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All the way home through the darkening streets he weighed what Worth had told him. By the time he reached the Greenwich ferry steps and climbed out to walk up the lamplit hill to Paradise Place, he had come to several tentative conclusions. Blount was dangerous to someone: presumably to whoever had employed him, probably Haskell. Blount was a man who always put his own well-being first, and he had known too much.
His murder had been arranged with some skill, and good use made of the customs officers and the lawyer. Someone there was helping—possibly had been paid by Haskell for one favor or another for some time, even years.
It was McNab who had brought Monk on to the case. Was he responsible for Blount’s escape, maybe even his death, and was covering himself? That was the one thing Monk wanted to know. McNab was dangerous. Monk had seen the look in his eyes in the odd, unguarded moment. It was more than professional rivalry, more than personal dislike. It was hate, deep and poisonous hate.
The only thing was to face McNab, which he would do the following day. He did not want to, partly because he knew McNab would be aggressive. It was a pattern they had fallen into. But mostly Monk was reluctant because he was always at the disadvantage of not knowing what the origin was of what lay between them. He was perfectly certain that McNab did know, which placed him always a step ahead. McNab acted, and Monk reacted. He hated that.
And yet if he did not go to him with what he had learned from Worth, he would tacitly still have given McNab the advantage, and shown that he dared not face him. That would be intolerable.
As it was, when he returned to the Customs House the next day, he had to wait for McNab to finish a matter of business at one of the docks, but it was half an hour Monk used to advantage. He read several notes about Haskell & Sons, and added to his own knowledge the size of their business, and some of its history.
He was in a small, bare waiting room when McNab strode in. He was clearly annoyed to see Monk there, and the tide of emotion rushed up his face. He stood there for a moment, mastering his feelings before managing to speak with almost indifference.
“What is it now, Monk?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You can’t give us the case back, simply because it’s messy! Or have you come as a courtesy, to tell us that you know what happened? Who killed Blount, then?”
Monk concealed his surprise at McNab’s forthrightness, if that was what it was. He did not rise to his feet, and McNab sat down in the chair opposite him, hitching his trousers at the knees to be more comfortable. His eyes did not move from Monk’s face.
Monk completely changed his mind as to what he would say.
“Probably not Haskell himself,” he replied. “But very likely someone in his employ.” He was grateful to see a momentary look of surprise on McNab’s face, albeit masked almost immediately.
“You could be right,” McNab conceded. “We’ve never caught him in anything provable, and he has friends.” He allowed his meaning to hang heavy in the air.
“Patrons, perhaps,” Monk corrected him. “Allies certainly, and employees. Different from friends.”
“Oh, loyalty bought and paid for is the most reliable of all,” McNab agreed. He held out his hand, closed into a fist. “You know who has the reins.”
“Haskell?” Monk asked
.
McNab raised his eyebrows. “Your case, Monk. Blount was shot, murdered. No way was that suicide, and you’d have to prove it was an accident. Who shoots a man in the back by accident, eh?” He kept his expression serious, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
“Someone who wants him silenced,” Monk replied. “Possibly needs it, for his own safety.”
“Possibly,” McNab nodded.
“So how close were you to getting Haskell?” Monk asked.
“For killing Blount?” McNab’s voice rose in amazement. “Not at all. Like I said, it’s your case, Commander!”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t trespass into my case, Mr. McNab,” Monk said sarcastically. “I meant for smuggling, or forged documents. That is what you’re after him for, isn’t it?”
McNab weighed his reply for a few moments in silence.
Monk realized that McNab did not know what Worth had told him yesterday evening. But the irony went both ways; Monk would not get Worth into trouble by repeating it. He looked at McNab and waited patiently.
“A bit further off now that Blount’s dead,” McNab answered at last. “Unless, of course, you can pin this on to one of Haskell’s men, and they’ll talk…which isn’t likely.” He smiled very slightly, leaving it in the air as to whether he meant Monk’s success in catching whoever killed Blount, or the man being willing to testify. He drew in his breath and met Monk’s eyes. “I think such a man would give you a good chase, Monk. He’d be caught between Haskell killing him, or you torturing him slowly, poor devil.”
Monk stood up, straightening his back. “Pity you let Blount escape, then. Might have been a lot easier to let your man get it out of him. Still, too late for that now.” He smiled back, very slightly. Then, satisfied with the anger in McNab’s face, he went out of the door, closing it behind him, even though McNab had also risen to his feet.
BEATA YORK THANKED HER maid, and then regarded herself gravely in the glass. She saw a woman in her fifties who had been beautiful in her youth, and had grown more complex and full of character as time had dealt unkindly with her. She had had to search for and find an inner peace to combat the outer turmoil.
Of course no one else knew that of her, and it must always be so. They perceived her as serene, always in control of her emotions. Her porcelain-fair skin was without blemish. The silver in her hair was invisible in its pale shining gold, the heavy waves swept up smoothly.
She wore a somber shade of green, untrimmed by fur or ornament. She was making a visit that duty compelled, and she dreaded it. It was foolish of her. There had never been any possibility of avoiding it, and putting it off always made it worse. However, this time she had actually been sent for.
She turned away from the looking glass, thanked her maid again, and went out of the dressing room and across the landing to the elegant mahogany stairs. The footman was waiting in the hall, standing very straight, respectfully. She could see the shine on his polished boots. The carriage would be at the door, ready. She would not have to give any directions.
