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“Thanks,” he accepted.
Hooper was staring around the cabin with appreciation. He tended to make a first judgment of a man by the way he cared for his boat, and his tools. He accepted also that perhaps he would judge a man by how he cooked.
Gillander disappeared into the galley, and a few moments later returned with three tin mugs of soup, clearly hot from the steam that rose from them.
Monk thanked him and waited a moment before he took a sip. It was almost too hot to drink, but it was delicious: a beef broth of some sort, with a generous dash of brandy in it.
“Good,” Hooper said appreciatively.
Monk nodded his agreement. He had already decided how he was going to approach the subject of their visit with Gillander.
“No sign of Owen,” he observed. “We think he might have been involved in a pretty big plan, which could have included the other man that escaped: Blount.”
Gillander looked puzzled, but Monk had not expected him to reveal himself, even if he knew all about it. Monk was by no means certain that Gillander was the mastermind, just the one who could be present without causing suspicion. He still thought it could be Piers Astley behind any planned raid on Clive’s premises.
“Blount was a forger,” he continued. “There’ve been a couple of other escapees in the last half year or so. Altogether four men who worked together on a major robbery before.”
“Interesting,” Gillander agreed. “Robin Hood and his merry men…or not so merry. Who killed Blount, then? Was he going to betray them to Customs?”
“It’s a thought,” Monk said.
There was a silence. Gillander looked from Monk to Hooper, and back again.
“About what? Another big robbery?” Then he laughed loudly. “From Aaron Clive! Of course. That’s why Owen came here. And you think I have something to do with it? Because I fished Owen out of the water?”
“It’s one possibility.” Monk nodded, keeping the smile on his face also. “You’re perfectly placed. Why do you anchor here, anyway? It’s a long way up the river, and there are few conveniences.”
“Which is why it’s cheap.” Gillander shrugged. “Surely you understand that, Mr. Monk? You’ve run your own boat. You save money where
you can, but never save on equipment, right, Mr. Hooper?”
Hooper nodded his agreement, but did not take his eyes off Gillander. He was sitting sideways to the small table, always keeping the way open across the floor if Gillander moved suddenly. Nothing would be in the way to stop Hooper going for him.
“Right,” Hooper said.
Monk nodded also, as naturally as if there were complete understanding between them, but he could feel his muscles aching from the tension of what Gillander had just said about him running his own boat.
Hooper was picking up the thread. “Where’d you come from?” he asked Gillander. “And if you’re not waiting for Owen and his friends, who are you waiting for?”
For the first time Gillander hesitated.
Monk was surprised. He would have expected him to have a smooth, easy answer ready. Now he looked even a little uncomfortable.
“I have a service to perform for Mrs. Clive,” he said after a moment. “As soon as I’ve done that, I’ll…consider moving on. Maybe the China Seas. Ever been that far east, Mr. Monk?”
Monk had no idea and he was distracted by Gillander’s mention of Miriam Clive. He couldn’t be looking for Piers Astley as well, could he? “No,” he said with conviction. “It’s the West that used to interest me. Now I’m happy here on the Thames. Sooner or later all the world comes here.”
Gillander smiled widely. It was a charming gesture, full of humor.
“I love the arrogance of the English; it’s so totally unconscious. You are not even trying to impress. You are too secure in your pride to care what the rest of the world think of you. I’ve been watching, and trying to copy it.”
“I would say you’re doing rather well,” Monk answered just a fraction too quickly. “Is that Irish I hear in your voice?”
“Ah! You caught it. Sure, and it is. But not for a long time. I’ve been in California—but you know that….”
Now Monk was aware that Gillander was watching him far more closely than his casual air would suggest. He was leaning back in his seat, the mug of soup on the galley table at his elbow, but his neck was stiff and his eyes were searching Monk’s face.
“You must know Aaron Clive pretty well,” Monk remarked, just a little late to be a reply. “Especially back in ’49.”
