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“No. I’ve got Laker on it,” Monk replied. “But whatever happened to Blount, it’s probably to do with smuggling, or even someone he rubbed the wrong way before he was caught. I daresay it was to keep him quiet, in case he talked to Customs.” He smiled bleakly. “Anyone with knowledge of smuggling is McNab’s problem, not mine.”
“Right,” Hooper agreed. Monk could not see his face because they both rowed facing the stern so all he could see was Hooper’s back. But he heard the pleasure in his voice, and he shared it.
Five minutes later they pulled in at the steps up to the Wapping Police Station and saw Laker standing on the dockside, clearly waiting for them. He came down the steps easily, the sun gleaming on his fair hair. He was in his late twenties, overly sure of himself, graceful, quick-witted, and definitely a touch arrogant. Monk had seen the more vulnerable side of him only once, during the gun battle on the smugglers’ ship. But it was a part of the man he had not forgotten, and it was the reason he had not disciplined him harder.
“Sir!” Laker said as Monk shipped his oar and stood up.
“What is it?”
“Another escaped prisoner, sir.” Laker’s handsome face lit with a smile of pure pleasure. “Customs again. This one had just been convicted. Sentence came down this morning. He escaped when he was being transferred into the wagon to go back to prison.”
“What’s it got to do with Customs?” Monk stepped out of the boat onto the flight of stone steps up to the dockside. Hooper came on the other side and tied the boat.
“One of their convictions, sir. Bad bastard, by the name of Silas Owen.”
“Owen?” The name caught Monk’s attention immediately. “Isn’t he an explosives man? Got caught with gelignite?”
They reached the top of the steps and stood in the sun.
“Yes, sir. They were pretty lucky to convict him,” Laker replied. “He’s a demolition expert and has done a lot of regular professional work: tunnels, bringing down old buildings, and the like. But he’s skipped it this time.”
“Any reason to think he’s coming our way?” Monk felt a spark of interest, but it was far more likely that the regular police would catch him. He would go inland or maybe across the flat stretches around the Estuary, and hope to get a lift on some sort of barge or collier going north.
Laker looked pleased with himself. “Well, yes, there is, sir. Sort of. Bit of information I got from a snitch downriver from here. Said he thought Owen might make for France, but not the way you’d expect, which would be the first boat down to the Estuary that he could get, then something going across the Channel from there. That’s where everybody else’ll be looking for him, I reckon. But appare
ntly there’s a schooner moored well upriver, sir. Fast two-master. Clean cut, oceangoing. We haven’t got much that could keep up with something like that, especially not in the hands of a good sailor.”
“And where is this schooner moored, then?” Monk asked.
“Thought you might want to know that.” Laker smiled with satisfaction. “Just beyond Millbank, sir. He’ll have to go a roundabout way to get there. South bank, just about under the Vauxhall Bridge.”
“Skelmer’s Wharf.” Monk jumped to the conclusion. He knew the place. For a small fee, an oceangoing two-master could well lie there without causing comment. And nobody would be looking for it. Clever. “Any reason to think it’s that one, Laker?” he asked.
Laker bit his lip. “Informant of mine. Thing is, the customs men know it, too. It’s not for sure, but if we get to Skelmer’s Wharf now, we could be there before them. They don’t know that stretch of the river. Too far up for them to be there regularly. You could cross over on London Bridge, sir….”
“Right! Then get us a fast, light hansom, and—”
“Got one, sir. Just waiting…” Laker increased his pace as they followed him across the open stretch of the dock. Instead of going into the police station, they kept on with even longer strides toward where a hansom was waiting at the curb, the horse sensing the excitement and moving restlessly.
Hooper was on their heels and swung up into the cab, making room for Monk.
“Thank you, Laker. Good job,” Monk said, then gave the driver instructions to find the fastest way, generously offering him an extra couple of shillings if he got there within thirty minutes.
“Forty, if the traffic’s right,” the cabbie agreed. “Over London Bridge should be right at this hour. ’Ang on, gents!”
They leaned back and Monk settled in for a long and fast drive. It was their only chance of catching Owen, even if Laker was right, and if they really had as good a start on Owen as they thought. But Skelmer’s Wharf was a good guess. It was a sheltered mooring where even a large oceangoing schooner would not be remarked on. At this hour there would be few people about: mostly workmen, shipwrights and carpenters, possibly a few dockers, but all well involved in their own labor.
A man coming or going, perhaps with a fishing rod and a few sandwiches for lunch, would not seem strange to anyone. His having a friend who turned up in a rowboat was to be expected. It would be a good day on the river, even if they caught nothing. Fishing, the odd pleasant conversation, a couple of pasties and a few bottles of ale, well wrapped up, a fine day, even if cold. Nothing unusual about that.
They had arrested men there before, not fugitives from the law so much as from being asked a few very inconvenient questions.
Neither Monk nor Hooper spoke. Monk was thinking that it would be a nice score against McNab if they managed to catch his man for him. That was two escapees in the space of a week. He would not forget the malice in McNab’s face as he had stood over the body of Blount watching Monk turn him over to reveal the bullet wound in the man’s back.
They crossed the river at London Bridge and the cab picked up speed along a stretch where the traffic was light. The driver was really taking Monk at his word. He was going to have to pay the extra fare he had promised. They cut inland then joined the river again along the Albert Embankment.
Another few minutes and they crossed the Vauxhall Bridge and swung in beside the dock and the open stretch of water. There was an old man sitting on the wharf with a fishing line dangling over the edge. It was a bright, windless morning and there was barely a ripple on the flat surface of the river. The grim mass of Millbank Prison towered above like a fortress, casting its shadow. Nothing on the river moved.
The two-masted schooner anchored in the lee was reflected on the river as if in a mirror. It looked fast and sleek, perfectly balanced, oceangoing. A flash of admiration crossed Monk’s mind, before he alighted and paid the driver, including the extra he had promised.
