just like postmen, delivery boys, cabdrivers, maids coming out to shake carpets or fetch water, fill coal scuttles.”
Orme stared at him. “Same sorts of people around here,” he said slowly. “Men who fill and empty things, clean up, tidy after us, drive us on land or ferry us on the water. The landsmen investigating the bombing won’t think to seek them out, I bet.” There was frustration in his voice. “You’re going to tell ’em that?” he said.
Monk hesitated, but not because he wasn’t sure what the answer was. He was remembering the river at dusk, the lights of the pleasure boat, then the roar as the bow exploded and the screams that followed. And the darkness engulfing the water as the ship plunged down. He had to force out of his mind the people they had tried to help, and couldn’t because their boat was too full already, too far away, too late.
Orme waited silently, as he so often did, like a ship for the tide.
“Yes, of course I will,” Monk finally said. As he turned around and started walking back across the wooden quay up toward the street, he saw a police sergeant coming toward them.
The man stopped in front of them, glancing at Orme, then back at Monk.
“Sorry, sir,” he said awkwardly. “I know as you’re River Police, but this is still a restricted area, unless you got a reason you need to be here? There in’t no one landed here this last couple of hours, I can swear to that.”
Monk looked at him. The man was perhaps thirty, clean-shaven, eager, and at this moment embarrassed.
“Who
did
you see?” Monk asked him mildly.
The sergeant looked around. “No one, sir, as I said. Who were you looking for?”
“Who’s that over there?” Monk gestured toward a ferry pulling away southward.
“No one, sir, just the regular ferry to the steps there.”
“And over there?” Monk pointed again, a few yards across the water.
“Lighterman, sir. Going up with the tide. It’s just turned. ’E’d ’ave had to wait or he’d ’ave been battling the current.”
“Exactly,” Monk agreed. “The river is full of invisible people like that. They come and go, and we don’t see them, unless they do something out of character. Is your commander as observant as you are? Would he notice anyone different, a stranger, out of step with the tide? Or maybe not out of step, not different at all?”
The sergeant’s face blanched in the late afternoon sun. He swallowed. “I don’t know, sir. Do you think it could be a lighterman, or … someone like that who’s behind this?”
“Well, if it wasn’t someone you saw, then it was someone you didn’t,” Monk said reasonably. “Someone who was there, but that you expected to be there, so you didn’t notice him.”
The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. From the looks of it, it’s political. Least that’s what they’re reckoning. We’ve got a line on an Egyptian man. Worked for the caterers. Bit of a malcontent. Always complaining, and expressed some pretty ugly opinions when he wasn’t being too careful. Quite a bit of evidence against him, I hear.”
“Egyptian? On the Thames?” Monk affected to be polite rather than interested.
“World’s getting smaller, sir,” the sergeant replied. “They open up that canal and we’ll be getting to the Indies in a matter of days ratherthan weeks. No more clipper ships, I reckon. And we’ll miss them. Most beautiful thing I ever saw was one o’ them under full sail. Couldn’t take my eyes off it.”
With a wave of sorrow Monk realized exactly what he meant.
Change was coming. And there was always a price to be paid for it.
He turned and looked at Orme in the waning light, and thought he saw the same understanding in his face, and perhaps also the same sense of inevitable loss. Change comes like a tide, and any seaman knows the tide waits for no one.
“Why would an Egyptian blow up an English pleasure boat on the Thames?” he asked the sergeant.
“No idea,
Orme stared at him. “Same sorts of people around here,” he said slowly. “Men who fill and empty things, clean up, tidy after us, drive us on land or ferry us on the water. The landsmen investigating the bombing won’t think to seek them out, I bet.” There was frustration in his voice. “You’re going to tell ’em that?” he said.
Monk hesitated, but not because he wasn’t sure what the answer was. He was remembering the river at dusk, the lights of the pleasure boat, then the roar as the bow exploded and the screams that followed. And the darkness engulfing the water as the ship plunged down. He had to force out of his mind the people they had tried to help, and couldn’t because their boat was too full already, too far away, too late.
Orme waited silently, as he so often did, like a ship for the tide.
“Yes, of course I will,” Monk finally said. As he turned around and started walking back across the wooden quay up toward the street, he saw a police sergeant coming toward them.
The man stopped in front of them, glancing at Orme, then back at Monk.
“Sorry, sir,” he said awkwardly. “I know as you’re River Police, but this is still a restricted area, unless you got a reason you need to be here? There in’t no one landed here this last couple of hours, I can swear to that.”
Monk looked at him. The man was perhaps thirty, clean-shaven, eager, and at this moment embarrassed.
“Who
did
you see?” Monk asked him mildly.
The sergeant looked around. “No one, sir, as I said. Who were you looking for?”
“Who’s that over there?” Monk gestured toward a ferry pulling away southward.
“No one, sir, just the regular ferry to the steps there.”
“And over there?” Monk pointed again, a few yards across the water.
“Lighterman, sir. Going up with the tide. It’s just turned. ’E’d ’ave had to wait or he’d ’ave been battling the current.”
“Exactly,” Monk agreed. “The river is full of invisible people like that. They come and go, and we don’t see them, unless they do something out of character. Is your commander as observant as you are? Would he notice anyone different, a stranger, out of step with the tide? Or maybe not out of step, not different at all?”
The sergeant’s face blanched in the late afternoon sun. He swallowed. “I don’t know, sir. Do you think it could be a lighterman, or … someone like that who’s behind this?”
“Well, if it wasn’t someone you saw, then it was someone you didn’t,” Monk said reasonably. “Someone who was there, but that you expected to be there, so you didn’t notice him.”
The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. From the looks of it, it’s political. Least that’s what they’re reckoning. We’ve got a line on an Egyptian man. Worked for the caterers. Bit of a malcontent. Always complaining, and expressed some pretty ugly opinions when he wasn’t being too careful. Quite a bit of evidence against him, I hear.”
“Egyptian? On the Thames?” Monk affected to be polite rather than interested.
“World’s getting smaller, sir,” the sergeant replied. “They open up that canal and we’ll be getting to the Indies in a matter of days ratherthan weeks. No more clipper ships, I reckon. And we’ll miss them. Most beautiful thing I ever saw was one o’ them under full sail. Couldn’t take my eyes off it.”
With a wave of sorrow Monk realized exactly what he meant.
Change was coming. And there was always a price to be paid for it.
He turned and looked at Orme in the waning light, and thought he saw the same understanding in his face, and perhaps also the same sense of inevitable loss. Change comes like a tide, and any seaman knows the tide waits for no one.
“Why would an Egyptian blow up an English pleasure boat on the Thames?” he asked the sergeant.
“No idea,
Similar Books
