Page 24 of Revenge in a Cold River (William Monk 21)

“No, I haven’t,” McNab

answered with a touch of irritation in his voice. “You were the ones who lost Owen. If you hadn’t interfered we’d have him safely in prison now. I wondered who tipped you off that he was going that way? We should have a bit closer look at them.” He looked intently at Laker. “I don’t suppose you’d know that, would you? Been poking around a bit, I hear.”

“We never had him, sir.” Laker made the emphasis very slightly harder than necessary. “If your man hadn’t attacked him, and so both ended up in the water, I daresay he wouldn’t have drowned, letting Owen get away. I can’t imagine that’s what he meant to do. Just a bad accident. Or perhaps he meant to chuck Owen in, but didn’t know the man could swim like a fish.”

Monk rose to his feet, sending a pile of papers onto the floor. He went to the door and opened it sharply.

McNab was standing, pale-faced, staring at Laker, who appeared to be enjoying himself. But that was Laker, gracefully insolent. One day he wouldn’t get away with it.

“Haven’t got much control of your men, have you?” McNab said angrily, walking round Monk and going into his office. He sat down without being invited.

Monk went in behind him and closed the door. He ignored the question, partly because McNab was right. Monk had earned both fear and respect, but not yet obedience, at least not from Laker. But they were closer since Orme’s death. Tragedy had created a bond that duty could not. There was an irony to the situation now, since Monk was still certain it was McNab who had betrayed them to the gunrunners, and possibly to the pirates that terrible day.

“Do you know anything?” Monk asked, remaining standing himself.

McNab tilted his chair a little and folded his hands across his stomach. He looked up at Monk. “A little. Pettifer was my right-hand man, you know. Hardworking. Loyal. The other men had a high respect for him. Hard to lose him, especially that way.” His face was unreadable. His words suggested grief, yet there was a hard light in his eye, as when a hunting animal scents its prey. “But I expect you understand that, don’t you? Tell you for nothing, that young man with the fair hair’s going to give you trouble. You’ll never keep him in control the way your man Orme would have. He’ll always be setting himself up against you, trying you, seeing who wins, looking for weakness. If he scents it, he’ll be on to it, like a weasel.” Now he was smiling and there was a bright, cold pleasure in it.

There was an element of truth in his words, enough to hurt. The word McNab had left out was love. In their own silent way, the men had loved Orme, even seen in him something of a father. They would never see Monk like that.

“How thoughtful of you to come all the way from the Pool of London to tell me,” Monk said sarcastically. “If you find a replacement for Pettifer, you’d better teach him to swim!” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. To lash back like that was a sure sign that McNab had hurt him. He saw knowledge of it in McNab’s face.

“I’ll have a few things to teach him,” McNab agreed softly. “But I came up here to tell you that we’re almost sure Blount was headed for the sea, and probably France when he fell into the water. And shot afterward, it seems. I’d hazard a fair guess Owen’s in France by now. Some pretty heavy smuggling going on. Not sure how reliable, but word has it that it could involve gold. Stolen, of course.”

Monk did not reply. What was McNab looking for? Was this why he had come, to tell Monk about the stolen gold? Why? In the hope Monk would go chasing after it, and McNab could take the credit? Over the last few weeks he had changed. He used to be very careful of Monk, as if he were too wary of him, even fearful, to let his hatred show. But since he had realized the extent of Monk’s gaps in his memory he had probed, like a surgeon looking for the bullet in a wound. Except he did not wish to remove it! He wanted to push it farther in, deeper to the bone.

“I was talking with Aaron Clive,” Monk said finally. “He mentioned the gold rush in California, twenty years ago. He said gold made people a little crazy.”

McNab smiled as if filled with sudden, deep joy. “He said that, did he? Well, well. He would know. Made his fortune in the gold rush of ’49, he did. But of course you’ll know all that.” He moved over to the door. “See if you can track down that Gillander fellow with the schooner. He might be able to tell you something. Never know what you’ll uncover…” And with another smile he went out and walked all the way to the outer door into the wind-rattled night without looking to either side of him.

—

THE NEXT MORNING MONK went to the schooner Summer Wind. This time it was moored close in to the south bank and accessible from the shore. It was beautiful, all clean lines, with polished teak decks and immaculate brass work. Everything was lashed in its place, safe, clean, and well tended.

“Permission to come aboard?” Monk called out. He waited a few moments, then called again. A man came up the steps and through the open hatch. Monk introduced himself.

The man gave a casual salute. From the description it had to be Fin Gillander. He was graceful, agile, perhaps an inch or so taller than Monk, and as Aaron Clive had said, remarkably handsome.

“Wondered when you’d come,” he said with a lopsided smile as he offered his hand to Monk. His grip was quick and firm. Then he led the way down the stairs and into the main cabin, small, as is everything on a ship, but clean and all in its place.

“Sorry about lifting your fellow out of the water,” Gillander went on. “He told me he was the police and he had to get downriver and report that the big fellow with the beard had been drowned.”

“So I heard,” Monk replied with a slight grimace. “And who did he say we were? I assume he didn’t mention that we were River Police?”

Gillander shrugged. “Hardly. He said you were rival smugglers who’d killed the big fellow with the beard, and he was lucky to have escaped with his life.”

Monk imagined it for a moment. He could find no fault with the story. It could easily enough have been true.

“Was he hurt?” he asked eventually.

“Said his shoulder was painful and he thought it needed a doctor. I took him down to the next steps along and put him ashore,” Gillander replied.

“And then?”

Gillander smiled. “You checking up on me, Commander Monk?”

“Yes.”

Gillander laughed. There was nothing forced in it. The whole concept amused him. “Fair enough. I suppose I would, in your place. Needed some supplies. Went to the chandler, and got some more candles, linseed oil, and a little turpentine. Can I offer you a tot of whisky? That wind off the water’s as cold as a witch’s heart.”

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