An Echo of Murder: A William Monk Novel - Softcover

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Anne Perry was the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the William Monk novels and the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels. She was also the author of a series featuring Charlotte and Thomas Pitt's son, Daniel, as well as the Elena Standish series; a series of five World War I novels; twenty-one holiday novels; and a historical novel, The Sheen on the Silk, set in the Byzantine Empire. Anne Perry died in 2023.

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chapter

1

“It’s a bad one, sir.” The policeman shook his head as he stepped back on the wharf, allowing Commander Monk of the Thames River Police to reach the top of the stone stairs leading up from the water. Monk moved onto the dock itself. Hooper had made fast the two-oar police boat the pair had come in and was close behind him.

To the south, the Pool of London was already busy. Huge cranes lifted loads of bales from ships’ holds and swung them ponderously over to the docks. The water was congested with boats at anchor, waiting their turn; barges loading; ferries going back and forth from one side of the river to the other. Black masts were a tangle of lines against the backdrop of the city and its smoke.

“What’s unusually bad?” Monk asked. “Who is he?”

“He’s one o’ them Hungarians.”

“Hungarians?” Monk’s curiosity was piqued.

“Yes, sir. Got a few of them around ’ere. Not thousands, like, but enough.”

The policeman led them past stacks of timber into a storage bay, then opened the door into one of the warehouses.

Monk followed, and Hooper after him.

Inside was just like any other warehouse--packed with timber, unopened boxes and bales of goods--except that no one was working.

The policeman observed Monk’s glance. “Sent ’em home. Only make it more muddled,” he added. “Best they don’t see any of it.”

“Was it one of them who found him?” Monk asked.

“No, sir. Didn’t know ’e was even there. Thought ’e were at ’ome, where ’e should ’a been at that hour.”

Monk was beside him now, keeping step across the floor and to the stairs that led up to the offices.

“So who did?”

“A Mr. Dob-- something. I can’t say them names right.”

“Lead the way,” Monk directed. “I suppose you’ve called the police surgeon?”

“Oh, yes, sir. And I didn’t touch a thing, believe me!”

Monk felt a chill of premonition, but he made no reply.

At the top of the stairs he followed a short passage, then came to a door. There were low voices murmuring inside. The policeman knocked once, then opened it and stood back for Monk to go in.

The room was fairly large for an office, and the light was good. Monk had seen death before. It was a large part of his job. But this was more violent than usual, and the raw smell of blood filled the air. It seemed to be over everything, as if the poor man had staggered and fallen against the chairs, the table and even the walls. Now he lay on his back on the floor, and an army rifle with its fixed bayonet was sticking up from his chest like a broken mast, crooked and looking as if it would fall awry at any moment.

Monk blinked.

The middle-aged man kneeling on the floor beside the body turned and looked up at him. “Commander Monk. Thought they’d send for you,” he said drily. “Not a job any man’d keep, if he could push it off on someone else. Place opens onto the water, so I suppose it’s yours.”

“Good morning, Dr. Hyde,” Monk said bleakly. He had known and respected the police surgeon for some time. “What can you tell me, other than that?”

“Dead about two hours, I would say. Not entirely a medical opinion. Could be longer, except that the warehouse itself was closed until six, and he hasn’t been here all night, so he must have come since then. No way in here except up these stairs.”

“But at least an hour and a half?” Monk pressed him. It was a tight time period, and that should help.

“Still warm,” Hyde answered. “And the first workers got here about an hour ago. Your friend here”--he gestured to the policeman--“will tell you that none of the men on the warehouse floor came up here. So if it was them, then they’re all in on it, lying their heads off. You could try them, of course.” He looked back at the corpse. “Looks plain enough. Bayonet through the chest. Bled to death in a few minutes.”

Monk looked around the blood-spattered room.

“I didn’t say immediately!” Hyde snapped. “And there are cuts on his hands and arms. In fact all the fingers on his right hand are broken.”

“A fight?” Monk was hopeful. This man was big, heavy. Whoever fought with him should have a few good bruises as well, possibly more than that.

“Not much of one.” Hyde pulled his face into an expression of disgust. “One man armed with a fixed bayonet, and the other apparently with nothing.”

“But his fist was damaged,” Monk argued. “So at least he got in one pretty good blow.”

“You don’t listen, man! I said his fingers were broken. All of them, and it looks intentional. Not evenly, as they more likely would be if he hit something. Dislocated and broken, like deliberate mutilation.”

Monk said nothing. It was conscious brutality, not the result of hot temper, more like calculated torture.

Hyde grunted and looked back again at the corpse. “I’ll give you the rifle and bayonet when I’ve taken it out of him, at the morgue. There is more to the wound than just this. There’s blood on all those candles over there”--he gestured to several tables and ledges--“and those torn‑up bits of paper. But none on his hands. I suppose you noticed that?”

Monk had not. But he had noticed that the man’s mouth was badly disfigured, and covered with blood.

“Is that more than just bruising?” he asked. “A punch in the mouth, against his own teeth?”

Hyde bent closer, and was silent for several moments. “No,” he said at last. He swallowed. “It looks like he’s knocked--or pulled--most of his teeth out. Poor fellow.”

“Who is he?” Monk asked.

The other man in the room came forward. He was of average height and ordinary build. In fact, there was nothing unusual about him until he spoke. His voice was penetrating, even when quietly used, and his eyes were an extraordinarily clear and piercing blue. He looked at Monk in a way that might have been deferential. “His name was Imrus Fodor, sir. I knew him only slightly, but we Hungarians are not so many here in this part of London that we are strangers to each other.” He spoke English with barely any accent.

“Thank you.” Monk looked at the man steadily. “How do you come to be here, Mr. . . . ?”

“Dobokai, sir, Antal Dobokai. I am a pharmacist. I have a small shop on Mercer Street. I came to deliver a potion to poor . . . Fodor. For his feet.” He held up a brown paper bag.

“Do you normally make your own deliveries?” Monk asked curiously. “And at this hour of the morning?”

“If I am not busy, yes. It is a small service. It pays in loyalty, and...