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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.”
—
IN 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.”
