Revenge in a Cold River Page 16

  McNab looked at him with fascination, his eyes wide, suddenly the color in them clear hazel. “Really?” His voice lifted with interest.

  “Yes!” Monk replied with the force of memory.

  “Been there, have you?” McNab showed his teeth in a rare, wide smile.

  Monk felt the coldness run through him again. He was looking straight into the face of the wolf. His slightest tremor would be seen. That hesitation would be like the smell of fear that a predator gets, a shark at sea smelling blood half a mile away.

  “Long time ago,” Monk replied. “All I can remember is the fear, and the cold. But if you really want to know about it, you should listen to some of the seamen you deal with who have brought cargoes from the West, and the Pacific beyond.”

  “Oh, I do listen, Monk. Hear all kinds of things I don’t expect to. You’d be surprised.” He nodded several times. “But you’re right. It’s another world out there, and we know very little about it. We’ve no time to find out any more. We’d better assume that this Piers Astley could be here, and keep an eye on Clive’s warehouse. Wish we could find Owen, but I’ve asked the Metropolitan Police to keep an eye out for him, or for any other first-rate forger they might get hold of instead. Perhaps I’d better go and have another word with Mr. Clive? What do you think? He seems to have a remarkable memory….”

  Monk waited, watching McNab.

  McNab looked back at him, studying him slowly, quite openly.

  “Find anything about the other escapees?” McNab said at last, an edge to his voice now.

  “Only what you already know,” Monk replied. “The best at their jobs. Dangerous, clever.”

  McNab pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hope we didn’t get caught out,” he said, staring at Monk. “Clive wouldn’t be a good man to cross. He knows about the threat. Pity about that…” He let the implication hang in the air.

  Monk wanted to think of a retort, but nothing came to mind. He was always aware that McNab knew him better than he knew himself. He was fighting with one hand tied behind his back.

  He stood up. “Pity you didn’t get anything useful out of Blount,” he said. “Or Owen, for that matter.”

  McNab’s eyes narrowed. “Might have, if Pettifer’d lived,” he said between his teeth.

  Monk went back to Wapping to find out what Hooper had learned about the raid on the gun smugglers that had gone so disastrously wrong. McNab’s face haunted him in the short cab ride from the customs office to his own station. Was he imagining the jubilation in McNab’s eyes, the knowledge that he was playing with Monk as a cat does with a mouse? The hunger was for the game, not the prize at the end. Well-fed domestic cats did just the same. Eating it was merely tidying up afterward.

  He had slipped up over his reference to Cape Horn. His own fears were causing him to make mistakes. He was vulnerable, and McNab knew it, with his senses if not his brain.

  It must stop. Monk must take the offensive, move McNab’s attention to something else. He found Hooper waiting for him when he went in. He looked pleased with himself. It was discreet, but there was an energy in him as he stood up and walked over to meet Monk.

  Monk looked at him expectantly.

  “Found a lot more about Pettifer,” Hooper said quietly. “He’s been working for Customs most of his life. Taken down a lot of smugglers of all kinds of things, particularly guns. I can’t prove that he set us up on the gunrunners’ raid, but I certainly can confirm that he knew enough to sell us out completely. Did very nicely for himself, did Mr. Pettifer. He drank at the Dog and Duck, down by Shadwell way. Found out he owned it, on the quiet, like. You get all sorts drinking there and Pettifer liked to keep his customers happy. Don’t think I could prove it, but I’m satisfied Pettifer set up both sides against the middle on that one.”

  “Thank you,” Monk said slowly. “Thank you very much.”

  “Nothing to tie in McNab,” Hooper went on a little ruefully. “But quite a lot to add into these escapes. It seems Pettifer was the one who actually found Blount, but gave the credit to someone else.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.” Monk told Hooper what he had learned about someone selling Californian artifacts to Velvet Boy. He repeated the description Velvet had given.

  “It sounds like Gillander,” Hooper said with quiet conviction. “That means he’s part of it.”

  “I know,” Monk conceded reluctantly. He had liked the man, but personal regard had nothing to do with innocence or guilt. There had been outwardly good men, virtuous and upright, whom he had disliked for their speed and relish to judge others, even at times for their total lack of humor. And there had been villains who had made him laugh, whom still he had admired, whose love of life he had enjoyed.

  “I’m going to see him now,” he added.

  “I’ll come with you,” Hooper stated, straightening up.

  “That’s not—” Monk began.

  “I’m coming with you,” Hooper repeated, squaring his shoulders and turning toward the door.

  —

  THEY FOUND GILLANDER ON board the Summer Wind, anchored opposite Aaron Clive’s warehouses again, and he welcomed them with the same easy grace as when Monk had met him before.

  “What can I do now? Still looking for Owen?” He led the way across the deck and down the steep wooden stairs to the main cabin. It was surprisingly warm, as before, and there was a pleasant odor coming from the galley. Everything was still impressively tidy, brass fixtures polished.

  “Got no tea,” Gillander said with a smile. “Got some very good soup. Won’t tell you what’s in it. Like a mugful? It’s a devil of a day.”

  Monk was inclined to agree with him. The water was choppy and the wind scythed in over its rough surface like the edge of a blade.

  “Thanks,” he accepted.

  Hooper was staring around the cabin with appreciation. He tended to make a first judgment of a man by the way he cared for his boat, and his tools. He accepted also that perhaps he would judge a man by how he cooked.

  Gillander disappeared into the galley, and a few moments later returned with three tin mugs of soup, clearly hot from the steam that rose from them.

  Monk thanked him and waited a moment before he took a sip. It was almost too hot to drink, but it was delicious: a beef broth of some sort, with a generous dash of brandy in it.

  “Good,” Hooper said appreciatively.

  Monk nodded his agreement. He had already decided how he was going to approach the subject of their visit with Gillander.

  “No sign of Owen,” he observed. “We think he might have been involved in a pretty big plan, which could have included the other man that escaped: Blount.”

  Gillander looked puzzled, but Monk had not expected him to reveal himself, even if he knew all about it. Monk was by no means certain that Gillander was the mastermind, just the one who could be present without causing suspicion. He still thought it could be Piers Astley behind any planned raid on Clive’s premises.

  “Blount was a forger,” he continued. “There’ve been a couple of other escapees in the last half year or so. Altogether four men who worked together on a major robbery before.”

  “Interesting,” Gillander agreed. “Robin Hood and his merry men…or not so merry. Who killed Blount, then? Was he going to betray them to Customs?”

  “It’s a thought,” Monk said.

  There was a silence. Gillander looked from Monk to Hooper, and back again.

  “About what? Another big robbery?” Then he laughed loudly. “From Aaron Clive! Of course. That’s why Owen came here. And you think I have something to do with it? Because I fished Owen out of the water?”

  “It’s one possibility.” Monk nodded, keeping the smile on his face also. “You’re perfectly placed. Why do you anchor here, anyway? It’s a long way up the river, and there are few conveniences.”

  “Which is why it’s cheap.” Gillander shrugged. “Surely you understand that, Mr. Monk? You’ve run your own boat. You save money where
you can, but never save on equipment, right, Mr. Hooper?”

  Hooper nodded his agreement, but did not take his eyes off Gillander. He was sitting sideways to the small table, always keeping the way open across the floor if Gillander moved suddenly. Nothing would be in the way to stop Hooper going for him.

  “Right,” Hooper said.

  Monk nodded also, as naturally as if there were complete understanding between them, but he could feel his muscles aching from the tension of what Gillander had just said about him running his own boat.

  Hooper was picking up the thread. “Where’d you come from?” he asked Gillander. “And if you’re not waiting for Owen and his friends, who are you waiting for?”

  For the first time Gillander hesitated.

  Monk was surprised. He would have expected him to have a smooth, easy answer ready. Now he looked even a little uncomfortable.

  “I have a service to perform for Mrs. Clive,” he said after a moment. “As soon as I’ve done that, I’ll…consider moving on. Maybe the China Seas. Ever been that far east, Mr. Monk?”

  Monk had no idea and he was distracted by Gillander’s mention of Miriam Clive. He couldn’t be looking for Piers Astley as well, could he? “No,” he said with conviction. “It’s the West that used to interest me. Now I’m happy here on the Thames. Sooner or later all the world comes here.”

  Gillander smiled widely. It was a charming gesture, full of humor.

  “I love the arrogance of the English; it’s so totally unconscious. You are not even trying to impress. You are too secure in your pride to care what the rest of the world think of you. I’ve been watching, and trying to copy it.”

  “I would say you’re doing rather well,” Monk answered just a fraction too quickly. “Is that Irish I hear in your voice?”

  “Ah! You caught it. Sure, and it is. But not for a long time. I’ve been in California—but you know that….”

  Now Monk was aware that Gillander was watching him far more closely than his casual air would suggest. He was leaning back in his seat, the mug of soup on the galley table at his elbow, but his neck was stiff and his eyes were searching Monk’s face.

  “You must know Aaron Clive pretty well,” Monk remarked, just a little late to be a reply. “Especially back in ’49.”

  “I was young then,” Gillander said ruefully. “Used to work on smaller boats as a deckhand, sailing up and down the coast. Across the Atlantic now and then and way out east. I first got to know him in San Francisco when I was finding work where I could. He made one of the biggest gold strikes of all. Created a kind of empire, over the past few years. Never gambled it away, like some people. Built himself a nice place, but invested some of his fortune in things that paid, and went on paying. Gold, trade for the things people need, more money, more trade—gold again.” There was no hard edge to Gillander’s voice, no envy.

  “But you went for freedom and adventure on the open seas,” Monk observed. He understood that far more. He had never wanted power other than that which gave him safety for work and let him owe no one. The rest of what was worth having was health, skill, courage, being answerable to nobody. Great wealth tied you to its service, whether it was land, trade, or gold.

  He had a sudden memory of a coastline of pale hills in the sunlight, wild rocks, seas that leaped high and white where they crashed onto the shore, a haze of amber light as the day was dying, luminous over the water.

  Gillander was watching him curiously. Did he see the memory in Monk’s face, and the momentary loss of time and place?

  Monk brought the subject back to the suspected robbery, moving his position to face Gillander more completely. “This robbery we think is planned…against Clive—he’s the wealthiest, and maybe most vulnerable along this stretch of the river.”

  “And you obviously think I know something about it?” Gillander was direct again, staring at Monk almost challengingly.

  “I think there’s another mind at the back of it,” Monk answered. He was playing his hand far more openly than he had intended, but he did not want to be caught trying to be devious, and failing. The more he spoke to this man, the more he feared that Gillander actually knew more about him than he did himself, at least for a short space of time in the gold rush, twenty years ago. Had he known Clive as well? He thought back to his interview with the man. Clive had given no sign of knowing Monk at all. Had he forgotten him? Or never known him? Or the whole matter was simply of no importance to him?

  “Do you know who?” Gillander asked.

  “There have been some suggestions made,” Monk replied. “Why? Do you?”

  Gillander gave a slight shrug. “Well, Clive has many enemies. Anyone that rich has to have. But most of them are from the early days. Why would anyone wait so long?”

  “Opportunity,” Monk said immediately. “Clive’s been here in England only a couple of years. Things like this take planning. Maybe he was too powerful in California for anyone to dare.”

  “So you’re looking for a Californian?” Gillander looked amused.

  “Or an Englishman,” Monk said with an answering smile. “Or a European of any other sort. There was every nationality under the sun in San Francisco in ’49. Take your pick.”

  “So there was,” Gillander agreed. “Then you’re looking for anyone who feels that the uncrowned king of San Francisco twenty years ago would be a good person to rob here on the Thames—now.”

  Monk decided to tell Gillander the exact truth, as Miriam had suggested it. “I think it might be revenge,” he said, watching Gillander closely.

  Gillander was unnaturally motionless, but for so short a time Monk considered he might have imagined it.

  “Again, why wait so long?” Gillander said then, moving his shoulders a little as if suddenly uncomfortable on his seat.

  Monk felt the prickle of excitement, like scenting the prey, seeing movement where something was hiding, waiting, breathing in the darkness.

  “So long?” he asked. “Not so long when you think of the journey, the planning necessary.”

  Gillander said nothing.

  Monk smiled back at him. “Or were you assuming that the revenge had to be for something that happened long ago? Say in ’48 or ’49?”

  Gillander was too agile-minded to lie. He must see the pitfalls ahead. What was it he imagined Monk knew?

  “Those were the wildest years, the biggest claims,” he said carefully, still watching Monk. He seemed to discount Hooper in the exchange. Was that because Monk had been there, and Hooper had not?

  Monk actually knew nothing, but Gillander did not know that.

  “You’re implying revenge for something lost?” Monk said with a lift of surprise in his voice. “I was thinking of something personal…perhaps an attempted murder, the seduction or ravishing of a woman. Something closer to a man’s heart than money.”

  Gillander did all he could to keep absolute composure, but tiny things betrayed him: a second’s holding of the breath, a tightness across the shoulders, a pallor to the skin of his handsome face. “And Aaron Clive is to be the victim?” He forced a lift of disbelief into his question. “Mrs. Clive is well, and unseduced or ravished. No one attempted to kill her, or Clive.” He realized his error. “That I know of…of course….”

  “You know them both well?” Monk said innocently.

  There was color now in Gillander’s cheeks. “I was a young man, very young, twenty, of no account, when I knew them in ’49. I ran errands.” He indicated the ship with a wave of his hand. “I got all this since then. Sorry, but from what little I do know of Aaron and Mrs. Clive now, I don’t think your idea makes any sense.”

  “What about Piers Astley?” Monk suggested almost casually, but never taking his eyes off Gillander’s face.

  “Piers Astley?” Monk knew Gillander was repeating the name to give himself time to think.

  “Miriam Clive’s first husband. Attacked, disappeared, and later declared dead. And she married Mr. Clive,” Monk explained. “Don
’t you think he might bear Clive some grudge? Miriam Clive is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and if he is alive, he would clearly still be in love with her.”

  Gillander’s eyebrows shot up. “Piers Astley…behind a plot now to ruin Clive?” His face was filled with disbelief, and laughter.

  “One of the oldest motives in the world,” Monk explained, but there was unease rippling through him like a fast-rising tide.

  “Piers Astley’s dead!” Gillander told him.

  “Presumed dead,” Monk corrected. “There’s a big difference, a crucial one.”

  Gillander sighed and suddenly looked stricken, as if the joke had evaporated as he watched. “He’s dead,” he said quietly. “I saw his body, riddled with bullets. Actually I was one of the two who buried him. If we were in California I could take you to the grave. It’s unmarked, but he’s there, God help him.”

  Monk was stunned. “Then why was he only presumed dead, and his widow not told?”

  Gillander rose to his feet—stiffly for a man so young, barely forty. “She was carrying a child.” His voice cracked as he said it. “With the shock, she lost it. That was when Aaron Clive slipped in to look after her. She was ill, vulnerable, in a very bad way. Piers Astley isn’t planning a revenge against anyone.” He looked across at Monk. “Perhaps she was too grieved to remember clearly exactly what she was told about Astley’s death. Perhaps a part of her was unconsciously living in a vain hope so that she then confused it with reality. I don’t know. But it’s not your jurisdiction. Stick to the Thames, Monk! This is deep water of a different sort. It doesn’t belong to you.”

  Monk stood up also. Gillander was right. It was not his jurisdiction. If what Gillander said was true, and Astley was really dead, then he needed to begin again searching for whoever meant to harm Aaron Clive. If he was even right about that!

  As he and Hooper got back into their own boat and set off downriver again it was Miriam Clive’s face he could not get out of his mind. She was beautiful, troubled, so filled with emotion she moved like a storm with her own energy. But was she speaking the truth? Did she even know it?