him to call. Then she thought how precipitate that would be, and he could so easily misunderstand her. She had taken it for granted that the feeling between them was mutual, and not spoken in words for decency's sake. As long as Ingram was alive, it could never be acted upon.

He could not yet decently call on her alone, unless he had legal business and she were too unwell to visit his office. And since he was a trial lawyer, not conversant with wills and property, she had no call for his skills.

Instead she purposely walked the same route, at the same hour, aware that if he were free to do so, he might take a brief walk that would cross her path.

One morning she was pleased to hear, with a flutter of excitement, a lifting of the spirits, his footsteps behind her. She admitted to herself she had been hoping very much that he would come.

“Good morning, Lady York. I hope you are well,” he said just as two men passed them walking in the opposite direction, too busy in their own conversation to notice others. They were dressed in black frock coats and striped trousers, each carrying a rolled umbrella and using it as if it were a walking stick.

She smiled at the typical sight, then met Rathbone's glance. “I am quite well, thank you. And you?”

“Are we really reduced to such a level?” he asked bluntly.

She felt herself coloring. Had she imagined it, all the teeming words that lay unspoken in the imagination? How unseemly it would be for her to speak first. And if she were wrong, how ridiculous! And mortifying…

She must really collect her wits and tell him what she needed to, for Monk's sake. She must share with Oliver what Aaron Clive had said.

“I have been meeting with Aaron Clive once or twice regarding the endowment of a chair at the university, in Ingram's name,” she began. She saw the look of distaste in Oliver's highly expressive face, and understood it totally. “I know,” she murmured with a twisted smile. “But I cannot say anything to the contrary.”

“But it troubles you?” he asked. “Don't deny it: It is in your voice, and your eyes.”

She knew that he was looking at her intently and was very conscious of it. And yet she wanted him to. She must control her voice and sound normal. She made a small gesture of dismissal with her hand. “That is not what concerns me at the moment. I was speaking with him in the carriage on the way home. He mentioned the death of Miriam's first husband, Piers Astley….”

“What of it? Was it not years ago?” He was puzzled. They stopped and stood facing each other on the path. The wind gusted and blew her skirts. He held his hat in his hand, in case it blew away. There is little more comical than an otherwise dignified man chasing his hat across the grass.

“Nearly twenty,” she agreed. “And over five thousand miles away…” Why was she reluctant now to tell him? Would he think she was asking him to become involved? But of course she was.

“Beata? What is it?” There was concern in his voice.

She met his eyes and saw fear in them. Why? Was he afraid she was going to expect something of him more than he wanted to give?

“What is it?” he repeated, more urgently.

She could feel the heat in her face. “He said there was a man who looked very much as Mr. Monk must have, twenty years ago, in San Francisco. He was a seaman, an adventurer.”

“Oh…?”

Why did he look so worried?

“It probably wasn't him,” she added. “This man had a slight northern accent. Aaron thought Northumberland, or somewhere like that.”

“Monk is Northumbrian,” Rathbone said quietly.

She shook her head. “I didn't hear it in his voice.”

“He's ambitious, and will have lost it deliberately.” He smiled very slightly as he said it, but there was a furrow between his brows. She knew the expression.

Now she was cold. “You think it could have been him?”

“I don't know. What did Clive say of him?”

Now she had to say it. “That he fits the description of the man who killed Piers Astley.”

“Killed him accidentally…or murdered him?”

“Murdered…”

Suddenly she wanted to put it to the test, the outcome of which she feared more than any other. She began to walk, very slowly. The wind was edged with ice and the path curved down to pass into the shelter of trees.

He caught up with her, taking her arm as they came to some steps.

“This is absurd. Monk would not murder anyone,” he said so decisively that she wondered if it was himself he was trying to convince.

She took a breath, steadying herself. “Not even if perhaps the man concerned were abusing his wife?”

“Was he? Then Miriam would have said so,” he pointed out.

She faced straight ahead. She must say it, otherwise it would be a tacit lie. “I don't mean beating her…I mean the sort of abuse one practices only ever in private.” Now she could never take it back. She could not look at him. She imagined the revulsion in his eyes.

“She told you that happened?” he asked levelly.

She tried to read the emotion in his voice and failed.

“You don't tell anyone such things….” she replied.

He said nothing. They walked a few paces farther on. They were on the level now and he let go of her arm. The wind scythed across the grass, cutting through scarves and veils, even through the woolen fabric of coats.

“No,” Rathbone said at last, “I suppose one doesn't.” There was intense gentleness in his voice, and perhaps even remembered pain. He felt that for Miriam, perhaps because she was beautiful, and he hardly knew her. What would he feel for Beata? She did not wish pity. Thank God she had tested him only with the thought of someone else!

“And the shame!” she added fiercely, and instantly wished she had not.

He took her arm again and she did not move away.

“It is not her shame,” he replied. “It is his.”

Now she was fighting tears. Thank heaven the wind was harsh enough to explain them. “And hers, too,” she said huskily. “For not having seen what he was…”

“Beata, no one wears such a thing on his shirt front!”

“And having put up with it,” she added. She must say it now. She would never ever speak of this again.

“We do,” he said gently. “We put up with all kinds of things, hoping it will get better, that it won't happen again, or that there will be something we can do.” He was chiding her, as if she were judging someone else too harshly.

“Do you think so? How do you know?” Then she blinked. That was a question she should not have asked. “I'm sorry, Oliver! That was…” She had no word for it.

He smiled. “Honest? I'm a criminal lawyer, Beata. I've defended a few people who were driven to kill, in self-defense. And I've prosecuted a few who richly deserved it. Although their stories also would make you weep. Most of us at one time or another, are guilty of ‘passing by on the other side,' at the very least. We all have times when we are willing to see only what we can bear.”

“And you don't despise them for tolerating it?” It was the last question, the last fear.

“That's how fear works,” he answered. “Pain, humiliation, until you believe you deserve it, and it is inevitable. In the end the victim accepts that there is nowhere to which they could escape.”