Page 30 of Dark Tide Rising (William Monk 22)

“And the other woman?” Monk asked. The man could hardly have glimpsed Celia. What would he say?

“Older. She limped a bit. Never saw ’er face, but she was about the same height. Only saw ’er for a moment, but I’d say she older,” the man replied.

“And you’re just a man who rows people on the river,” Monk stated.

“Yeah. That’s right. Not really a crime. You can’t prove I ever did, ’cos I didn’t.”

“Right,” Monk agreed. “We won’t charge you, this time. What was the name of the other man in the boat that took Mrs. Exeter from…where?”

“The Embankment, north side.”

“His name?”

“Lister. Albert Lister.”

“Describe him.”

“Wiry. Quite tall. Long face. Long nose. Fancy dresser, when ’e can. Likes fancy jackets.”

“Who was there when you dropped Mrs. Exeter off at Jacob’s Island? Was she conscious then?”

“Yeah, I didn’t see nobody else. But could’ve been any number o’ people. You know Jacob’s Island?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know there could ’a been a hundred people ’ere, an’ you wouldn’t ’a seen them.”

“Yes. Cut him loose, Hooper. But get all his details. We won’t forget him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hooper!” Monk called as Hooper turned toward the thief.

“Yes, sir.” Hooper faced Monk once again.

“Thank you,” Monk said, with obvious sincerity in his voice.

CHAPTER

7

WHILE MONK WAS ON the river, Celia Darwin was sitting beside the fire in her parlor feeling alone, too tired to weep. She missed Kate terribly. It was not that they went anywhere together that was so special; it was the pleasure of sharing it. They talked of everything and nothing, remembered things that were funny, or beautiful, or just unexpected. They thought of all the places it would be wonderful to visit, not with any expectation of actually going. It was the dreams shared that mattered.

It was everything shared that mattered. It was having someone with whom you could laugh at the small things, the dreams, and at times the fears or disappointments. To speak with somebody who never saw you unkindly, who laughed with you, not at you.

She realized that thinking this way of Kate was making the pain deeper, yet not thinking of her was more difficult and felt like a betrayal, as if she had not been so intensely important after all!

Celia was disturbed by the doorbell. She did not want to see anyone, certainly not some well-meaning friend who couldn’t say anything meaningful. Because there wasn’t anything to say. She hoped it was not the minister, come out of Christian duty. If it was, she would claim to be unwell.

There was a tap on the door and Mary came in. The poor girl did not know what to say either. Celia should really be kinder to her.

“It’s Mr. Exeter, miss,” Mary said. “I can’t leave him on the step…”

“No, of course not.” Celia stood up with an effort. The leg she limped on had never hurt before. It hurt now. Or perhaps it was just the consuming pain that was everywhere.

“Come in, Harry,” she said when he stood in the hall. “Would you like tea? Or…something else?”

He shook his head and walked over to the chair on the other side of the hearth. He fell into it rather than sat down. He looked as if he had not slept since Kate was taken. His face was haggard and he was badly shaved, with little cuts in the skin here and there, as if he would not sit still for his valet to work. He was pale, and his dark clothes hung on him, robbing him of form and color.