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“What the hell for?”
“I’m beginning to think it was to make it look like a crime, rather than possibly an accident, in order to bring me into the case,” Monk replied. “But very interesting that Owen should not know that.”
“Do you think the real Pettifer did?” Gillander said curiously.
Monk thought for a moment. “Well, if Owen risked his neck swimming across the river to get away from Pettifer, then perhaps it was because he knew Pettifer was going to kill him, too. Maybe he came on this far up the river to find a good place to drown him, and claim that was an accident, too?”
“Makes sense of what happened, but why?”
“That means the real Pettifer killed Blount, and would have killed Owen,” Monk said, thinking aloud. “Obviously Owen didn’t go back to McNab, or any other part of Customs. He may be in France by now. On the other hand, if there really is a master plan, he could still be here somewhere down the river.”
“Question I would ask is who else knows about this plan,” Gillander replied.
“The question I’d like to answer is who put Pettifer up to killing Blount, and then Owen,” Monk argued. “Is it McNab, or somebody else? And does Aaron Clive have anything to do with it at all?”
“I know where Blount was killed,” Gillander said. “At least, I know where Owen said it was. Might find someone down there who saw something. Would make a defense to blaming you for Pettifer’s death.”
It was a risk. Should he trust Gillander? He might be led into a trap. But he was in a trap already, and he could feel the teeth of it closing on him. He thought of the steel gin traps poachers used. They tore flesh, even the bones.
“Good idea,” he agreed.
Gillander stood up. “Right! This is my ship. You obey orders. Understood?”
Monk did not hesitate. It was the rule of the sea. Any man who argued with the skipper was a fool.
They weighed anchor and Monk lashed the ropes without even thinking about it. Only when he turned to do the next task of hoisting the foresail did he realize that his fingers had tied the complicated knots without hesitation. If he stopped now to weigh his decisions, the instinct faltered. He must not struggle for it, searching his mind, but simply allow the instinctive movements of the body to take over.
They reached Deptford more than two hours later. It was not so very far, but there was plenty of traffic on the water, and they had to maneuver in and out of it under sail, and then find a place to moor for the three or four hours that they might be there.
Monk enjoyed the time. He began by worrying how he would manage the seamanship part of it. He trusted Gillander to be clear with his orders. He was surprised to find how easily it came to him. He must have sailed a two-master like this before and, like the police skills, some part of him never forgot. His balance was easy, his knowledge complete of handling ropes and not standing in the wrong place, especially on rope ends—desperately dangerous in case it pulled suddenly and took you with it. His care never to risk being struck by a swinging boom, or sailing too close to the wind and having a sail luff, all came instinctively. He was tense, and yet exhilarated at the same time.
Ashore, Gillander led the way across the dockside and down a winding alley, around a corner into another alley barely five feet wide. Monk could have put his arms out and easily touched both sides at once. It was cold. The stone sides of the buildings were wet, and funneled the wind until it found every way in through his pea coat in spite of its thickness, and made him wish he had thought to wear a heavier sweater and thicker scarf.
Gillander took Monk to a very small public house called the Triple Plea, one of the few tavern names he did not understand. Inside it was warm and the air so filled with fumes Monk took a moment or two to catch his breath.
Gillander seemed to be known, and the one-eyed bartender motioned him over to a small table against the far wall.
“Don’t call him Patch,” Gillander warned Monk. “He answers to Pye, and will appreciate a little respect.”
“Understood,” Monk acknowledged, sitting down on a polished wooden stool and finding it less uncomfortable than he had expected.
“I’ll do the talking,” Gillander added. “Just drink your ale and listen.”
Monk bit back the rejoinder on his tongue, and obeyed.
They sat and drank ale for more than half an hour. Monk barely tasted it, which might have been just as well, although the crusty bread and slab of cheese were good.
Finally a very ordinary-looking man came over and joined them, taking his place on the third stool. He had thin hair and a wispy beard. Only his eyes marked him as unusual. They were very light silvery gray, half-hidden by the heavy lids.
Gillander did not introduce Monk more than to say, “He’s all right,” and then, moving on, “Seen Owen?”
The man, who remained nameless, pulled his face into an expression of disgust and denial. “Long gone,” he said hoarsely. “In France by now.”
“Pettifer’s dead,” Gillander told him.
“You think I don’t know that?” the man asked sarcastically. “He’ll be replaced.”
Monk was aching to ask not who would replace him, but who needed him replaced. The man who masterminded whatever the plot was? Or someone who meant to foil it, perhaps Clive? Or McNab? But a sharp kick under the table reminded him to keep silent.
