Page 22 of Revenge in a Cold River (William Monk 21)

McNab looked slightly surprised. “Really?”

“Anyway,” Monk went on, “you dig mines, you don’t blow them up. You’re thinking of quarries.”

McNab was not in the least perturbed. “Ah,” he said, sitting back in his chair, easing his shoulders, “and explosives are also used in salvage. Sometimes. I suppose that’s what Clive employed him for. Anyway, you could go and see him. He might be able to tell you something about Owen.”

“Thank you,” Monk said as he stood up. “Perhaps I’ll be able to get him back for you.”

“Perhaps,” McNab agreed, his smile not fading at all.

—

MONK WENT THAT EVENING to see Aaron Clive at his home in Mayfair, a magnificent house on a corner site just off Berkeley Square. He presented himself early, before the dinner hour, and asked to speak to Mr. Clive about the unfortunate episode the day before. He would ask for his assistance, as well as, of course, expressing his thanks.

He was obliged to wait half an hour, but did so in a very agreeable morning room. The fire had clearly been alight most of the day and it was thoroughly warm. He was even offered a choice of drink, which he would have liked to have accepted, but he was on duty, and it would be inadvisable, in spite of the informality of the hour. He spent the time studying the books on the shelves beside the polished marble fireplace, and the ornaments on the mantel and in the alcoves. The books were the eclectic variety he would have expected, but several of the ornaments were of native origin: carvings of bears and some kind of dog. These disturbed him not only in their beauty, but in wakening thoughts of brighter sunlight, heat in the air, and great distances he could not place. Imagination or memory?

The butler came in after a discreet knock on the door and invited Monk to follow him to Clive’s study.

Clive was standing in front of a large bookcase filled with more books, many leather-bound, and placed according to subject rather than size. That indicated immediately to Monk that they were there for use, not ornament. Clive loved them, and did not care what others thought. Monk warmed to the man straightaway. Pretense was a cold, unlikable thing; there was a certain honesty in this. Here the ornaments were a nugget of gold, and more small carvings of animals in turquoise, malachite, and rock crystal.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Commander Monk,” Clive said, stepping forward and offering his hand.

Monk took it briefly. It was a light, strong shake.

“I appreciate you seeing me without notice,” he replied. “The last couple of days have been a bit…unfortunate.”

Clive smiled widely. “A bit,” he agreed, inviting Monk to sit down. “I hope you took no harm from your dip in the river. It must have been appallingly cold.”

“To the bone,” Monk said with feeling. “But I don’t think I’ve come to any harm. Unlike poor Pettifer.”

“Pettifer?” Clive’s eyes widened for a moment. “The name of the man who drowned? Very sad. Many people panic in water…or with fire. It is the most dangerous aspect of many disasters. But natural, I suppose. How ironic, to engineer a brilliant escape from prison, only to drown more or less by your own hand.”

“That’s what I thought,” Monk admitted wryly. “But contrary to how we read the appearances, Pettifer was the customs man.”

Clive groaned. “How damned awful. I’m so sorry. So the man who swam all the way across to the schooner was the escapee?”

“Yes. His name was Silas Owen. He was an explosives expert that Customs had caught in a serious plot. I don’t know the details.”

Clive looked surprised. “Owen? What was he doing here? I haven’t used him for…oh…a year or more. It was just one salvage job, down on the Estuary. Explosives were the only way we could burst open the hold of a sunken ship. Needed an expert for it. Very dangerous thing to do, blow up half a ship underwater. He was good…very good indeed. But how can I help you?” He indicated the decanter of sherry on the bookshelf and a row of cut-crystal glasses. “I have brandy, if you prefer?”

“No, thank you.”

“Come on, man! It’s a filthy evening out and you’ve no doubt had a long day. I know I have.”

Monk convinced himself refusal would be ungracious, and accepted.

Clive poured two glasses of sherry and passed one over.

Monk sipped it. It was the smoothest he could ever recall. Taste was an odd thing. It brought back memories few other things could evoke. Combined with the rich aroma of the heavy wine, it was as if he were momentarily back in time, but he had no idea where.

“You might remember something about Owen that would help,” he said in reply to Clive’s original question. “For example, do you know who owns the schooner that was moored opposite? How long was it there? Is it possible it was there by arrangement? You’ve already told me Owen was expert in his field

. Did he usually work aboveboard, or was he always available for other things? Did he ever mention connections he might have? May I have your permission to speak to any of your men who worked with him?”

Clive smiled, amusement lighting his face and softening the lines of it.

“Where do you wish me to start? I doubt it was anything but chance as far as the schooner was concerned. It’s called the Summer Wind, and it belongs to a bit of an adventurer named Fin Gillander. I’ve known of him for some years. I doubt he arranged to pick up an escaped prisoner, unless he believed him innocent. And knowing what I do of Owen, and of English law, that is highly unlikely.”

“For money?” Monk questioned.

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