Revenge in a Cold River Page 15

  “If he is alive, do you think he will have gone back there?” Monk asked, hearing the remembered tenderness in her voice.

  “I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “He might be afraid someone would recognize him. At the time of his supposed death there was much in his face that had not changed since youth. His cheekbones, his mouth, the way his hair grew. Most of all his voice.”

  Monk was curious. Would it be so dangerous for him to be recognized?

  Her voice was choked with emotion. “He didn’t talk about his home much. He grew up on the outskirts of the city. He liked to walk miles out into the country.” Her eyes brimmed with tears as if they were her own lost memories. “I’m sorry…none of that is useful. He never gambled, but he took wild chances in other ways. He was a good judge of horses, but he drove too fast. Rode too fast as well, if the ground was firm. I don’t expect that has changed.”

  “Any habits of speech?” he asked. “Things I could ask people to listen for?”

  “He could read Latin, but I’m not sure if he could have a conversation in it. He knew lots of the words. Said so much of English was based on it, it was always useful to have. And he doesn’t mind spiders, but he is afraid of moths. The fluttering upsets him. He hid it, but you could still see they bothered him. You know how if something disturbs you, you keep an eye on it. If there is one in the room, you want to know where it is?” She made herself smile at him. “He always took care of his feet. No matter how sick or poor he was, he wore good boots.”

  “Did he have a quick temper?” he asked. “Or drink much?”

  “Yes, he had a quick temper. But he drank very little. He…” Again she took a deep breath. “He could hold a grudge. And he was very clever. He could do those puzzles with words and ideas that I can’t even understand.”

  Monk was aware that she was watching him intently, even as she sipped her tea.

  “Do you really think he could be alive, after all these years?” he asked. “Why would he wait so long to come back to England and take revenge? Why not do it straightaway, and while you were all in San Francisco?”

  She gave a very slight shrug, almost a gesture of defeat, of loss. “I don’t know. You asked Aaron if there was anyone who would hate him. He said there wasn’t. I’m afraid for him. Somebody seems to, and Piers is the only person I can think of. They began as equals, when Aaron’s cousin Zachary was still alive. That was a long time ago.” Her face softened and for a moment she was clearly lost in her memories.

  Again Monk waited, beginning to drink his own tea.

  “Zachary was one of the best people I ever knew,” she said. “Everybody trusted him, Aaron most of all. When Aaron found gold, it was Zack who helped him set everything up legally, and see that all those who helped him were rewarded.” She stopped abruptly, as if a new thought had occurred to her.

  Was any of this relevant to an attack against Aaron Clive’s business? It was beginning to feel more and more remote.

  Miriam’s eyes filled with tears almost beyond her ability to control. “Aaron grieved for him terribly. He was changed, almost as if he had lost part of himself.”

  “Mrs. Clive…are you all right?” Monk asked anxiously.

  She straightened up and raised her eyes to meet his again. “Yes. Thank you. It is all a long time ago now. Zack was killed defending a helpless man from a mob of drunkards. California was a pretty lawless place at that time. It was as if a light went out…something of goodness was lost. Without him some of us lost our way….”

  Monk tried to think of something to say. He clung to the one thing relevant.

  “But it’s possible Piers Astley could still be alive? In spite of the fact that he was legally declared to be dead, and you free to marry Aaron Clive?”

  “I was told he was dead; he never came home,” she said simply. “He had worked for Aaron for some time. In fact he was his right hand, as it were.” She gave a little shrug. “You don’t understand what it was like, Mr. Monk. It was another world, out there. Gold is magic, as if it had a power within itself to change men, circumstances, anything. Suddenly from worrying about every meal and debts of a few dollars, people think they can buy anything, and sometimes everybody. Some find a few nuggets, and think it will never end. People even gave it away, thinking there would always be more. But there isn’t. Except for a few, it’s never sufficient, though enough to live on, perhaps. The best thing is to buy land you can farm.” She shook her head. “But gold is power, and power sends most people a little mad.”

  He knew that what she said was true; he had a faint memory of it himself, a kind of lunacy in the air, like having drunk too much.

  He became aware that Miriam was watching him, and felt as if his thoughts were wide open to her gaze.

  “Men gambled and lost fortunes,” she continued. “Many found gold and were gripped by the madness of it, the elation. Some settled, some died poor. Some prospered by creating businesses, schools, churches, stores. A few, like Aaron, struck a rich seam of gold and became little kings of their own realms.” She lifted her shoulders very slightly. It was a gesture of helplessness. “Some, like Piers, vanished. People came from all over the world, and went again. And of course there were the native people to whom the land really belonged. Many of them disappeared, too. What was one English adventurer more or less, except to those who loved him?”

  “Have you any real reason to think Piers Astley is alive?” Monk asked.

  She thought in silence for several moments. He was about to ask her again when at last she replied, looking away into the corner of the room, lost in some vision in her mind.

  “Maybe none, but I see him everywhere, perhaps only because I want to. Fleeting glances of his profile, once, in San Francisco, and then again, just a month ago, here in London. I don’t know. Perhaps it was my imagination. Then you came and told Aaron that it is possible someone is seeking to harm his business, perhaps commit a huge and clever robbery. How can I not at least tell you of this?”

  He conceded, “I shall see if I can find any trace of him, or any connection whatever with any of the men who have escaped.”

  She seemed to reach a decision within herself. She set down her empty teacup and turned a little to face him.

  “Do you think that schooner is moored almost opposite my husband’s warehouse totally by chance, Mr. Monk?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but I shall assume it is not chance, until I can prove otherwise,” he promised. “And tomorrow I shall begin inquiries into Piers Astley’s disappearance, and his possible return to England.”

  Her smile of gratitude was dazzling, and as if someone had turned up the light. He saw the beautiful woman she was when she was happy, safe.

  When she was gone, he stood alone in the hall for several minutes, absorbing the new information in his mind. Hester found him there when she came through, having heard the front door close.

  Over dinner he told her what Miriam Clive had told him.

  “She’s very afraid of what you will find,” Hester said at last. “But I think she may be even more afraid if you don’t find it. It must be terrible to live in fear of someone you once loved, and now don’t know if he’s alive or dead, or how much he’s changed.”

  Monk looked at her, saw the pity in her face, and knew that no answer was necessary, or even appropriate.

  —

  HE SET OUT THE next day to contact all the people he knew in other forces, and could trust to pass on information discreetly. If Piers Astley were in London, somebody somewhere would know.

  It was a long and laborious job, because each new person had to have some explanation as to why Monk needed the information, and then as much as he could tell them of Astley’s description, and possible activity.

  There were people who owed him favors, or who would dearly like Monk to owe them, and he knew they would be certain to collect. This made him a trifle less eager than he might have been otherwise.

  One such person he contacted ea
rly that evening was a receiver of stolen goods at the upper end of the market. The profession was known as that of an opulent receiver, because he dealt in only the best, small and easily movable works, such as jewelry, gold and silver statues, carved ivory or jade. He was known as “Velvet Boy,” perhaps because he had a soft childlike face atop an enormous body.

  “English,” he said sarcastically. “That should be easy to spot—an Englishman in London! You’ve come to make fun of us, Mr. Monk. I take exception to that, I do.” His china-blue eyes regarded Monk with affront.

  “An English gentleman from Yorkshire originally, but who spent at least twenty years of his life in California, from the gold rush until now,” Monk amended. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Velvet.”

  Velvet moved one of his huge legs a couple of inches. “I can’t jump at all, Mr. Monk. It in’t kind o’ you to speak about it like that. You’re making fun o’ my afflictions. I take exception to that, too.”

  “Conclusions are things of the mind,” Monk replied. “And yours is one of the most agile I know. You could jump over the moon, if you’d a mind to.”

  The look of petulance was ironed out of Velvet Boy’s face for a moment or two, then it returned. “Is that what you want me to do, then, Mr. Monk? Jump over the moon for you? What’s it worth to me?”

  “It’s worth my not coming back to bother you for some time,” Monk replied levelly.

  “You in’t bothering me anyway. I’m too far from the river for most o’ your business these days.”

  “You want me to keep it that way?” Monk asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

  Velvet Boy thought for several moments.

  Monk waited. The room was oppressively warm. There was far too much furniture in it. Every surface was crammed with ornaments, which were almost all rubbish. There were a few real gems camouflaged among them, but it would take an art expert to recognize them. Monk did not bother to pretend interest. Velvet Boy would not be fooled. He rarely stirred from his seat, but he knew his art and his thieves as a concert violinist knows music, making his own notes with his fingers, with perfect pitch every time. If there was something planned he would have wind of it. He drew knowledge as a magnet draws iron filings.

  “Come to think of it,” Velvet Boy said at last, “I did hear of someone who might come by a few interesting artifacts in a little while. Very nice bits o’ carved turquoise, and bone, even. Said as they were Red Indian things, held by them to be magic.” He watched Monk’s reaction with his large, unblinking eyes.

  Monk found he suddenly knew exactly what he was talking about. He could even picture them, like little roughly sketched animals—bears, fish, frogs, coyotes. He remembered touching them: the smoothness, the limpid quality of the best turquoise, almost without blemish. He was taken aback by the clarity of the images. The art was different from European: more a re-creation of the essence of the creature than seeking to show others its beauty. Its spirit was understood. The carving was a totem, nothing to do with the identity of the carver. There was no vanity in it; it was rather an act of worship. Perhaps that was what gave it its real beauty.

  “If it’s your totem, the carving carries the spirit of the creature with you, as long as no one else touches it,” Monk explained, speaking almost before he knew it, as if the knowledge had just flown into his mind.

  Velvet Boy blushed slowly. “An’ ’ow do you know that, then, Mr. Monk? You a collector, are you? That what you want? Arrest this feller you’re looking for, and take his artworks?”

  Monk had an instant of chill. How had he known about this? Why could he see the little animals in his mind, rather than remember someone telling him about them? He saw them exactly, made of turquoise, bone, silver, sometimes even gold.

  He swallowed and breathed in and out, taking his time. “I want to stop a very large robbery,” he replied. “An act of revenge. This man has come all the way from San Francisco in order to destroy another man he envies. If you help me find him, then any of his artifacts that he’s sold you, or ‘lent’ you, I will be willing to forget about it.”

  “Bent, then, are you, Mr. Monk? Let me help with stolen goods? Not like you, at all. Some reason I should believe you? I think as you’re setting a trap for me.” Velvet Boy looked straight into Monk’s eyes. “I take exception to that, I do!”

  “And I take exception to you thinking I’m bent, Velvet,” Monk replied. “I was thinking I’m too busy to look through your place. Got bigger fish to go after. But perhaps I’m not, after all. That’s a very nice piece of ivory you’ve got hanging on the wall behind you.”

  Velvet Boy pursed his lips. “There to remind me not to get taken in by fakes, that is. D’yer think I’d hang a real piece up there for every Tom, Dick, and ’Arry ter see? What do you take me for?” He looked hurt.

  “A very clever man,” Monk assumed truthfully. “Bluff, double bluff, triple bluff. But if it’s fake, then you won’t mind if I take it from you…?”

  There was an instant of alarm in Velvet Boy’s eyes, there, and then gone again. “I take…”

  “Exception,” Monk finished for him. “I know.” He pretended to begin rising to his feet, his eyes fixed on the ivory on the wall.

  “I did get some more stuff from a feller about a year or so past. Couple o’ dozen o’ them earrings. Some was real big. ’Andsome feller. But ’e wasn’t Yorkshire no more’n I am. American, ’e were, but with a touch now an’ then of Irish. Just a touch, mind, like ’e were a long time from the Old Svelde!”

  “Describe him,” Monk ordered.

  “Tall, graceful, very ’andsome, an’ ’e knew it.”

  “Clean-shaven?” Monk asked.

  “No…mustache.” Velvet touched his own upper lip.

  “Dark?”

  “Not really.”

  “Name?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t ask no names. You know better than that, Mr. Monk. They was real. That’s all I care about.”

  Gillander? Not Piers Astley. Monk stayed only a short time further, but as he was leaving, his mind was not on which man it might have been, but on the clarity with which he could remember the carved animals. How did he know?

  —

  A SECOND DAY LOOKING, AND he had found nothing definitive about Piers Astley. However, he had definitely learned more about the dead man, Blount, and the other two men who had escaped earlier: the safecracker, Seager, and the chemist, Applewood.

  “Worst mistake we ever made,” one policeman said ruefully, when Monk visited the station in Bethnal Green where Applewood had been arrested. The man’s face colored with embarrassment. “Looked so ordinary, could ’ave been your postman or a bank clerk behind the counter. Sort of…shortsighted, harmless. Kind o’ man who could trip over ’is own bootlaces. But clever. ’E were like a weasel, always thinking. Knew what everything was made of. Even knew what smells they were. Wore them dark glasses, an’ when ’e took them off, ’is eyes were enough ter give yer nightmares.”

  According to the sergeant in nearby Hoxton, where Seager had lived, he was a different matter altogether. He seemed merely a quiet man who was obsessive about his fingers. He always wore gloves to protect them, even in the summer, and would never shake hands with anyone. Curiously, he liked to play the piano, and did it well.

  Blount, it seemed from the customs man Worth, was less individual, but nevertheless highly thought of in his profession, if you could call it such. He would be hard to replace. Was that what was holding up the robbery of Aaron Clive? Or was the victim someone else, and perhaps it was already begun? It was time, Monk thought, that he reported to McNab, before McNab came to him.

  Should he be honest? He could not afford to be seen as dishonest. He might well have to justify himself if the robbery, whatever it was, succeeded.

  McNab looked up when Monk went up the stairs from Worth’s room to McNab’s. Monk was not used to such easy access. McNab was almost civil.

  “Ah! Morning, Monk,” McNab said with something lik
e cordiality. He nodded his thanks to the man who had shown Monk in, and gave him permission to leave them.

  Monk sat down in the chair opposite the tidy, polished desk and gave McNab an edited version of Miriam Clive’s assertions about Piers Astley. “If he’s alive and he’s here, then he’s keeping well low,” he finished. “But I found an opulent receiver who bought some American Indian art from a man answering Gillander’s description, over a year ago.”

  “Not our gold baron, Mr. Clive?”

  “No. Besides, I don’t see Aaron Clive importing bits and pieces and selling them through a receiver, opulent or not. No, this was someone who wished to make a nice sum of money, but quickly, without drawing any attention to himself.”

  “Interesting,” McNab agreed, nodding his head slowly. Then his face grew more earnest. “Fits with what I learned. Looks more and more like Clive is the target. Can’t wonder at that. He’s a very rich man indeed. Daresay he got himself a few enemies out there in San Francisco. Can’t get that rich without treading on people now and then. Might be as honest as the day now, but was he always that way?”

  “I don’t think we can find out in time for it to be any use to us,” Monk replied. “It can take months to get to California, and the same back. Otherwise one can either sail to New York, or Panama, and then go overland, but that’s both hard and dangerous. Or sail round the Horn and up the other side of the country all the way north again to San Francisco. And that’s long and dangerous, too.”

  McNab looked doubtful. “Too long,” he agreed. “But safer. Stay on your ship, just wait…”

  “Ever been around the Horn?” Monk said sharply. McNab’s ignorance and contempt angered him. “The South Atlantic has seas a hundred feet high, and more, in bad weather.”