Free Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry Page A

hansom coming toward them at a brisk pace. As it pulled up, two uniformed police got out and started across the pavement toward them. On seeing that Monk and Hooper were sodden wet, apart from Monk’s coat, they stopped abruptly. The elder of the two looked Monk up and down.
    “You seen two men come this way? One big, bearded fellow following an older, smaller one?”
    “You’re after the escaped prisoner,” Monk concluded. “River Police. We were here when they appeared. The prisoner’s dead. I’m sorry. The two of them were fighting and eventually went into the water. We tried to get them out, but the prisoner panicked. We couldn’t save him. Your man got away. He’s one hell of a survivor. It was slack tide so there was no current to battle. He made it to the far side and was helped up onto a schooner moored there.” Monk gestured toward the now-empty mooring. “It pulled up anchor and went. Tide was just past the turn, so I expect they went downstream. No doubt he’ll have got off at the first wharf where he could get dry clothes, and medical help if he needed it.”
    The older man stared at him, his face white.
    “God damn it! Pettifer couldn’t swim to save his soul! Terrified of the water, for all he was Customs.”
    Monk felt his stomach churn. “Pettifer? A small, thin man, but strong?”
    “Hell, no! A big bloke, built like an ox, and a beard…” The man closed his eyes. “Don’t say he’s dead, and that bastard Owen got away. Please don’t say that!”
    The other man behind him blasphemed. “McNab’ll kill us! Pettifer was one of his!”
    “Never mind that!” the elder retorted, glaring at him. “Owen got clean away. He’ll no more stop now than fly in the air! He’ll get another ship and be in France by tomorrow. That’s the second one they’ve lost in a week. First Blount, and now Owen. He’s not going to take the blame for both of them!”
    “If I know ’im,” his companion retorted, “he won’t take the blame for either!” He looked at Monk. “The first one evaded us with an elaborate escape plan, though someone got ’im in the end—this one’ll be down to you!”

M ONK FELT TOTALLY WRETCHED about the whole affair. He had set out with the hope of catching Owen before McNab got to him, although perhaps not for the best of reasons. He had thought he might learn something about the escape, or a whole series of events that might be connected. First there was the escape of Blount, and what seemed to be his murder, and then the escape of Owen, within a few days of each other. Perhaps they were part of some organized plan. At a glance the events looked fortuitous, but were they? They were both connected to Customs. Monk was still certain that the gunrunners who had brought about the battle on the decks of their ship, which had cost Orme his life, had been tipped off about Monk’s raid by McNab. Whether it was for money, prestige, or simply enmity he did not know. Nor did he know what that enmity was about. But he wanted to find out, and then prove it, all of it. He had already waited too long.
    Monk wondered if he had fallen neatly into a trap McNab had set up for him. That was a scalding thought. McNab, of all people! Had Monk allowed a certain arrogance to flaw his judgment, and land him in this disaster?
    He remembered with a sudden lurch of his stomach the moment he had seen that McNab knew he was vulnerable. It was a couple of weeks ago. They had been sitting in McNab’s office talking about some trivial matter of business they had in common—something to do with a few missing kegs of brandy, probably a miscount.
    McNab had stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked very directly at Monk, meeting his eyes.
    “You remember Rob Nairn?” He pronounced the name very carefully.
    Monk had no idea who Rob Nairn was. The silence in the office had been intense as McNab watched him. He was trying to keep the emotions out of his face, and failing. Clearly it was something