William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

Place
    Death in the Devil’s Acre
    Cardington Crescent
    Silence in Hanover Close
    Bethlehem Road
    Farriers’ Lane
    The Hyde Park Headsman
    Traitors Gate
    Pentecost Alley
    Ashworth Hall
    Brunswick Gardens
    Bedford Square
    Half Moon Street
    The Whitechapel Conspiracy
    Southampton Row
    Seven Dials
    Long Spoon Lane
    Buckingham Palace Gardens
    Treason at Lisson Grove
    T HE C HRISTMAS N OVELS
    A Christmas Journey
    A Christmas Visitor
    A Christmas Guest
    A Christmas Secret
    A Christmas Beginning
    A Christmas Grace
    A Christmas Promise
    A Christmas Odyssey
    A Christmas Homecoming
    T HE W ORLD W AR I N OVELS
    No Graves as Yet
    Shoulder the Sky
    Angels in the Gloom
    At Some Disputed Barricade
    We Shall Not Sleep

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    A NNE P ERRY is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, most recently
Treason at Lisson Grove
and
Buckingham Palace Gardens
, and the William Monk novels, including
Acceptable Loss
and
Execution Dock
. She is also the author of the World War I novels
No Graves As Yet, Shoulder the Sky, Angels in the Gloom, At Some Disputed Barricade
, and
We Shall Not Sleep
, as well as ten Christmas novels, most recently
A Christmas Odyssey
. Her standalone novel
The Sheen on the Silk
, set in the Byzantine Empire, was a
New York Times
bestseller. Anne Perry lives in Scotland.
    www.anneperry.net

 
    For more murder and mystery on the river Thames,
turn the page to sample
    A SUNLESS SEA
    The next installment in the William Monk series

CHAPTER
1
    T HE SUN WAS RISING slowly, splashing red light across the river. The drops thrown from Monk’s oars glowed momentarily in the air, like wine, or blood. On the other seat, a yard or so in front of him, Orme leaned forward and threw his weight against the drag of the current. They worked in perfect rhythm, used to each other now; it was the last week of November 1864, nearly two years since Monk had taken command of the Thames River Police at the Wapping Station.
    That was a small victory for him. Orme had been part of the River Police all his adult life. For Monk it was a big adjustment after working first for the Metropolitan Police and then for himself.
    The peace of his satisfaction was shattered by a scream, which was piercing even above the creak of the oarlocks and the sound of the wash from a passing string of barges breaking on the shore. Monk and Orme both turned toward the north bank and Limehouse Pier, which was no more than twenty yards away.
    The scream came again, shrill with terror, and suddenly a figure appeared, black against the shadowy outline of the sheds and warehouses on the embankment. It was someone in a long coat, waving their arms and stumbling around; it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman.
    With a glance over his shoulder at Monk, Orme dug his oars in again and swung the boat round toward the shore.
    The low clouds were parting and the light became stronger; the figure materialized into a woman in a long skirt, standing on the pier, waving her arms and crying out to them, her words so jumbled in terror they were unintelligible.
    The boat bumped at the steps and Orme tied it up.
    Monk grasped the closest wooden beam and clambered out, going up the steps as fast as he could. When he got to the top he saw that the woman was now sobbing and putting her hands to her face as if to block out all possible vision.
    Monk looked around. He could see no one else, nothing to cause such hysterical fear. Nor could he immediately see any evidence of a threat to the woman. The pier was empty except for her and Monk, and then Orme, coming up the steps.
    Monk took her arm gently. “What is it?” he asked, his voice firm. “What’s wrong?”
    She pulled away from him and swung round, jabbing her finger toward a heap of rubbish, which was slowly becoming more visible in the spreading morning light.
    Monk walked over to it, his stomach clenching when he realized that what he had taken for torn canvas was actually the sodden skirt of a woman, her body so mutilated it was not instantly recognizable as human. There was no need to wonder if she was dead. She was twisted over, half on her back, her blue, sightless eyes turned up to the sky. Her hair was matted, and blood-soaked at the back. But it was the rest of her body that made his gorge rise and choked the breath in his throat. Her belly was ripped open, and her entrails were torn out and laid like pale, skinless snakes