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“And the importer?” Monk asked.
“Disclaimed all knowledge of alteration of the papers,” Stockwell replied. “Made it seem that Blount himself was making the profit on the difference. Lying bastard. But they couldn’t get him on it. He’d covered himself very tidily.”
“But Blount knew that he’d been part of the fraud, and could have given him up?”
“Had to have known, but he stayed silent. I daresay there’d have been a nice reward for his silence in the future. He only had five years to go.”
“When was he convicted?”
“September.”
“Name of the importer?”
“Haskell and Sons. It was Haskell they were trying to get Blount to inform on,” Stockwell said. “Been after him for years.”
“Customs have?”
“Yes.” Stockwell looked interested. “But they said they didn’t get anything out of Blount.”
“While I’m here, tell me all you can about Blount. Do you know his friends, enemies, anyone who might prefer him dead? Or be afraid of him alive?” Monk asked.
“He was clever,” Stockwell repeated, clearly giving the matter deeper thought. “Word around the prison is that he did quite a few favors for people. Not that he didn’t collect on them, mind you. But if someone wanted a letter written, a permission forged, a document made up and passed out through a lawyer, or a warder—for a consideration…” His expression was bitter. “All Blount needed was the paper, and he could do a good enough job to fool most people. He built up quite a network that way: people who owed him favors, or who might need him again one day. Sly, he was. Never did much without weighing up what he could get out of it.”
Monk thought of the heavy face and the soft hands, and found it unpleasantly easy to believe. “Mostly to do with smuggling?” he asked.
“That I heard about, yes. But there could have been all sorts of other things as well—bills of sale, affidavits, anything.”
“Who took him to the place where he met with the customs people where he got away? Why didn’t they come to question him here? Less risk of his escaping.”
“We didn’t think there was a risk!” Stockwell snapped back. “He was manacled all the way and had two guards with him.”
“But why travel at all? Why didn’t the customs men come here? No risk at all, then.”
“Because they had papers and other things in a big trunk that they couldn’t carry,” Stockwell replied. “Machinery he could identify.”
“I see. Names of the guards accompanying him?”
“Clerk and Chapman. Both got injured in the escape. Clerk not too badly. Mostly bruises, that’s all. Chapman’ll be off for a while. Man with a broken arm not much use here.”
“Well, they won’t be getting much thanks from Blount,” Monk said drily. “Shot and drowned. Any ideas about that?”
Stockwell’s expression was one of weary disgust. “Somebody wanted to make sure!”
“How long beforehand was this trip arranged?” Monk asked.
“Just the day before,” Stockwell answered, but he sat up a little straighter. “Interesting. You’re thinking someone saw a chance and took it?”
“That, or someone knew it was going to be asked for, and arranged it,” Monk pointed out.
“You’re thinking of Customs? Or Haskell himself? You want to see if anyone here had a connection?”
“I do. And I’ll certainly go and see the customs officers involved; find out exactly what happened, who sent for Blount, and who knew about it.”
“Right. I’ll get you all we have.” Stockwell rose to his feet. “Wretched fellow, Blount, but we can’t have prisoners done away with. And I don’t like it when they escape, either.”
“It wasn’t from here.”
Stockwell stared at him indignantly. “It was from my damned men, sir!”
