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“Possibly. I’m still not going to let him dictate the action. I’m going to take a chance on Gillander.”
“Be careful!” Runcorn warned.
“I will.” Monk turned at the door. “Thank you.”
—
MONK STAYED ON THE south side of the river and took a hansom all the way up to the bank where Gilland
er’s schooner was moored. If he were somewhere else, Monk would have to wait for him. He had no way of tracking him down. He spent the considerable time of the journey through the wet, jostling streets putting together all the facts he knew for certain regarding the affair, starting with McNab calling for him to take over the inquiry into Blount’s death.
The shooting did not amount to murder, since Blount was already dead, but what on earth was the purpose of it? And for that matter, was his death by drowning accidental, or was that actually the real murder? Blount had been a master forger, available for hire. McNab said his men had been questioning him about who had hired him most recently, and achieved nothing by it, except a chance for him to escape. Or to be rescued by possibly whoever had killed him.
Had Blount been ready to betray his employer? Or had he actually done so, and McNab had declined to tell Monk? That was a possibility.
And there was the whole episode with Owen and Pettifer. Hooper had found out a little more, but it was mostly to do with Pettifer’s reputation as McNab’s right-hand man. The association seemed to go back several years. Monk had seen Pettifer only when he was in panic and drowning. It was impossible to form any opinion of a man in those circumstances. Hooper said that in his job obviously he had been efficient, decisive, even ruthless, and certainly he had been clever.
It seemed to be only the most extraordinary mischance that Owen had escaped, and Pettifer drowned. It was the whole case that McNab was pursuing that was Monk’s excuse for finding Gillander now. But the truth about Monk’s past in San Francisco was the real reason, and that was what made him tense as he stood on the shore and hailed the Summer Wind, moored a few yards out where the river was deep enough.
He had to call three times before Gillander showed up on deck. His face lit with a smile as soon as he recognized Monk. He came down the steps and loosed the rowing boat immediately. In a dozen long, easy strokes at the oar, he was up against the steps.
“Want to come aboard?” he asked cheerfully. “Hot cup of tea, strong enough to bend the spoon? Sugar? Rum?”
Monk accepted and climbed down to take his place in the stern. He had been planning all during the ride in the hansom what he was going to say, and now the words sounded artificial in his mind. He could not afford that. He waited until they were on board, the rowing boat lashed tight and both of them in the cabin with the hatch barely open. Gillander stood in the tiny galley with the kettle boiling and made strong tea with sugar and rum, then brought Monk his mug before sitting down opposite him.
“Did you sail her all the way from California?” he asked.
“Yes. Pretty good weather most of the time,” Gillander replied.
“How many crew?”
“Three of us,” Gillander told him. “Needs two, but always good to have a man spare, in case you hit a really bad patch, or someone gets hurt.”
“I imagine it’s never hard to find a man willing to work his passage,” Monk observed. There was a memory just beyond his reach: bright sun, heavy seas, white water curling on the wave tops. And wind, always wind, sometimes hard and heavy, making the canvas of the sails above crack as they came round. It was a sound like no other.
Where did he remember it from? The North Sea?
Gillander was looking at him, waiting.
“You told me you’ve known Aaron Clive since the gold rush days. Did you go looking for gold, too?” Monk asked.
“Me? Can you see me up to my knees in the river, shaking a pan around to see what landed up in it?” Gillander laughed. “I prefer the sea, most of the time. It was a good chance for adventure, see new places, get out of the Mediterranean, where I’d made a few friends, and a few enemies. I thought if I were lucky I’d own my own ship one day. And I did.” He was watching Monk steadily. “Why? What does it have to do with a plan to rob Clive?” He took a long swig of his tea and rum. “Anyone would be a fool to try! A few tried it. Nobody did twice.”
Was that a warning?
“Are they in jail?” Monk asked. “Or dead?”
Gillander let out his breath slowly. “Mostly dead,” he replied. “They were hard times…but you know that. It was twenty years ago, but you can’t have forgotten.”
Monk froze. The seconds ticked by. He had to say something. “A lot of water under the bridge since then.”
Gillander smiled. “But I like secrets,” he said with some amusement. “I didn’t think so at the time, but they draw me in. Like war, for some men, or exploring Africa, looking for the source of the White Nile. But Africa holds no love for me. Nor would I want to go looking for the North Pole. I like the contest with people…and I suppose the sea.” He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.
They looked at each other for several seconds. Monk knew that if he were not to lose the chance, this was the moment he must be honest. Ignored now, it would be compromised forever.
“So do I,” he agreed. “London is its own jungle.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could feel his heart pounding. “Did you know me there…in San Francisco?”
Gillander’s gaze was completely steady. There was not a flicker in his hazel eyes. “A little. Enough to know your mettle, sail with you now and then, more often in competition for a cargo. You haven’t changed all that much. Not until you look carefully.”
