Revenge in a Cold River Page 2

  “Certainly,” Stockwell agreed. “But they were never caught. Knew how to keep his mouth shut.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Are you thinking one of them killed him, to make sure it stayed shut permanently? Sounds likely to me.”

  “What was he convicted for?” Monk pressed.

  Stockwell recounted Blount’s crime of fraud with false details of shipments, and therefore false customs duties to be paid.

  Monk listened with interest.

  “So the ship’s captain was almost certainly involved?” he concluded.

  “No doubt,” Stockwell agreed. “But he was long gone by the time they caught up with Blount. And he was foreign of some sort, Spanish or Corsican, or something like that.”

  “And the importer?” Monk asked.

  “Disclaimed all knowledge of alteration of the papers,” Stockwell replied. “Made it seem that Blount himself was making the profit on the difference. Lying bastard. But they couldn’t get him on it. He’d covered himself very tidily.”

  “But Blount knew that he’d been part of the fraud, and could have given him up?”

  “Had to have known, but he stayed silent. I daresay there’d have been a nice reward for his silence in the future. He only had five years to go.”

  “When was he convicted?”

  “September.”

  “Name of the importer?”

  “Haskell and Sons. It was Haskell they were trying to get Blount to inform on,” Stockwell said. “Been after him for years.”

  “Customs have?”

  “Yes.” Stockwell looked interested. “But they said they didn’t get anything out of Blount.”

  “While I’m here, tell me all you can about Blount. Do you know his friends, enemies, anyone who might prefer him dead? Or be afraid of him alive?” Monk asked.

  “He was clever,” Stockwell repeated, clearly giving the matter deeper thought. “Word around the prison is that he did quite a few favors for people. Not that he didn’t collect on them, mind you. But if someone wanted a letter written, a permission forged, a document made up and passed out through a lawyer, or a warder—for a consideration…” His expression was bitter. “All Blount needed was the paper, and he could do a good enough job to fool most people. He built up quite a network that way: people who owed him favors, or who might need him again one day. Sly, he was. Never did much without weighing up what he could get out of it.”

  Monk thought of the heavy face and the soft hands, and found it unpleasantly easy to believe. “Mostly to do with smuggling?” he asked.

  “That I heard about, yes. But there could have been all sorts of other things as well—bills of sale, affidavits, anything.”

  “Who took him to the place where he met with the customs people where he got away? Why didn’t they come to question him here? Less risk of his escaping.”

  “We didn’t think there was a risk!” Stockwell snapped back. “He was manacled all the way and had two guards with him.”

  “But why travel at all? Why didn’t the customs men come here? No risk at all, then.”

  “Because they had papers and other things in a big trunk that they couldn’t carry,” Stockwell replied. “Machinery he could identify.”

  “I see. Names of the guards accompanying him?”

  “Clerk and Chapman. Both got injured in the escape. Clerk not too badly. Mostly bruises, that’s all. Chapman’ll be off for a while. Man with a broken arm not much use here.”

  “Well, they won’t be getting much thanks from Blount,” Monk said drily. “Shot and drowned. Any ideas about that?”

  Stockwell’s expression was one of weary disgust. “Somebody wanted to make sure!”

  “How long beforehand was this trip arranged?” Monk asked.

  “Just the day before,” Stockwell answered, but he sat up a little straighter. “Interesting. You’re thinking someone saw a chance and took it?”

  “That, or someone knew it was going to be asked for, and arranged it,” Monk pointed out.

  “You’re thinking of Customs? Or Haskell himself? You want to see if anyone here had a connection?”

  “I do. And I’ll certainly go and see the customs officers involved; find out exactly what happened, who sent for Blount, and who knew about it.”

  “Right. I’ll get you all we have.” Stockwell rose to his feet. “Wretched fellow, Blount, but we can’t have prisoners done away with. And I don’t like it when they escape, either.”

  “It wasn’t from here.”

  Stockwell stared at him indignantly. “It was from my damned men, sir!”

  Monk agreed as tactfully as he could.

  —

  IT WAS AFTER FOUR and the sun set low on the horizon, sending shadows across the water, when Monk left Wapping again and decided to walk the relatively short distance to the Customs House on Thames Street. It was little more than a mile and he wanted the air, cold as it was, and the solitude to order in his mind exactly what he would say. How he approached the customs men from whom Blount had escaped would determine what he would learn.

  Monk wanted information from them. It was not his place to discipline them, were they at fault, and that was not certain.

  The walk took him a little longer than he expected; traffic was heavy and the sidewalks crowded. But by the time he reached the magnificent customs buildings facing the river, completely restored since the fire of 1825, he was ready to deal with the men patiently and win what he could not command.

  He was received guardedly and shown to a small private room someone had obligingly made available to him. It was not one of those with a view over the river.

  A young man was brought in within moments and introduced as Edward Worth. The other customs officer who had interviewed Blount, Logan, had been badly injured in Blount’s escape and was recovering in the hospital.

  “Sit down, Worth.” Monk gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Blount’s dead, and it’s not much loss, except if he was going to testify against Haskell. Was he?” Monk said.

  Worth sat down on the edge of the chair. He looked no more than twenty-five, and considerably embarrassed by the fact that he and his colleague had somehow managed to let a prisoner escape, and worse than that, be killed. He still looked shocked.

  Monk could not remember being so young. That age was part of his lost years. Had he ever looked so vulnerable to his seniors? The impressions he had gathered had been that he had always seemed a little arrogant, perhaps appearing more sure of himself than he was.

  “No, sir, not that I could see,” Worth answered. “The whole thing was a waste of time, actually.” Then he colored uncomfortably. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Who told you to question him?” Monk asked.

  “Orders, sir.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Worth. From whom?”

  “Mr. Gillies, sir. I answer to him but he must have had his orders from higher up.” Worth looked unhappy, like a schoolboy who has been forced to snitch on one of his fellows.

  “I see. Expressly to get Blount to tell you about Haskell, or on a general fishing expedition?”

  “As to who paid him, sir. And there was a whole box of forging equipment, and special papers as he could identify, if he would.”

  “And did he? Identify them, I mean.”

  “No, sir, not really…Just said it was the right sort for bills of trading, some from foreign parts, like.”

  Monk knew that if he embarrassed Worth too deeply, or seemed to be finding fault with the Customs service in general, he would get nothing from the young man. It would be harsh, but above and beyond that, it would also be pointless. If Worth had made errors, or done less than his best, he would be keener than anyone to make amends. Good leadership would allow him to. Monk was learning these lessons slowly. But as he did so, he pitied more and more the officers who had had to deal with him as a young, clever, and smart-mouthed man. Such young men were the bane of a commander’s existence, in part because they were the ones most likely
to be of use, if taught well, and if their respect were earned. They would also be the most badly broken, and then the most dangerous if they became the victims of their commanding officers’ own weaknesses.

  “Describe to me exactly what happened, as far as you can recall it,” he directed.

  Worth obediently told him about Blount’s arrival, and the two prison guards with him.

  “Did they come into the interrogation room with Blount?” Monk interrupted.

  “No, sir. They waited outside. There was only the one door, sir, and there was just the two of us, as well as them waiting in the next room.”

  “Sounds safe enough,” Monk agreed. “Was Blount manacled during this time?”

  “Left wrist to the chair, sir. Rather cold day. Got him a hot cup of tea.” Worth looked embarrassed, as if his small act of kindness were a fault in him.

  “And then you questioned him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me,” Monk began, choosing his words carefully, “did you form the impression that Blount was expecting these questions? Was he prepared for them?”

  Worth considered it for a moment. “No, sir,” he said, looking straight at Monk. “I don’t think he knew rightly why he was here. He acted all surprised. I took it as putting it all on when he was here, but now I think maybe he did have no idea.”

  “Interesting. Go on.”

  “We were going about half an hour, getting nothing we hadn’t worked out anyway, when we were interrupted. A man had said he was a lawyer for Mr. Blount, and we weren’t to go on without him being there. There was nothing we could do about that, so we had the lawyer in…if he was a lawyer…”

  “Why do you doubt it?”

  Worth’s face reflected his embarrassment. “Because that’s when it all started. There was a whole ruckus outside. Two more men came in and attacked the prison guard who was waiting in the next room….”

  “Only one?” Monk leaned forward. “You said there were two.”

  “One of them had gone to relieve himself, sir.” Worth looked unhappy.

  “And these other two took advantage of that?” It was easy to imagine. And interesting. It sounded like a mixture of planning and opportunism.

  “Yes, sir,” Worth agreed. “They did.”

  “Were they armed?”

  “Yes, sir, with big, heavy cudgels. Broke the guard’s arm.”

  “The two of them?”

  “Yes, sir. Hit me over the head, and must have hit Logan, too, as when I come to myself again, Logan was lying on the floor and the chair Blount’d been manacled to was smashed, like someone’d been at it with an ax.”

  “And Blount was gone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did anyone else see any part of this? Either the two men coming in, or leaving with Blount?”

  “Yes, sir. Blount was seen going off with one of them. But they was about the same height and build as the prison officers, and in the rain, all huddled up, they just thought it was them gone again. The second man obviously just made himself scarce.” He moved uncomfortably in his seat.

  “And the man who said he was a lawyer?” Monk asked.

  “He said he’d been struck, too, sir.”

  “Said? You doubted him?”

  “Thinking about it, yes, sir. I knew how I felt, an’ he didn’t look anything like it.”

  Monk nodded. “I would like you to think hard. I’m only asking for your impressions. Do you think Blount was expecting to be rescued? Did he play for time with you? Seem nervous, as if he were expecting to be interrupted? Was he in the least afraid?”

  Worth blinked, struggling to give Monk the answer he wanted.

  “He was in prison already,” Monk pointed out. “Did you threaten him with anything? I need the exact truth, Mr. Worth. Was he agitated at all?”

  “No, he wasn’t. In fact he was rather insolent,” Worth answered carefully. “As if he knew there weren’t nothing we could do to him. Actually, sir, I thought it was a waste of time, myself. He was a real fly one, Blount. I never thought we’d get anything out of him.”

  “Not fly enough to avoid getting both drowned and shot!” Monk said bleakly. “Thank you, Mr. Worth. You have been of considerable help. I don’t suppose you have any idea which of your superiors thought Blount would give Mr. Haskell away? Or whoever it was that paid him?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I didn’t think you would.” Monk rose to his feet. “That’s all. Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Worth was on his feet, standing to attention. “Thank you, sir.”

  A good officer, Monk thought. Maybe one day he would take him away from McNab. He would make a good river policeman. They needed recruits.

  All the way home through the darkening streets he weighed what Worth had told him. By the time he reached the Greenwich ferry steps and climbed out to walk up the lamplit hill to Paradise Place, he had come to several tentative conclusions. Blount was dangerous to someone: presumably to whoever had employed him, probably Haskell. Blount was a man who always put his own well-being first, and he had known too much.

  His murder had been arranged with some skill, and good use made of the customs officers and the lawyer. Someone there was helping—possibly had been paid by Haskell for one favor or another for some time, even years.

  It was McNab who had brought Monk on to the case. Was he responsible for Blount’s escape, maybe even his death, and was covering himself? That was the one thing Monk wanted to know. McNab was dangerous. Monk had seen the look in his eyes in the odd, unguarded moment. It was more than professional rivalry, more than personal dislike. It was hate, deep and poisonous hate.

  The only thing was to face McNab, which he would do the following day. He did not want to, partly because he knew McNab would be aggressive. It was a pattern they had fallen into. But mostly Monk was reluctant because he was always at the disadvantage of not knowing what the origin was of what lay between them. He was perfectly certain that McNab did know, which placed him always a step ahead. McNab acted, and Monk reacted. He hated that.

  And yet if he did not go to him with what he had learned from Worth, he would tacitly still have given McNab the advantage, and shown that he dared not face him. That would be intolerable.

  As it was, when he returned to the Customs House the next day, he had to wait for McNab to finish a matter of business at one of the docks, but it was half an hour Monk used to advantage. He read several notes about Haskell & Sons, and added to his own knowledge the size of their business, and some of its history.

  He was in a small, bare waiting room when McNab strode in. He was clearly annoyed to see Monk there, and the tide of emotion rushed up his face. He stood there for a moment, mastering his feelings before managing to speak with almost indifference.

  “What is it now, Monk?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You can’t give us the case back, simply because it’s messy! Or have you come as a courtesy, to tell us that you know what happened? Who killed Blount, then?”

  Monk concealed his surprise at McNab’s forthrightness, if that was what it was. He did not rise to his feet, and McNab sat down in the chair opposite him, hitching his trousers at the knees to be more comfortable. His eyes did not move from Monk’s face.

  Monk completely changed his mind as to what he would say.

  “Probably not Haskell himself,” he replied. “But very likely someone in his employ.” He was grateful to see a momentary look of surprise on McNab’s face, albeit masked almost immediately.

  “You could be right,” McNab conceded. “We’ve never caught him in anything provable, and he has friends.” He allowed his meaning to hang heavy in the air.

  “Patrons, perhaps,” Monk corrected him. “Allies certainly, and employees. Different from friends.”

  “Oh, loyalty bought and paid for is the most reliable of all,” McNab agreed. He held out his hand, closed into a fist. “You know who has the reins.”

  “Haskell?” Monk asked
.

  McNab raised his eyebrows. “Your case, Monk. Blount was shot, murdered. No way was that suicide, and you’d have to prove it was an accident. Who shoots a man in the back by accident, eh?” He kept his expression serious, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

  “Someone who wants him silenced,” Monk replied. “Possibly needs it, for his own safety.”

  “Possibly,” McNab nodded.

  “So how close were you to getting Haskell?” Monk asked.

  “For killing Blount?” McNab’s voice rose in amazement. “Not at all. Like I said, it’s your case, Commander!”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t trespass into my case, Mr. McNab,” Monk said sarcastically. “I meant for smuggling, or forged documents. That is what you’re after him for, isn’t it?”

  McNab weighed his reply for a few moments in silence.

  Monk realized that McNab did not know what Worth had told him yesterday evening. But the irony went both ways; Monk would not get Worth into trouble by repeating it. He looked at McNab and waited patiently.

  “A bit further off now that Blount’s dead,” McNab answered at last. “Unless, of course, you can pin this on to one of Haskell’s men, and they’ll talk…which isn’t likely.” He smiled very slightly, leaving it in the air as to whether he meant Monk’s success in catching whoever killed Blount, or the man being willing to testify. He drew in his breath and met Monk’s eyes. “I think such a man would give you a good chase, Monk. He’d be caught between Haskell killing him, or you torturing him slowly, poor devil.”

  Monk stood up, straightening his back. “Pity you let Blount escape, then. Might have been a lot easier to let your man get it out of him. Still, too late for that now.” He smiled back, very slightly. Then, satisfied with the anger in McNab’s face, he went out of the door, closing it behind him, even though McNab had also risen to his feet.

  BEATA YORK THANKED HER maid, and then regarded herself gravely in the glass. She saw a woman in her fifties who had been beautiful in her youth, and had grown more complex and full of character as time had dealt unkindly with her. She had had to search for and find an inner peace to combat the outer turmoil.