Revenge in a Cold River (15 page)

B
ACK IN THE
W
APPING
Station in the warmth of his office, Monk was still chilled. The hot woodstove could have been an open window.

He searched his mind again to remember anything McNab had said that indicated a previous relationship between them, good or bad. Nothing specific came back to him, except the moment he had seen that flash of knowledge in McNab's eyes, and knew he understood. Everything was about smuggling, arguments over jurisdiction, what information should have been shared, and had not been. Who had said what, and to whom.

But McNab had known him in a past he could not recall. Of course he had. That was inescapable now.

It was a fact that must be faced, because the cost of not doing so could be greater than any unpleasantness now. Yet he must not precipitate the result that he feared, betraying his weakness to McNab by the very act of raising the subject.

He spent the rest of the afternoon going over all he could find on other prison breaks in the past six months, whether involving the river, smuggling, or major thefts with connections either to Blount or to Owen. The results were an unpleasant shock. There were two other major criminals who had gotten away without trace, both possessed of unusual skills. Possibly they were also pieces of the same puzzle at last falling together.

Tomorrow morning, early, he would see McNab.

H
E WENT HOME LATE,
and he did not tell Hester about it. She was tired after a long day at the Portpool Lane Clinic, overwhelmed by victims of the cold weather and life on the streets. He set his own concerns aside, hoping to have an excuse to forget them, above all to avoid discussing with her the fear that ached deep inside him that the man he used to be had somehow made McNab's belief of him justified.

He wanted to hear news of Scuff. He would like to have heard only that he was doing well, learning medicine from Crow, being of use and enjoying it, and that Crow was pleased with him as a protégé. But if he thought it was less than the truth, he would be either worrying at it, or looking for the pain beyond the words.

They ate quietly, then sat beside the fire in the parlor. It was a room warm in every way: the soft colors of their well-used furniture, the familiar pictures on the walls, the few ornaments of more sentimental value than monetary—a hand-stitched motto, a copper vase he had given her years ago, a painting of trees in water.

He looked across at her and saw the weariness in her face. Perhaps she was not beautiful, at least not in the traditional way. There was a strength in her that many men would have found uncomfortable, even challenging. She was in her early forties now, and maturity suited her well. But he imagined that even as a child, she would have been challenging, eager to learn and never accepting less than what she took to be the truth.

He smiled as he remembered some of their early confrontations. He had thought her aggressive, sharp-tongued, quick-minded, and unfeminine. But then he had been used to agreement from women, or at least some submission that had passed itself off as agreement. She had found that contemptible, in the women who were so lacking in either courage or self-respect, but even more so in a man who wanted something so worthless. He, too, must consider himself worthless if his vanity had to be catered to in such a fashion. And she had said so.

Only when he was in trouble too real and too desperate to be plastered over with vanities had he come to value her lack of compromise and see her courage as the one quality that mattered.

He was frightened, but perfectly well. Should he trouble her with his fear? It would be so much lighter if he shared it, and she might see the way forward more clearly than he did.

Frightened! He had actually framed the word in his mind. That was an admission he seldom made, if ever. And so bluntly. It was to admit the unknown. Everything before waking in the hospital was unknown, and above all, the man he had been. Evidence varied from those who respected him, who said he was extremely clever, even brilliant at times, inexhaustible, apparently fearless, and uncompromising to those who did not like him. A larger number agreed he was clever, but added that he was too arrogant to be afraid, too angry to give in to tiredness, and too judgmental to compromise.

And now? He had made too many mistakes of his own to afford easy judgment. He knew fear very well. Perhaps he had before, but hid it better. Now at least he not only knew he needed others, but found it easy to accept, even comfortable.

“We've got evidence that McNab's men were working with the river pirates, at least as far as telling them about our raid,” he said.

“Enough to prove it?” Hester asked with a lift of hope in her voice.

“Not yet,” he admitted.

“Did he do it for money?” she asked. “That might be a way of linking up the evidence. You have to be very clever indeed to hide unearned money, once people know it's there, if they look for it.” She was watching his face. “Or was that not the reason?”

“The man who drowned at Skelmer's Wharf—Pettifer—seems to have been a part of it. Of course, how much he knew is another question….”

“You mean only McNab knew what was really going on? Why? He's got a good career, William, money and respect, and there's very little danger in his job. Why would he risk that?”

That was the heart of what frightened him. What had he done to McNab that mattered so much to him that he would jeopardize all he had to damage Monk? He had lain awake searching what was left, what he could find and piece together of his memory, but there was nothing.

“William…?” she said gently.

He looked up. “I don't know,” he admitted. The words were difficult to say, even to Hester. “I don't have any memory of him at all, not his name, his face, anything.”

“Did you ever work on the river before?” she asked. “I don't mean remember, but you must have looked at records. You know where you were in the police.”

This was dangerous territory now, too close to the shards of memory that Aaron Clive was stirring up, and Gillander.

“I was in the Metropolitan Police from 1852 onward. The records are clear. I don't know before that, but not on the river. Not anywhere that I can trace.” That was what frightened him, that yawning gap of the unknown. Working in the police, yes. But at what? Clever, successful, ruthless…and what else?

“And have you looked for McNab's name in the old records?” Hester asked. Her voice was so gentle, her eyes troubled; she knew he was afraid of what he might uncover.

“Not…yet…” he admitted. “I must, mustn't I?”

“It'll be there waiting for you if you don't.” She did not pretend it would be painless. She never had avoided confronting what was painful. Instead she moved forward off her seat and onto her knees and put her arms around him, holding him with all her strength.

“Have you spoken to Crow lately?” he asked at last, letting go of her.

She looked up at him and smiled, lifting the weariness from her face and softening the shadows. “Yes. Scuff makes mistakes, of course. But Crow says he has good instincts, and is so keen to learn. He's also patient, which I admit surprises me.”

He asked the question that hovered at the edge of his mind, where anxiety waited.

“Is he actually any use to Crow, other than as an assistant, a messenger? If he's doing us a favor having Scuff, rather than his actually helping, then I must pay him.”

She leaned back a little, smiling. “Crow will be gentle, but he won't spare the truth. It wouldn't be a kindness, either now or later. Scuff must become a good doctor, or no doctor at all.”

He smiled back at her. “I suppose that's what he wants?”

“Of course it is,” she agreed. “I know you would like to spare him the pain of failure. So would I. I have to keep reminding myself that I wouldn't accept comfortable lies, or anyone else protecting me from life.”

He winced. “I wouldn't have dared!” he said, only half-jokingly. He had wanted to, and failed. He loved her, and had seen the pain she concealed from other people. She seemed so fierce, so sure of herself. Did anyone else see the capacity for hurt in her, the self-doubt she had to hide from the patients because they needed to believe in her? Without knowing it she was possibly teaching Scuff the exact same qualities.

She was looking at him a little ruefully.

He put his hand on hers for a moment, then sat back in his chair and let the silence of the room settle over him. There was no sound but the whickering of the flames in the hearth, and the patter of rain on the windows beyond the curtains.

“William…” Hester said quietly.

He sat up straighter. “Yes?”

“The man Blount. He was drowned, maybe accidentally, maybe not, and then after he was pulled out of the water he was shot.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know by whom?”

He saw the anxiety in her face. “No. Why?”

“That's what I was thinking…why? What is the point of shooting someone who is very obviously already dead?”

“You are thinking it was to bring me into the case? I thought of that, too. McNab sent for me personally.”

“He is a problem, isn't he? A slow, careful man, but clever?”

The words chilled him a little. “Yes.”

“Then he has something planned,” she answered quietly. “Are you sure that Owen's escape was chance? Be careful…please…You have to go into the records and look, however hard it is. You can't afford not to.”

“I know.”

I
N THE MORNING HE
went across the river before dawn, which late in November was around eight in the morning, especially when the day was overcast. All the riding lights on the ships at anchor were still bright, and the streetlamps were lit along the water's edge. If an unpleasant thing had to be done, it was best it were done as soon as possible.

He paid the ferryman and climbed the steps up to the quayside. He called in briefly at the office and spoke to the night watch coming off duty, then went out to the street and caught a hansom cab to the office where police records were kept. He knew he looked grim. He had debated how much he should tell anyone, and hated the necessity of the conclusion he had reached. No more lies, at least not outright ones.

“Good morning,” he said to the archivist as pleasantly as he was able, though he heard the edge to his voice. “I have someone in a court case who is causing me trouble. I can't remember dealing with him before, but he seems to have a grudge against me. It would be safer to know.”

“Yes, sir. If you'll come this way, sir. Just your own records, you say?”

“Thank you.”

He went through all he could find from the time he joined the police force up until his accident. It was a tedious job and stirred many emotions in him: respect for his skill, fear that there was an arrogance in it and a degree of ruthlessness he was not now proud of, but he saw no dishonesty, and no mention of McNab at all. It took him until the early afternoon. His head ached, his neck was stiff, and his eyes were tired by two o'clock. He had spent nearly six hours studying reports. He had learned nothing except that he had been even more efficient than he had been told, and that his path had never officially crossed that of McNab.

He went back to Wapping to check on current cases, dash cold water on his face, and have a hot cup of tea, too strong and too sweet, and a couple of rather good ham sandwiches, then he went to see McNab himself.

He found him sitting at his desk with a large cup of tea so strong it looked like mud. McNab glanced up from the papers he was working on. At first he was startled, tense, then slowly he relaxed and his face eased into a smile.

“Funny you should call. I was going to come to see you tomorrow.”

Monk deliberately made himself look relaxed. He was in McNab's territory, and very sharply aware of it. He walked forward, giving the man who had conducted him here a brief nod of thanks.

“I've conclusions, and more questions,” he answered.

McNab did not offer him tea. “About what?” he asked curiously, as if he had little idea.

Monk sat down, uninvited.

“Blount, Owen, and a couple of other prisoners who've escaped custody in the last six months,” he replied.

“Oh, really?” McNab's expression quickened with interest. “Not from us. Where from, and why do you care? You haven't lost anyone, have you?” His voice lifted with hope, ready to be amused.

Monk had expected that. “No. From a little farther north, not far. Less than a day's journey. Fellow called Seager. Heard of him?”

“No. Why should we care, particularly?”

“Expert safecracker,” Monk answered. “Escaped from Lincoln, but he's a Londoner. Thought to be heading this way. Top of his skill, so they say.”

“Ah…?” McNab was watching him closely now. “That ties in with what I was going to say to you. No trace of Owen for certain, but a few rumors…You haven't heard? Then a good thing you came. Damned good explosives man just turned up in Calais, on the way back here.” He looked at Monk unblinkingly. “And then there's Applewood….”

“Applewood?” Monk resented being made to ask.

“Another expert,” McNab said with relish. “A chemist. Can mix all sorts of gases, among other things.”

Monk waited.

“All known associates,” McNab added.

There was a moment's silence. Footsteps in the passage outside were audible, then faded away.

“I see.” Monk let out his breath. “Associates in what?”

McNab oozed satisfaction. “A major robbery. Gold bullion. Got caught, but more by mischance than any skill on the part of the police.”

“Police. So nothing to do with Customs, or the river, that time,” Monk said, his mind racing. McNab was enjoying this, but why? Had that any relevance to its truth?