Free Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry Page B

of intense importance, and that Monk had to have known, which meant it was in the past, before the accident.
    “He has nothing to do with this.” Monk had spoken because he had to.
    But he realized now that it was too late. McNab had seen the moment of blankness in his eyes, and he knew.
    Now, as he and Hooper walked away from the wharf to face the long journey back to the city, Monk knew that he would have to think of an explanation for McNab as to how one of his men had been drowned in an incident that should have had nothing to do with Monk.
    He had no doubt now that McNab seemed to know him far better than he knew McNab. At the beginning that had seemed reasonable. McNab was colorless. One met him, and the next day, or week, one could barely remember his features. He was apparently thorough at his job, but not dashing, not spectacular, like Monk. He had not solved any cases that stayed in the mind.
    Monk, on the other hand, had carved a considerable legend for himself, not all of it good. He was clever, and brave. Evidence also proved that in the past he had been ruthless. That horror, the terrible fear, that he had been the one who had beaten Joscelyn Gray to death, had changed him. He had not been guilty of that. The relief still drenched him, in occasional dreams when the past intruded again to darken the present.
    He was a different man now. Certainly he was still clever, still dressed rather better than a man of even his new superior rank usually did. But he had seen his own image in other people’s eyes, and hated it.
    He was also happy now in a completeness he had never tasted before, and that made all the difference. But a man who could only aspire to some element of compassion, even when he was happy, was not worth much. The achievement would have been to be spontaneously generous when he had so little that really mattered to him. It was too late for that now. He had Hester—and Scuff. And he had friends: Rathbone, Crow, Hooper, even Runcorn from the past, who was now so different from the man he used to despise.
    And of course there had been Orme. If McNab was responsible for Orme’s death, was it because of Monk, and something that he could not remember?
    Certainly there was nothing from the last thirteen years to account for the look he had seen in McNab’s face, briefly, and then deliberately hidden again.
    As they rode back through the wet, gray streets to the heart of London, he went over and over the incident on the wharf, and in the river. He was wretchedly cold, his wet trousers stuck to him, and his feet were numb in his boots. Hooper must feel the same.
    He tried to recall exactly what had happened. They had been waiting for the escaped prisoner to appear, followed by the police or one of McNab’s men. The two had appeared from different sides of the row of buildings. Owen, smaller and faster, had been ahead, racing toward the wharf, when the big man, Pettifer, had come from the other side. They had collided, but had Owen attacked Pettifer, or was it the other way around?
    Certainly they had fought, striking out at each other, getting closer and closer to the water. Looking back, Monk saw it could indeed have been Pettifer who was the pursuer and the small man he now knew to be Owen, the fugitive.
    God, what a mess!
    When Pettifer had panicked he had all but drowned Monk along with himself. If he had done so, Owen would still have escaped. Who the devil could have expected him to swim like that?
    The schooner captain, maybe? He had been on deck. Was that chance? Or by design? Had the shouts brought him up from below, to see what was going on? How many men would there be on a boat that size? Not necessarily more than two or three, not for a two-master.
    How did he know that? Had he at some time in the past learned more about sail than he recalled? He had grown up on the coast of Northumberland. Old letters he had kept from his sister had told him that. He knew the sea, the smell of it was