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“No, of course not,” Wingfield snapped. “Did you know him well at that time, Mr. Gillander?”
“Moderately. As well as one knew anybody. We were rivals in the same business. Occasionally allies.”
“And what business would that be? Not police, I presume?”
“Hardly. There was no law there, except what was easy to keep. In the very early days, California was still not part of the United States.”
“How interesting. So what business did you share, Mr. Gillander? Smuggling? Gunrunning? Gambling? Helping wanted men to escape? Guns for hire?”
Rathbone started to rise to his feet to object, but Gillander answered too quickly. “Don’t know much about building and settling a new town, do you?”
“Nothing at all,” Wingfield agreed. “I’m a Londoner. We were settled here before Julius Caesar landed in 55 BC. Please answer the question. What did you carry up and down the Californian coast, with the accused?”
“Food, furniture, tools and equipment, timber, bolts of cloth, household goods, and of course rations and prospectors. It’s a long way from Bristol down the Atlantic, around the Horn, and up the Pacific coast all the way across the Equator again and into San Francisco Bay. You don’t do it in a few weeks. Once a year is enough for most people. You don’t want to go round the Horn in winter…which down there is June, July, and August.”
“Thank you, I am aware that Cape Horn is in the Southern Hemisphere, Mr. Gillander. So you and the accused were facing hardship and danger at sea in a part of the world most of us here only dream of?”
“Yes,” Gillander agreed reluctantly.
“Is this going somewhere, my lord?” Rathbone asked a little wearily.
“Get to the point, Mr. Wingfield, if there is one,” the judge prompted.
“It will become apparent later on, my lord,” Wingfield said.
Monk felt himself cold, as if somebody had opened a door to the icy weather outside. Wingfield was going to raise Piers Astley’s death later on. He would when the subject could be brought up naturally, somehow or other. And Rathbone would find no defense against it because Monk had none.
“So you were already well acquainted with Mr. Monk when he questioned you about Owen, the escaped prisoner?” Wingfield said.
“It took me a few minutes to recognize him,” Gillander answered. “It had been twenty years. But yes, I soon realized who he was.”
“And who was he, Mr. Gillander?”
“Commander of the River Police at Wapping,” he said. Gillander smiled again. Then before Wingfield could interrupt. “But it was the same man I knew as a damn good sailor in California.”
Wingfield let out his breath slowly. “And you were friends, after a manner? You were both soldiers of fortune? Or perhaps sailors of fortune would be more appropriate?”
“If you like.”
“Allies at times?”
“And rivals at others,” Gillander added.
“Just so. Now, in the matter of getting Mr. Monk, and probably yourself, out of this predicament regarding the rescue of the escaped prisoner, and the violent death of the customs officer, Pettifer—are you rivals or allies in that, Mr. Gillander?”
“Allies, Mr. Wingfield. We would both like to find the truth and prove it, on both counts,” Gillander said without hesitation.
“Or at least to blame it all on someone else,” Wingfield retorted.
“Wherever it fits!” Gillander snapped back at him. “I don’t know where that is yet, and neither do you!”
Wingfield put his head a little to one side. “Yes, I do, Mr. Gillander. It fits with Mr. Monk, and very possibly also with you!” He turned to the judge. “Thank you, my lord. That is all I have for this witness at present, although I reserve the right to recall him if new evidence emerges.”
The judge adjourned the court for the day. Those who were free to do so went out into the rapidly darkening afternoon, and the wind and ice.
Monk was taken back to his cell to lie idle through the long evening, and then awake and chilled all night. He tried desperately to think of any way to prove his innocence. He had not killed Pettifer intentionally. That was the one thing he was sure of. Everything else was as impenetrable as the dark of the cell with its closed door, iron lock, and barely a glimmer of light from the one high window into the yard.
—
