Revenge in a Cold River (16 page)

“What do they need a chemist, an explosives expert, a forger, and a safecracker for?” Monk asked. “Or don't you know?”

“I have some ideas,” McNab said slowly, his eyes never leaving Monk's. “But we need to know what they're after. And they have to replace Blount with somebody of equal skill. That would be where we start.” He smiled. “Unless Blount had already done the work, and they killed him because they didn't need him anymore?”

“Then we should keep an eye open for any bodies that could be one of the others,” Monk added. “How did Pettifer know that Owen was going upriver, instead of down to the Isle of Dogs, and the sea?”

McNab froze.

Monk tried very hard to keep the emotion out of his face. This might be his chance to learn more about Pettifer, and possibly about the plot too big for McNab to deal with without Monk's men. McNab would undoubtedly cooperate until the capture was sure, then turn on Monk at the last moment and, if he could, make a fool of him. It was all in the timing.

McNab relaxed, letting his breath out in a sigh. “Pity we can't ask him,” he said with an edge to his voice that was unmistakable in its implication.

“Perhaps he spoke to someone?” Monk said as if he believed it likely. He needed to know more about all of it, but especially about Pettifer.

McNab sat absolutely motionless for several seconds. Then a slow satisfaction seeped through him and he met Monk's eyes with a candor unusual for him.

“Skelmer's Wharf is pretty near Aaron Clive's big warehouses, isn't it.” It was not a question, rather a reminder, something for Monk to take hold of. “Big importer and exporter. Lot of very valuable stuff would pass through his hands. Some of it small enough to be stolen relatively easily, wouldn't you say?”

It would be ridiculous to deny it.

“Yes…” Monk agreed guardedly.

“And there was the schooner lying inshore on the south bank,” McNab went on, still looking at Monk. “Seagoing, do you think?”

“No doubt at all,” Monk conceded.

“And Owen swam for it.” McNab was enjoying himself now. “And the captain helped him aboard. Told you that he took Owen downriver and put him ashore. Did you believe that?”

Monk hesitated. Either answer tripped him up. If he believed Gillander, then he sounded naïve. If he did not, then he should have questioned him further. Honesty was the only thing that would not catch him later.

“I believed Gillander at the time,” he admitted.

McNab pursed his lips, but it was a pretense at regret. His eyes were shining. “Pity. Too late now. The bird has flown. Maybe you should learn a little more about this Aaron Clive, and his business? I can give you copies of what we have about him. Very rich man…indeed.” His smile widened. “Seems he made a king's ransom of money in the goldfields in California. Decided to come and taste the good life in London. He's American. Don't know much about him before a couple of years ago.” He sat back a little in his chair. “If you find anything interesting, Customs would regard it as a nice piece of cooperation if you would let us know.” His eyes met Monk's and they gleamed with satisfaction. It was not an expression that Monk enjoyed.

“Naturally,” he agreed. “If you'll send us copies of the most recent cargo manifests of Clive's business, that would be a nice piece of cooperation, too.” He stood up. “Good day, Mr. McNab.”

“Good day, Commander Monk. So glad you came.”

M
ONK FOUND
C
LIVE IN
his offices on the riverbank, just short of the place where Owen had escaped, and Pettifer had died. It was a beautiful room, more like a gentleman's study than a place of business. The furniture was heavy, polished teak and cherrywood, the chairs covered with leather. The pictures were unobtrusive landscapes, beautifully framed.

“Good morning, Commander,” Clive said courteously. He was a man of reserved charm. The warmth was easy, but never did he seem to court favor. Had he been English, Monk would have taken him for an aristocrat of considerable power, the sort of old blood that comes with the centuries of privilege, and obligation, and almost certainly thousands of acres of land somewhere in the Home Counties. It said much for Clive that within one generation of land with gold in it he could assume that power with such grace.

“Good morning, Mr. Clive,” Monk replied with equal assurance, although it was far from what he felt. “I am sorry to trouble you again, but the matter is a slightly different one this time. I have been conferring with Mr. McNab, of the Customs service. If you recall, it was one of his men who drowned….”

Clive indicated one of the leather-padded seats by the fire for Monk to sit, and he took the other.

“I remember,” he said with interest. “Does this appear to be a smuggling matter? I thought the man who escaped was an explosives expert? Owen?”

Monk chose his words carefully, watching Clive's reaction. “There have been four escapes by prisoners in the last half year or so. The first I knew about was the forger I mentioned to you before—Blount. He had been forging ships' documents when he was caught. Which is why Customs wanted to question him further about a whole lot of things.”

“I'm as certain as one can be that none of my cargoes could have been affected,” Clive said.

“No, sir. It's not just his past crimes that concern me. It is his death. That's why McNab sent for me,” Monk replied.

Clive froze, but it was for so short a time that it could have been an illusion created by the quiet room, the light on the windows, the silence.

“Of course…McNab,” Clive responded. “I remember now you mentioned a bullet wound, so his man's death is under investigation by the River Police?”

“Yes.”

Clive sat still for several moments, clearly turning it over in his mind.

Monk studied him. Since he was waiting for his reply, he could do so without it being in any way unusual. Clive was quite a big man, well built, and yet at the same time elegant. The sense of power in him was not physical but sprang from his deep-seated confidence in himself. Monk wondered if he had ever been truly afraid. If he had, it had left no mark on him.

“A warning to someone?” Clive suggested at last. “ ‘This is what happens to those who betray me'?”

Monk was surprised. Clive looked so much the gentleman, so unacquainted with any kind of violence or brutality. And yet of course he must be. No man would have survived and profited superbly from the gold rush without skill, luck, courage, and a certain steel in his soul.

As if reading his thoughts, Clive smiled. It lit his face, making him seem much younger, as if a layer of responsibility had slipped off his shoulders.

“If you knew the goldfields of '49, you wouldn't imagine me so very civilized, Commander. Our veneer of sophistication was thinner than a coat of varnish, I assure you. San Francisco grew almost overnight.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I apologize.”

“Do you think Blount was killed for having betrayed his employees?” Clive asked.

“Possibly,” Monk conceded. “But to his rivals, not to the police, or the Customs.”

A flash of humor lit Clive's eyes, quick and vivid. “Are you sure? Even if you trust McNab himself, do you equally trust all his men? Or for that matter, all your own men?”

Monk looked straight at Clive and met his gaze boldly. “Yes, I trust all my men. Would you put your life or your career in the hands of men you didn't trust?”

Clive dropped all the pretense of courtesy. “I might use men I didn't trust,” he answered. “But I'd make damned sure they couldn't use me.”

“Exactly.” Monk smiled back at him, quite genuinely. He respected Clive, and could even like him. “I don't know who shot Blount, or who drowned him. I think the drowning could have been an accident….”

“And the shooting?” Clive was openly amused now, even if there was a bitter edge to it.

“I think that might have been to make it a police matter, and take it out of McNab's hands.”

“Because you are better equipped to solve it? Or simply for Customs to be rid of it themselves?” Clive asked. “Or to distract you?”

“Very possibly the last,” Monk answered. “Or again, to draw me in. There have been two more escapes of interest in the last half year: Seager, who is a first-class safecracker, and Applewood, who is a chemist, working on gases, particularly those that blind or suffocate.” He waited a moment, watching Clive's sudden awareness of what more that might involve, the meaning far beyond the words.

“All four escapees worked together before,” Monk went on quietly. “On a major gold robbery. There might be something else, but they specialize in highly valuable cargo, heavy but not large. We are afraid that something in your warehouse might be a possible target, once they find someone to replace Blount.”

Clive weighed this for quite some time before he answered.

“A specific set of skills,” he said finally. “Forgery is easy to understand. All shipping needs papers. A gas to disable is easy, too. Safecracker, less certain of. I don't keep any gold or silver bullion, or gems. No works of art at the moment.”

“Papers of ownership, purchase, authentication?” Monk asked.

Clive bit his lip. “Yes…most thieves don't bother with such things, but of course if they're taking stolen goods into Europe to sell to collectors, they'd have a much wider choice, and better price, if they don't appear to be stolen. Why the explosives?”

“Take down a wall,” Monk replied. “Doesn't have to be a big explosion. With an expert of Owen's skill, it could be very carefully controlled. Just a possibility, Mr. Clive. A forewarning, if you like?”

“And who could be behind this?” Clive asked with sudden intensity. “Do you know that? Or is it part of the ‘possibilities' we have yet to learn?”

Monk could see a tension in him now, as if his mind were racing to learn which threads he could disentangle.

“It's just a possibility,” Monk replied. “When we find them, I will let you know, sir.”

M
ONK ARRIVED HOME AT
Paradise Place well after dark, and barely noticed the carriage drawn up to the curb fifty feet or so behind him. He paid the cabdriver and went to the front door, glad to be out of the cold.

Hester met him in the hall. He went straight to her, even with his coat still on, and took her in his arms. She yielded and kissed him gently.

He was still standing in the hallway when there was a sharp knock on the front door. Hester pulled away from him and turned to answer it, but he caught hold of her wrist.

“I'll go. Whoever it is, I don't want to see them. I'm tired and hungry and looking forward to a long evening at home.”

She gave him a brief smile and let him go to the door.

He opened it and for a moment was totally confused. A woman stood alone on the step, outlined against the lamps of her own carriage, which was now drawn up at the curb behind her. In the light from the hallway he could see her face. It was turbulent, filled with conflicting emotions, and by anybody's standards, disturbingly beautiful. He had no idea who she was, or why she should be here. Presumably she was lost, and looking for someone else.

She saw his confusion and gave a tiny, bleak smile.

“I am Miriam Clive,” she said. “I'm sorry to call so late, and without warning or permission, but I believe my errand is urgent, and certainly it is private…at least from my own family. I need to speak with you, Commander Monk.” She made no movement forward, waiting to be invited in. The wind gusted behind her and caught at the heavy cloak she wore, scattering rain from its fur-trimmed hood onto her shoulder.

There was no civilized alternative open to him. He stepped back and invited her inside. As she moved past him he closed the door, then offered to take her wet cloak before he took off his own coat and hung it up also.

“Thank you,” she said gravely.

He led her into the parlor, then excused himself to explain to Hester that dinner would have to be delayed. He asked her to make some tea and bring it to the parlor. What else did one offer a lady at this hour, and one who had come alone, and uninvited? How had she even known where to find him? And why had she not gone to the Wapping Police Station?

When he went into the parlor she was not sitting as he had expected, but standing near the fire. Her gown was plain, dark green. It had no ornament to it and her amazing face needed none. She did not ask if she were disturbing his dinner. She had been waiting out in the street in her carriage, so she knew he had only just returned.

She stared directly at him, as a man might have done.

“You came to speak with my husband this morning, Mr. Monk. He told me much of what you have said, and what he had replied to you.” She stood very still, her shoulders stiff, her chin lifted a little, even though she was already of more than average height. “What he said to you was perfectly true, but containing such omissions as to make it in effect false.”

Monk was surprised. He had thought Clive candid, as far as his information went. “What did he omit?” he asked her.

“Did you ask him if he had enemies, specific ones who might wish him harm?” she countered.

“Indirectly.” He tried to recall exactly what he had said. “He told me he had no idea who could be behind any attack such as I warned him may be possible, nor indeed did he know of any merchandise he carried that could be a specific target. Do you think differently, Mrs. Clive?”

“Of the merchandise, I have no idea.” She dismissed it with the lightness of her tone. “I know nothing of the business, except occasionally the different countries involved, if we entertain representatives from them. Some have been most interesting, especially those from the Far East. Their culture is different from our own. But I think it far more likely that an attack, if it is indeed aimed at my husband, would be personal, and the actual robbery only a means to an end.” She still looked away from him as she spoke, and her voice was filled with emotion, as if she dared not let him see it so naked in her.

“The end being to injure him?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” she agreed. “You cannot amass the wealth or the eminence he has without making enemies. I imagine that you are very well aware of that yourself, Mr. Monk?” Now she looked at him. “You are a man of adventure, and decision. You will have succeeded where others have failed.” Her eyes were disturbingly frank as she regarded him from a very slight distance, taking in not only his face but his build, his manner, the confidence that masked his weariness and all the doubts inside him. It was as if she already knew him thoroughly, even though they had never met before.

“If you know who the enemies might be, Mrs. Clive, please tell me. As well, you might let me know why you believe that your husband did not tell me all this himself.”

She gave a very tiny smile that softened her face completely. She had moved a little and the lamplight caught the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. They did not spoil her beauty, but added passion and vulnerability to it. “I am not entirely sure myself,” she admitted. “But I can tell you the facts that I know. The reasons I can only guess, and perhaps this is not the time for opinions I cannot prove.”

He wanted to help her, but she was not giving him enough to work with.

“Then the facts, Mrs. Clive. Who is such an enemy that they would go to these lengths merely to settle a score?” He could not help thinking of McNab as he spoke. How far would McNab go to destroy Monk? As far as betraying a customs operation, and creating a situation where it was likely Monk or his man, or both, would be killed? That was what he believed.

The difference was that Aaron Clive would have his full memory, and he would know not only the enemy, but his reasons.

“Mrs. Clive?” he prompted.

She nodded, as if accepting some inevitable challenge long expected.

“I married Aaron nearly twenty years ago, in San Francisco.” She spoke very quietly, as though there were someone else just beyond the door who must not hear her. “Before that I was married to Piers Astley. He was…” She took a deep breath. She could not hide that this was going to be deeply painful to her, and in her imagination she could feel it already. She began again. “He was brave as well, but quieter than Aaron, less…dashing.” There was apology in her voice. “He was someone men were loyal to, because he was loyal to them. His word was unbreakable, but you knew that only after some time, after testing.” She gritted her teeth, struggling to keep what composure she had.

Monk waited. He wished he could comfort her, but there was nothing he could do. To speak, still more to touch her, would be intrusive beyond excuse.

Hester brought in tea for them both and left it with no more than a smile, merely nodding to Miriam as she murmured her thanks.

Monk waited again.

“There were darker sides to him,” Miriam said at last, as if she had made a difficult decision, an irreversible one. “Things I did not know until long after we were married. I believe the Greeks had a word for it. Hubris. It is a kind of arrogance, a sense that you are entitled to the best you can take for yourself.” Now that she had broken the surface of resistance she spoke freely, without having to search for the words. She was drawing on elements she was long familiar with and her words came quickly. Still she did not look at Monk but into something beyond him, in the past.

“He could be charming, very funny at times. I remember laughing so easily, till I had tears on my face. He loved life, adventure, the beauty of the world. All of it, to be relished almost as a duty. He stared up at the great redwood trees and adored them. They were centuries old, you know? Giants with their heads among the stars, he used to say.” Her voice was thick with emotion, on the edge of tears.

“Yes,” he agreed. He did know that. “They make us seem like tiny earthbound creatures.”

“He revered them,” she said. “Oddly enough, I'm not sure he ever revered any people. He was a truly good man…generous of soul, sweet of nature, like the wind off the sea.” She gave a little shiver, and blinked away tears. “But that was a long time ago. It took me until very recently to acknowledge that the dark side of…my husband…was real. I won't speak of it. I am ashamed, and I have no wish or need to tell you the details…the realities. It is enough for you to know that he got into a very serious fight over a gold claim and I was told that he was dead….”

Now he could see the total grief in her face, just for an instant. It was devastating, and so complete that he was afraid for her. Then she mastered it, and assumed an air of calm.

“My dream of what could have been, what at last I believed, was also dead. It was Aaron who came to my assistance in those dark days, and protected me from those who wished me ill. After my first husband was officially declared deceased, and a decent time had passed by, Aaron asked me to marry him, and I accepted.”

Monk was waiting for her to get to the point, and he did not want to assume anything yet. What she had said was far from clear.

“Go on,” he invited her.

She looked as if her last hope of rescue had vanished. This time she lowered her eyes. Clearly she could not bear to look at him while she said it. “I never saw Piers Astley's body,” she whispered. “If he is alive, his enmity of Aaron would be awful. He was not a man who forgave.”

Now he understood both her grief and her fear, perhaps even a sense of guilt, as if her beauty were her own fault.

“You think he would look for vengeance against your present husband?” he concluded. “How is he at fault? As far as he was concerned, and everyone else, you were a widow. Why should you not marry again?”

“Some people are very possessive, Commander Monk. Piers would consider that I belonged to him, all my life, whether he were dead or not.”

“Are you afraid for yourself?” he asked. Without thinking, he moved a step closer to her.

Suddenly she seemed exhausted. She answered as if it hardly mattered to her. “Not at all. What use am I to him if I am damaged? You do not spoil your own property, Mr. Monk. If someone steals it from you, you steal it back. Perhaps you have to destroy the thief to do so, but not intentionally. Maybe you do it simply to demonstrate to others that you punish those who trespass in such a way. Then you can be sure it won't happen again.”

Monk poured the tea and gave her the first cup. She accepted it and seemed grateful, sipping it straightaway, but still she did not sit down. He took the other cup himself.

“Describe Piers Astley for me, Mrs. Clive. You said he was handsome, in a quiet way, but you did not say if he is fair or dark, or anything of his voice or mannerisms, his way of moving, speaking, things that might not have changed over twenty years. And if he is responsible for these crimes and plans more, something of his mind, his way of thinking.” She stared at him, considering. “Has he any deep loves, or fears?” he went on. “If I am to find him, I need to know all I can, especially of the things that don't change. One can lose hair, or grow a beard. Gain a limp, acquire a new habit. But a love of nature, perhaps of dogs, a taste for chocolate, a fit of sneezing when near a cat, a phobia about spiders—those stay the same.”

“I see.” She was clearly weighing what he had said and searching her mind for answers.

He waited, not wanting to hurry her, and with some sense of guilt he saw her eyes fill with tears. She did not seem to be aware of them herself, as if they came from some well within her. Guilt disturbed him for wakening a grief so profound, but if this Piers Astley who had hurt her so much was now planning to destroy her present happiness by robbing Aaron Clive, or otherwise ruining him, Monk had to know everything about him that he could.

“He was English,” she said at last. “Don't look for an American. He never lost his accent. He came from a good family, though not aristocratic. They lived in the country, in the north, near the Great Dales; he loved the big, sweeping open lands where the hills seem to touch the sky. You can walk for miles and never see a soul. And of course the city of York, close by, was completely different, teeming with people, narrow, winding streets, and the old walls are still standing. Did you know that York was a city under the Romans, called Eboracum, and is still the sacred place in England for the Church?”