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“Prison governor?” Monk assumed. “Who did it? Someone lashing out because they decided not to hang him? Someone who lost a relative in the Princess Mary?” It was a natural assumption.
“Nobody’s saying anything,” Runcorn stared across the choppy water. “It’s a bloody mess! Could be revenge, outrage, or sheer temper. Or it could be an old score to settle over something else. Beshara’s been here on and off for several years. He’s probably made a few enemies even before the Princess Mary.”
“Or it could be to make sure he keeps silent about whoever else was involved in the sinking,” Monk said quietly.
Runcorn turned to face him, his eyes narrowed against the light off the water. “Yes, it could,” he agreed. “I’ve heard that the Chinese have a saying, something like: ‘Before you go looking for revenge, you had better dig two graves.’ ”
“Very wise people,” Monk agreed. “Except this time I don’t think we are looking at just two.”
CHAPTER
6
“I WASNAE THERE!” MCFEE complained bitterly, glaring at Monk. “That’s down river o’ me, you daft …” He bit his tongue. Whatever his thoughts on the mental inadequacies of the River Police, it was not wise to antagonize them. “The tide was going out … sir.”
Monk ignored Orme’s flash of irritation, and affected interest. They were standing on the steps at Charlton Wharf, just short of Woolwich Reach. They had caught the whip-thin Scotsman with a couple of kegs of single malt whisky, and no papers to explain them. They looked extraordinarily like part of a shipment that was missing from a warehouse a mile and a half farther up the
river.
Orme waited.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” McFee began again. “They barrels was like this, but I got this one from Old Wilkin at Bugsby’s Marshes, right legal. An’ I can prove it! Ask Jimmy Kent. He was with me.”
“When was that?” Monk said quickly. Jimmy Kent had only recently gone into the Coldbath Fields Prison for a short stretch.
“Ha! You think I cannae count, eh?” McFee said triumphantly. “I know exactly what day that was, ’cos the Princess Mary got sunk that night—see!”
“And Jimmy Kent was with you when you bought those?” Monk asked.
“That’s right!” McFee nodded vigorously. “Up at Blackfriars.” His lips thinned in a crooked smile. “And you know where to find that poor sod!”
“I do indeed,” Monk nodded. “But he wasn’t at Blackfriars on the evening before the Princess Mary sunk. You picked the wrong man—or the wrong night, McFee. He swore in court that he was at the Surrey Docks. He was one of the witnesses who saw Habib Beshara coming ashore before the Princess Mary went down.”
McFee paled but he did not retreat.
“Then he’s a liar! I was there! You ask …” He looked from Monk to Orme, and back again, then swore solidly for a full minute without repeating himself.
Orme arrested him, curling his lip with distaste.
AN HOUR LATER MONK and Orme were back at Wapping taking a hot cup of tea and a cold beef sandwich each. The room was over-warm and the air stuffy. Someone had left the door open to remedy it, and the slight breeze was ruffling papers on the nearest desk.
Orme was deep in thought, ignoring the sound of river traffic, the drift of accordion music, the odd shout of a bargee, the constant hiss and slurp of water.
“He’s a nasty little swine,” he said suddenly, turning to look at Monk. “But what if he was telling the truth?”
“McFee?” Monk said incredulously.
Orme swallowed a mouthful of tea. “Yes …”
Monk thought for a moment. “Then Jimmy Kent was lying.” He recalled what he could of Kent. Not much of it was to his credit.
Orme sat still, his blunt face set in stubborn concentration.
“Why would Jimmy lie?” Monk pursued the train of thought.
“If he wasn’t where he said, then he was somewhere else.” Orme held his finger up to stop Monk arguing. “Somewhere worse—stands to reason.”
“With McFee at Blackfriars?” Monk shook his head. “Fiddling a barrel or two of whisky? We couldn’t have proved it. Jimmy’s sharper than that.”
