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MONK WENT STRAIGHT UPRIVER by hansom and then ferry, and was at Clive’s office a little after nine. He asked to see Clive, and had to wait no more than twenty minutes, during which time he was offered tea and given a comfortable place to wait.
Clive came in cheerfully and closed the door behind him.
Monk rose to his feet. “Good morning, Mr. Clive. I apologize for taking more of your time.”
Clive took his hand in a firm grip and then let go quickly. He sat opposite Monk, crossing his legs easily. “Not this robbery plot again? I assure you, I am always aware of such possibilities, and I made a few inquiries of my own. McNab, from Customs, has been here on several occasions, you know.”
“Yes, I did know,” Monk answered. “I gather you were very civil to him.”
“A necessary evil,” Clive said drily. “Better to have them on your side. They can be a damn nuisance against you. But I imagine you know the river as well as they do, if not better.”
Monk was aware of Clive watching him more closely than he pretended to. Was he remembering him from twenty years ago, as Hooper had warned?
“The Summer Wind seems to be moored opposite you a great deal of the time.” Monk threw this observation into the conversation to see where Clive would take it. His answer was surprising.
Clive smiled widely, showing beautiful teeth. “When you have a wife as beautiful as mine, you get used to living with other men in love with her, perhaps all their lives. I first met Gillander when he was a raw youth of about nineteen, and Miriam was thirty. He saw her and fell in love with her then, and I don’t think he’ll ever entirely grow out of it. Some men are prisoners of their dreams. She is quite aware of it, and is kind to him, but no more.”
Monk did not argue. As far as he knew, Clive could be right. Certainly he was as far as Gillander was con
cerned. What Miriam felt he had no idea. It was a responsibility she might grow tired of. On the other hand, perhaps she was tempted to use him in the search for who killed Piers Astley. Gillander did say he was performing some service for her.
Was Beata right about Clive having a core of steel? Or was that only her perception, also dictated by her own past?
“Lady York speaks very well of her,” he said, to see what Clive’s response would be. He must know that, even if Monk had no memory of the past, Beata certainly had, and had known all of them far better than Monk had.
Clive smiled, but this time there was a slightly sharper edge to it. “Ah, yes, Beata. Poor woman. Her first husband was more a convenience than a love match, I think. York I have little idea about. He was certainly professionally respected, but not a nice man, from what I hear. She has been unfortunate. Not that her father was her fault, of course. We none of us choose our parents.”
Did Clive mean him to ask? Yes, of course he did. He was dangling the suggestion in the hope of his taking the bait like a fish.
“I didn’t know her father,” Monk responded.
“Possibly not…” Clive pursed his lips. “He was well known enough in San Francisco. But you were always up and down the coast, and I daresay you had little enough money to bank.”
He was dribbling out the information bit by bit. His smile was still there, but the warmth was gone from the room. This was like parrying before the real battle. The lunge would come without warning.
It would be childish for Monk to say he was not there for the money, like an excuse for not having made much.
“Didn’t need a banker,” he said casually.
“But you must remember his death.” Clive watched him intently now. Even a change in his breathing, the light in his eye would be noticed.
A lie would be a greater sign of weakness than an admission. There was nothing in his mind to search. He could not even remember the man’s name.
“No. Perhaps I was up the coast.”
“He played cards a lot toward the end. He was accused of cheating, and shot in the resulting brawl. Created quite a scandal. Poor Beata…Of course she never mentions it. I doubt even York knew.” He let the suggestion of deceit hang in the air.
Monk felt a wave of resentment rise inside him. It was the first thing Clive had said that showed an uglier side of him. It was a warning, whether he intended it to be or not. Monk would be wise not to show his distaste.
“Unfortunate,” he said with a slight show of regret. “I can see why she chose to return to England.”
“People came for many reasons,” Clive said mildly. “I often wondered why you returned. You seemed to be doing rather well for yourself.” It was not a question, yet unanswered it would become one, a sign of weakness.
Monk felt himself like a butterfly pinned to a board, struggling. It was all very civilized, nothing but polite conversation around whether there were any danger to Clive’s wealth or his security from some indeterminate theft that was looking increasingly like a mirage.
But if it were real, and Monk had not acted, he would look a complete incompetent. Who was playing him? McNab? Or Clive? Or both of them, each for his own reason? Clive’s most visibly prized possession was his wife, and Monk was quite sure he had never trespassed there. Whatever his memory loss, it would have been in Miriam’s face when she came to visit him.
“Got an interesting offer,” he lied. “The California coast is marvelous, but this one has its charms, too.”
