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—
IT TOOK THEM SEVERAL hours to glean all they could, but it was not a complicated story. A lighterman moving out of his moorings early and making his way upriver had found the body tangled in a mass of rope and rotten wood wreckage near one of the many flights of steps going up from the water to the dockside. The steps were used for loading occasionally. Very often, the many ferries crossing from one bank to the other picked up fares there, or dropped them off.
The lighterman had waited for the next ferry, which arrived in a matter of a few minutes. Not able to leave his string of barges, he had told the ferry operator to call the authorities. In this case they turned out to be a couple of customs men checking an early load coming off a schooner moored nearby. At this time of the year, no daylight was to be wasted. McNab had been sent for, as someone of sufficient rank to deal with the matter.
Further inquiry turned up no one who knew the corpse. Apparently he was not a bargee, a ferryman, or a docker of any other sort. None of this information surprised Monk. He had deduced that much from the man’s appearance.
He and Hooper were both back at their headquarters in the Wapping Police Station, when at about half past four, almost dusk, they received news that a boat had been reported stolen earlier from the south bank, a mile or two farther down. According to the local police, it was a small rowboat, easily managed by one man. They were linking this to another incident: A prisoner from Plaistow Reformatory had escaped custody while being questioned by customs officers. He was a master forger by the name of Blount, and he answered perfectly the description of the dead man.
“Oh, yes?” Hooper said sarcastically. “And McNab didn’t know of that?”
“I imagine that’s what he’ll say,” Monk replied. “Got away yesterday, they said.”
Hooper turned toward him, but his expression was near invisible with his back to the gas lamp. “I wouldn’t believe McNab if he told me what day it was today, never mind yesterday.”
“I’ll go to the prison in the morning, see what I can learn about this Blount,” Monk said.
“Do you want me to talk to the customs men that allowed him to escape?” Hooper offered.
Monk considered for a very brief moment. “No. I’ll do that. Easier once I know something about the man. I wonder who shot him….”
Hooper grunted, and made no reply.
Over a hot cup of tea, laced with a spoonful of whisky, Monk wrote up his notes on the day’s work, not only the account of the corpse found by McNab’s men, but some small thefts and one case of smuggling. It was the part of the job he liked least, but he had learned that the longer he left it, the harder it was to recall details that might matter later on. Sloppy notes and illegible handwriting had ruined more than one cas
e.
It was two hours later when he said good night to the man on duty and went across the dark, windy dock and down the steps to get the ferry home to Hester, who would cheerfully exchange her news with him. The sweetest part of the day was yet to come.
—
PLAISTOW REFORMATORY, ON THE outskirts of the city, was almost due north of Albert Dock. The prison was close to the railway line and it took Monk less than an hour to get there. The governor of the prison, Elias Stockwell, was in a foul mood over the escape, but he had already heard that Blount’s body had been found and identified, which had alleviated his anger to some small degree.
“Glad the blighter’s dead,” he said frankly when Monk faced him in his small, very tidy office. “He was here only a matter of weeks. Damn good forger, but a nasty piece of work. Too clever by half.”
Monk forced himself to relax in the chair offered him, implying that he intended to remain there for as long as it took to get the answers he wanted.
“At forging, or in general?” he asked. The possibilities as to who had shot Blount were many. It could have been personal, very possibly revenge, or it might have been a falling-out over a planned crime, or the spoils of one already committed. It might have to do with Customs, the giving of information, or any other quarrel past or present.
Stockwell sighed. “Both. He was one of the best forgers I’ve seen, and not just with documents. He could make a five-pound note that would pass most people’s close look.”
“Well, most people aren’t that familiar with what a genuine five-pound note looks like,” Monk replied. It was more than a month’s wages for the average man.
“Good point,” Stockwell granted. “But he was good with bills of lading, customs forms, and cargo manifests, too, which was why Customs were looking at him so hard.”
“Accomplices?” Monk hoped that would lead to someone who was keen to keep him silent.
“Certainly,” Stockwell agreed. “But they were never caught. Knew how to keep his mouth shut.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Are you thinking one of them killed him, to make sure it stayed shut permanently? Sounds likely to me.”
“What was he convicted for?” Monk pressed.
Stockwell recounted Blount’s crime of fraud with false details of shipments, and therefore false customs duties to be paid.
Monk listened with interest.
“So the ship’s captain was almost certainly involved?” he concluded.
“No doubt,” Stockwell agreed. “But he was long gone by the time they caught up with Blount. And he was foreign of some sort, Spanish or Corsican, or something like that.”
