The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [111]
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