AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Pettifer and Owen were fighting each other, then when Hooper and I tried to separate them they started fighting us,” Monk said, struggling to keep his voice in control and stop the fear that was rising inside him. “Hooper and Owen fell into the river first, then Pettifer charged at me, missed and went in, and I went in after him. Owen escaped and fled across the river. If it had been anything but slack tide he would have been swept away. I tried to save Pettifer. Actually I thought he was the prisoner, just as Hooper did. Which was why he turned to help me, rather than go after Owen.”
Rathbone was quiet, his voice grim. “I believe you, Monk, but you can’t prove it,” he said.
“I’d never seen Pettifer before, or even heard of him. Why should I wish him any harm?” Monk said angrily. “I don’t like McNab, whose man he was, but I’ve never done him any harm. At least…at least not since his brother was hanged.”
Rathbone stared at him.
Monk realized he had not told Rathbone the story, and neither had Hester. She had kept his secret for him to tell it in whatever terms he wished. He did so now in bare facts, including that it was Runcorn who had told him.
“So that’s why McNab hates you,” Rathbone said thoughtfully. Then he looked very directly at Monk. “And is that why he rigged the gunrunning arrests and you ended up with a battle in which Orme was killed?”
“Yes. And he did rig it. He even paid Mad Lammond to kill me, but the shot went wide and got Orme. I know it, but I can’t prove it. Mad Lammond isn’t exactly the ideal witness. And if you think I hate McNab for that, you’re right. I do. I want to get him for it, but legally. Had I deliberately killed Pettifer it wouldn’t solve anything. And, as I said, I thought the big man was the fugitive, and that McNab’s man got away. In the light of that, my killing Pettifer makes even less sense.”
Monk searched Rathbone’s face, his steady eyes. There was no relief in them at all. He felt himself go cold.
“You showed less mercy to McNab’s brother than he thought you should have, for which he hates you,” Rathbone said slowly. “You know that because Runcorn told you, but you can’t argue it yourself, or explain why no mercy was due. In fact you can’t remember it at all. I think we would be better not to refer to it. But, on the other hand, McNab may give that to the prosecution, if he knows you have no memory. Best to steer clear of it altogether.”
Monk wanted to argue, but he could see the reasoning. He was fighting the whole battle for his survival with his hands tied behind his back.
Rathbone continued: “McNab started taking his revenge with the gun battle on the river, but can you prove that?”
“I might be able to….Hooper’s working on getting some kind of proof.” He sounded desperate, a rope made of straw.
“Then the question arises, why did McNab wait so long to have his revenge? His brother was hanged almost sixteen years ago.”
“I…don’t know…”
“Yes, you do, Monk.” Rathbone’s face was filled with an extraordinary grief. “He realized you had no memory. Something happened that stopped him being afraid of you, and suddenly he knew you were vulnerable…and exactly how. He began his plan for a perfect and complete revenge.”
&nb
sp; Monk felt a dense, heavy wave of despair close over him. For a moment he could barely breathe. McNab would see him hanged for having killed Pettifer. It had an exquisite symmetry to it.
“But it makes no sense. Why would I kill Pettifer? I didn’t even know who he was!” He could hear the hysteria rising in his voice now.
“I know you didn’t,” Rathbone said. “But can you prove that? They will say that you did. And the only witness that you have is Hooper, who is your right-hand man now, and far more than that, your friend. The very most he can say is that he doesn’t believe that you knew Pettifer. It takes only one witness, lying or not, to convince a jury that you did.”
Monk felt the cold deepen inside himself. Rathbone was right. He struggled to find any argument against what he said, and there was none.
“And there’s more than that,” Rathbone continued. “If McNab’s man really was responsible for the gun smugglers’ arrest going wrong, and you can prove it—”
“We must!” Monk interrupted.
“What if it proves that Pettifer was one of the main actors in that?” Rathbone asked. “And he’s not alive to deny it, or to say that it was McNab’s idea. Or even that McNab ordered him to do it.”
Monk did not need to hear the rest of the thought. It was obvious. McNab would hang all the blame on Pettifer, and the rest of his men would either not know the truth, or if they were implicated, would be only too glad to use Pettifer as a scapegoat.
“I see,” he said. “I killed Pettifer in revenge for Orme. Unless I can prove somehow that it was McNab himself who paid Mad Lammond.”
“Even if you can, you can’t prove that you didn’t know it before you killed Pettifer,” Rathbone pointed out.
“I didn’t kill him! He drowned because he panicked!”
“That’s academic to the court, Monk. You clipped him over the side of the head.”
Monk swallowed. “Did the police surgeon say that the blow killed him? I thought he said Pettifer drowned.”
“He did drown.” Rathbone’s face was pale. “But he drowned almost certainly because he lost consciousness.”
