Revenge in a Cold River Read online

  “What did I do to Nairn?” he asked again. “And what was it to McNab?”

  “Nairn was his half brother,” Runcorn answered quietly. “Same mother. Grew up together. McNab went the right way, Nairn the wrong.”

  “And he holds me responsible?” Monk said incredulously. “Did Nairn kill the woman, too? Was that what it was about?”

  “It was never proved, but the jury took it that way.”

  “Did I claim that he did?” Monk insisted.

  “No. You didn’t say one way or the other. Nairn denied it, and McNab believed him. He begged you to ask for mercy for Nairn. You wouldn’t.”

  “What happened?” Monk had to ask, although from the misery in Runcorn’s face, he already knew the answer.

  “They hanged him,” Runcorn said. “After the usual three Sundays. McNab did everything he could, begged and pleaded everywhere, but to no effect.”

  “So I wasn’t the only one who didn’t—”

  “You were the officer on the case.” Runcorn cut across him. “The judge might have listened to you, and given him life in prison instead. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

  “Would that have been better?” Monk thought he might have preferred to be hanged than spend the rest of his life in one of the vast, wretched prisons around England. It was a slow death, inch by inch.

  Runcorn stared at Monk, deliberately meeting his eye.

  “McNab always believed that in time he would have been proved innocent. Not much point in an appeal if you’re dead. Added to which, if they’ve hanged someone, Her Majesty’s judiciary are a lot less willing to consider that they might have made a mistake.”

  There was no argument to that. Monk sat in aching silence.

  “He wasn’t innocent,” Runcorn said at last. “There were other charges we couldn’t bring against him, but we knew he was guilty. He had a bad reputation with women. Beaten a few, and got away with it. McNab didn’t know, and didn’t want to. Couldn’t use any of it in the trial, but we knew.”

  “I knew?” Monk grasped at the straw.

  “Of course.”

  Monk had to test the last possibility. If he left it, it would haunt him.

  “Did I judge him on the past cases? I mean…could I have tilted the evidence a bit, to make sure he paid this time?” He said it with loathing. It was an arrogant, despicable thing to do. But could the man he had been have excused it to himself? He was not stupid—he had never been that—but he was arrogant enough, convinced of his own rightness.

  “No,” Runcorn said with a twisted smile. “You were important, but not enough for a jury to have taken your word without proof. And if you’d been stupid enough to try, the judge at least would have slapped you down. In fact, the defense lawyer would have made mincemeat of you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Runcorn nodded slightly. “Certain. Nairn was convicted on the evidence.”

  “But I could have asked for mercy? Why? He killed the woman and then the other man. What could I have said on his behalf?”

  “It could have been the other man who killed the woman, and Nairn killed him for it,” Runcorn said.

  “But it wasn’t,” Monk insisted.

  “Probably not.”

  “Probably!” Monk’s voice rose sharply. “Hell! You can’t hang a man on a ‘probably’!”

  “The jury believed you on the evidence. Actually so did I.”

  “Is there any possibility I was wrong?”

  Runcorn sat absolutely still. “Possibility, I suppose so. Reasonable doubt, no, not a reasonable one.”

  “But McNab thought so!”

  “Only because he didn’t know about the other cases.”

  “Neither did the jury,” Monk pointed out. “Why did the jury convict?”

  “Possibly because they believed you and they didn’t believe him. He was an arrogant son of a bitch!”

  “So was I, by all accounts!”

  Runcorn smiled, a flash of humor in his eyes. “Indeed. But you were the law.” He let it hang in the air with all its responsibility, its power for good or evil. Then he added, “But you were right, he was guilty. McNab just didn’t want to believe it. And I daresay he didn’t want to admit to himself that he hadn’t liked the boy all that much, either. But it’s blood, I suppose. And remembering how things had been when they were children. People always do that, when it’s too late: remember the child as they used to be.”

  Monk considered that before saying anything more. He believed Runcorn, but he had absolutely no recollection of any part of it. But it did sound like the man that all the evidence showed he had been. What had he felt? Anything? Had it all been judgment, and a degree of self-righteousness, exactness of the law? Or had he known far more than the main facts that Runcorn had spoken of? Were there other circumstances, details? Who had the girl been, other than a name? Had he known something about her? Parents, friends, even a child of her own? And the dead young man?

  “Who was the girl?” he asked. “Was she a prostitute?”

  “Just a girl with no home,” Runcorn replied. “Mother married again and threw her out. She probably did whatever she could to survive.” His voice was edged with pity as he said it, and Monk felt the same emotion engulf him.

  Then he was drawn back into the present. What did McNab want now? It was years too late for Nairn. Damaging Monk would not clear his name, if that mattered anyway. Was it simply revenge? Was that why Orme had died?

  Or had McNab intended it to be Monk himself? Maybe all he had deliberately brought about was a fiasco, instead of a simple operation to arrest gun smugglers and retrieve the actual guns.

  Then there was the whole other issue of Piers Astley’s death. That couldn’t have anything to do with McNab. He might be using it, even if Monk couldn’t see why or how. McNab knew Aaron Clive, at the very least, professionally.

  Which raised the question to which he had to find the answer—had he been in San Francisco during the gold rush of ’49, even briefly? Could he have known Piers Astley?

  He was moving in the dark, tripping over things, possibly even going in circles. He could go on doing this until he fell over and could not get up again. He was being what McNab wanted…passive, too afraid to act. The next thing he would know would be when it was already too late.

  He stood up.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, his feelings too deep to find extra and unnecessary words.

  “Where are you going?” Runcorn asked anxiously.

  Monk gave him a bleak smile. “Not to tackle McNab, don’t worry. I’m going to see Fin Gillander. He might know something about the past in San Francisco that will help with Astley’s death.”

  “And he might make it worse,” Runcorn added. “If he’s worked out that you can’t remember. And he could have, if you were in San Francisco.”

  “If he knows the truth already? Then if he’s against me, for whatever reason, he’ll do that anyway.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “For certain? Hester, Oliver Rathbone, and now Hooper.”

  “What is Gillander’s interest in this? Seems quite a coincidence that his boat was moored so conveniently for Silas Owen’s escape.”

  “That’s something I would like to find out. Along with who killed Blount, and why, what happened to Owen, and exactly how much Pettifer knew about any of it. I have to know if this is a master plan to bring off a big robbery, or if it’s all coincidence, and to do with something else entirely…or nothing.”

  “Could that be what McNab wants you to do, make a fool of yourself over nothing?” There was a note of real fear in Runcorn’s voice.

  “Possibly. I’m still not going to let him dictate the action. I’m going to take a chance on Gillander.”

  “Be careful!” Runcorn warned.

  “I will.” Monk turned at the door. “Thank you.”

  —

  MONK STAYED ON THE south side of the river and took a hansom all the way up to the bank where Gilland
er’s schooner was moored. If he were somewhere else, Monk would have to wait for him. He had no way of tracking him down. He spent the considerable time of the journey through the wet, jostling streets putting together all the facts he knew for certain regarding the affair, starting with McNab calling for him to take over the inquiry into Blount’s death.

  The shooting did not amount to murder, since Blount was already dead, but what on earth was the purpose of it? And for that matter, was his death by drowning accidental, or was that actually the real murder? Blount had been a master forger, available for hire. McNab said his men had been questioning him about who had hired him most recently, and achieved nothing by it, except a chance for him to escape. Or to be rescued by possibly whoever had killed him.

  Had Blount been ready to betray his employer? Or had he actually done so, and McNab had declined to tell Monk? That was a possibility.

  And there was the whole episode with Owen and Pettifer. Hooper had found out a little more, but it was mostly to do with Pettifer’s reputation as McNab’s right-hand man. The association seemed to go back several years. Monk had seen Pettifer only when he was in panic and drowning. It was impossible to form any opinion of a man in those circumstances. Hooper said that in his job obviously he had been efficient, decisive, even ruthless, and certainly he had been clever.

  It seemed to be only the most extraordinary mischance that Owen had escaped, and Pettifer drowned. It was the whole case that McNab was pursuing that was Monk’s excuse for finding Gillander now. But the truth about Monk’s past in San Francisco was the real reason, and that was what made him tense as he stood on the shore and hailed the Summer Wind, moored a few yards out where the river was deep enough.

  He had to call three times before Gillander showed up on deck. His face lit with a smile as soon as he recognized Monk. He came down the steps and loosed the rowing boat immediately. In a dozen long, easy strokes at the oar, he was up against the steps.

  “Want to come aboard?” he asked cheerfully. “Hot cup of tea, strong enough to bend the spoon? Sugar? Rum?”

  Monk accepted and climbed down to take his place in the stern. He had been planning all during the ride in the hansom what he was going to say, and now the words sounded artificial in his mind. He could not afford that. He waited until they were on board, the rowing boat lashed tight and both of them in the cabin with the hatch barely open. Gillander stood in the tiny galley with the kettle boiling and made strong tea with sugar and rum, then brought Monk his mug before sitting down opposite him.

  “Did you sail her all the way from California?” he asked.

  “Yes. Pretty good weather most of the time,” Gillander replied.

  “How many crew?”

  “Three of us,” Gillander told him. “Needs two, but always good to have a man spare, in case you hit a really bad patch, or someone gets hurt.”

  “I imagine it’s never hard to find a man willing to work his passage,” Monk observed. There was a memory just beyond his reach: bright sun, heavy seas, white water curling on the wave tops. And wind, always wind, sometimes hard and heavy, making the canvas of the sails above crack as they came round. It was a sound like no other.

  Where did he remember it from? The North Sea?

  Gillander was looking at him, waiting.

  “You told me you’ve known Aaron Clive since the gold rush days. Did you go looking for gold, too?” Monk asked.

  “Me? Can you see me up to my knees in the river, shaking a pan around to see what landed up in it?” Gillander laughed. “I prefer the sea, most of the time. It was a good chance for adventure, see new places, get out of the Mediterranean, where I’d made a few friends, and a few enemies. I thought if I were lucky I’d own my own ship one day. And I did.” He was watching Monk steadily. “Why? What does it have to do with a plan to rob Clive?” He took a long swig of his tea and rum. “Anyone would be a fool to try! A few tried it. Nobody did twice.”

  Was that a warning?

  “Are they in jail?” Monk asked. “Or dead?”

  Gillander let out his breath slowly. “Mostly dead,” he replied. “They were hard times…but you know that. It was twenty years ago, but you can’t have forgotten.”

  Monk froze. The seconds ticked by. He had to say something. “A lot of water under the bridge since then.”

  Gillander smiled. “But I like secrets,” he said with some amusement. “I didn’t think so at the time, but they draw me in. Like war, for some men, or exploring Africa, looking for the source of the White Nile. But Africa holds no love for me. Nor would I want to go looking for the North Pole. I like the contest with people…and I suppose the sea.” He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.

  They looked at each other for several seconds. Monk knew that if he were not to lose the chance, this was the moment he must be honest. Ignored now, it would be compromised forever.

  “So do I,” he agreed. “London is its own jungle.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could feel his heart pounding. “Did you know me there…in San Francisco?”

  Gillander’s gaze was completely steady. There was not a flicker in his hazel eyes. “A little. Enough to know your mettle, sail with you now and then, more often in competition for a cargo. You haven’t changed all that much. Not until you look carefully.”

  So that was it, beyond question now. He had been there.

  “And then?” He left it hanging in the air. It was as if he had been struck by a wave, lifted right up out of the water, and then slammed back again, bruised and shocked, the breath knocked out of his lungs, but still alive.

  “Then?” Gillander smiled. “Then I can see that you are still dangerous, but in quite a different way. You aren’t hunting anymore, not the way you used to.”

  It was time to come to the point. “I’m hunting whoever is planning to rob Aaron Clive. I don’t want it to happen on my piece of river.”

  Gillander laughed outright, a sound of pure pleasure. “Perhaps you haven’t changed all that much! Don’t give a damn if it happens somewhere else, eh?”

  Monk evaded that question. “Do you know anything about it? Do you work for Clive, or against him?”

  Gillander hesitated. Several expressions flickered across his face: deep emotion, unreadable, and then self-mockery. “Both,” he said finally. “I work mostly for Mrs. Clive.”

  Monk grasped at an idea, part of a memory: Gillander staring at Miriam, a youth seeing the most beautiful woman in his life. “Does he know that?”

  Gillander winced and color burned up his face in spite of himself. “You were always quick.”

  Monk was seeing flashes, or inventing them, grasping for signs and clues as he went. “Was I?” he said thoughtfully. “I rather thought I had improved.”

  “Oh, yes.” Gillander smiled again, it was an expression of peculiar charm. “I wouldn’t have trusted you half as far as I could have thrown you. But then I wouldn’t have trusted myself, either.”

  Monk looked at Gillander carefully, at his handsome face, his easy manner. Had Monk really been like that, twenty years ago, from when he could remember nothing? He doubted he had ever had Gillander’s charm. It seemed far more than skin deep. There was wit in it, self-mockery, and perhaps a genuine emotion.

  Did Monk have to know the man he used to be? He did not want to. And yet it would always be there in the shadows behind him.

  “Did Clive dislike me?” he asked impulsively. He offered no explanation as to why he did not know for himself.

  Gillander looked puzzled. “I’m not sure he liked or disliked anyone, after Zachary died. He changed then. It wasn’t obvious at first, but some light inside him went out.” He seemed to be searching for words. “He trusted Astley, but he was never close to him in the same way. Honestly, I didn’t see any reason to think he cared about you, one way or the other. What does it matter now?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t.” Monk wished to change the subject. He was not yet desperate enough to ask any more. He
liked Gillander, but he would be a fool to trust him with any more than he had to. “Tell me again exactly what Owen said to you when you pulled him out of the water. Anything he let slip could help us piece together who is behind all this.”

  “First off, he said his name was Pettifer, and that he was a customs officer,” Gillander said with a rueful smile.

  Monk nodded, but allowed the skepticism to show in his face. “And what reason did he give for swimming across the river to you, rather than helping us capture the fugitive and take him in? I assume you did ask him?”

  “Of course I asked him!” Gillander said a trifle tartly. “He never looked back even to see what was happening to you.”

  “And what did he say? It must have been good, if you believed it.”

  “It was good.” Gillander’s voice had an edge of irritation. “He said Owen was a lot bigger than he was, and stronger, and during questioning he, Pettifer, had realized that Owen had killed Blount, murdered him in cold blood, drowning him in the river, because he had betrayed the master plan they had, but he didn’t say what the plan was. Owen turned on him, and at the point you intercepted them, Owen was about to kill Pettifer as well. Considering the relative size of them, that was very believable.”

  Monk pictured it, and realized that it made sense, if you believed that Owen was actually Pettifer. He was clearly a strong swimmer, but in any physical struggle between them, he would have lost to the bigger man, who was not only half his weight again, but also could have had at least six inches’ advantage of reach.

  “Did he say where ‘Owen’ was supposed to have killed Blount?” he asked. “Or anything about this master plan he had?”

  “He said he killed Blount down Deptford way, opposite the Isle of Dogs.”

  “Drowned him?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Did he say who shot him?”

  Gillander looked surprised. “Shot him? He was drowned…wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. And then after he was dead, someone shot him in the back.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “I’m beginning to think it was to make it look like a crime, rather than possibly an accident, in order to bring me into the case,” Monk replied. “But very interesting that Owen should not know that.”