Revenge in a Cold River

by Anne Perry

  There was an element of truth in his words, enough to hurt. The word McNab had left out was love. In their own silent way, the men had loved Orme, even seen in him something of a father. They would never see Monk like that.

  “How thoughtful of you to come all the way from the Pool of London to tell me,” Monk said sarcastically. “If you find a replacement for Pettifer, you’d better teach him to swim!” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. To lash back like that was a sure sign that McNab had hurt him. He saw knowledge of it in McNab’s face.

  “I’ll have a few things to teach him,” McNab agreed softly. “But I came up here to tell you that we’re almost sure Blount was headed for the sea, and probably France when he fell into the water. And shot afterward, it seems. I’d hazard a fair guess Owen’s in France by now. Some pretty heavy smuggling going on. Not sure how reliable, but word has it that it could involve gold. Stolen, of course.”

  Monk did not reply. What was McNab looking for? Was this why he had come, to tell Monk about the stolen gold? Why? In the hope Monk would go chasing after it, and McNab could take the credit? Over the last few weeks he had changed. He used to be very careful of Monk, as if he were too wary of him, even fearful, to let his hatred show. But since he had realized the extent of Monk’s gaps in his memory he had probed, like a surgeon looking for the bullet in a wound. Except he did not wish to remove it! He wanted to push it farther in, deeper to the bone.

  “I was talking with Aaron Clive,” Monk said finally. “He mentioned the gold rush in California, twenty years ago. He said gold made people a little crazy.”

  McNab smiled as if filled with sudden, deep joy. “He said that, did he? Well, well. He would know. Made his fortune in the gold rush of ’49, he did. But of course you’ll know all that.” He moved over to the door. “See if you can track down that Gillander fellow with the schooner. He might be able to tell you something. Never know what you’ll uncover…” And with another smile he went out and walked all the way to the outer door into the wind-rattled night without looking to either side of him.

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING MONK went to the schooner Summer Wind. This time it was moored close in to the south bank and accessible from the shore. It was beautiful, all clean lines, with polished teak decks and immaculate brass work. Everything was lashed in its place, safe, clean, and well tended.

  “Permission to come aboard?” Monk called out. He waited a few moments, then called again. A man came up the steps and through the open hatch. Monk introduced himself.

  The man gave a casual salute. From the description it had to be Fin Gillander. He was graceful, agile, perhaps an inch or so taller than Monk, and as Aaron Clive had said, remarkably handsome.

  “Wondered when you’d come,” he said with a lopsided smile as he offered his hand to Monk. His grip was quick and firm. Then he led the way down the stairs and into the main cabin, small, as is everything on a ship, but clean and all in its place.

  “Sorry about lifting your fellow out of the water,” Gillander went on. “He told me he was the police and he had to get downriver and report that the big fellow with the beard had been drowned.”

  “So I heard,” Monk replied with a slight grimace. “And who did he say we were? I assume he didn’t mention that we were River Police?”

  Gillander shrugged. “Hardly. He said you were rival smugglers who’d killed the big fellow with the beard, and he was lucky to have escaped with his life.”

  Monk imagined it for a moment. He could find no fault with the story. It could easily enough have been true.

  “Was he hurt?” he asked eventually.

  “Said his shoulder was painful and he thought it needed a doctor. I took him down to the next steps along and put him ashore,” Gillander replied.

  “And then?”

  Gillander smiled. “You checking up on me, Commander Monk?”

  “Yes.”

  Gillander laughed. There was nothing forced in it. The whole concept amused him. “Fair enough. I suppose I would, in your place. Needed some supplies. Went to the chandler, and got some more candles, linseed oil, and a little turpentine. Can I offer you a tot of whisky? That wind off the water’s as cold as a witch’s heart.”

  It sounded like a good idea. Monk wanted to make a better judgment of the man than a few minutes afforded him. And he would like to look a little more closely at the ship. She was beautiful, swift, built to take even the seas around the Horn. He could see how perfectly she was kept. Obviously Gillander did more than take pride in her: He loved her as if she had been a living thing, like a great tree.

  Gillander watched him with a spark of curiosity in his eyes. He led the way to the galley and then the cabin beyond where his chart table was, and his maps. The movement of the river was so slight there was barely enough surge to be aware of, more like a gentle breathing.

  There was a bookcase in the cabin, glass-fronted so it closed and locked, in case a rough sea should throw everything around. Monk would like to have seen what the books were, but to look would have been too openly inquisitive.

  He did look around at the fittings, which were all in old and rich-colored teak, obviously oiled and polished over the years. The brass was bright here, too, not a patch or streak of tarnish on it anywhere. It gave him pleasure to see, and oddly, it made him comfortable, even familiar. Perhaps a well-loved ship was the same the world over?

  Gillander unlocked a tantalus, holding the whisky decanter and glasses, and poured one for himself and the other for Monk. He passed it over.

  Monk took it and smelled the aroma, then tasted it. Single malt. Excellent. Gillander did not stint himself. He would like to learn more about the man.

  Gillander held up his glass, tipped it a fraction toward Monk in a salute, then drank.

  Something heavy must have passed them because the wake of it made the schooner rock very gently. Monk adjusted his balance without thinking.

  “Do much sailing now?” Gillander asked with interest.

  Monk hesitated for an instant. What was the answer that would not trip him up?

  “A little. But that was a long time ago.”

  Gillander was watching him, waiting.

  “Oceangoing, like this?” He smiled. “Been round the Horn in her.” He looked at the cabin with intense pleasure. “She can handle anything: Pacific, Atlantic, China Seas, Caribbean.” He waited for Monk to respond.

  Monk looked at the handsome face and saw nothing but vitality and interest in it. The man was asking him a simple question he could not answer. He lied.

  “Mostly the North Sea,” he said. “And that has a score of moods.”

  “They’ll all love you, or kill you. If you give it long enough, probably both,” Gillander responded. “But by God, while you’re alive, you’ll be really alive! Tell me the most beautiful thing you ever saw—women apart!”

  Monk racked his mind for something honest enough that this man would not sense the lie, and yet a thing that would not reveal more than he wanted.

  “Summer dawn over Holy Island,” he said. “Sea was like glass, and the light seemed to fill everything.”

  “You’re right,” Gillander agreed softly. “It’s always the light, isn’t it? Like everything worth having, close your hand over it and it’s gone. Have another whisky?”

  “No, thank you. I have to go and look for Owen. Not that I think there’s a cat in hell’s chance I’ll find him.”

  BEATA HAD PUT THE invitation on the mantelpiece in her boudoir and considered it for a whole day before she replied. She did not use the withdrawing room anymore. It was very formal, designed for entertaining, and it had all been done to Ingram’s wishes—in other words, to impress. Also it required a constant fire burning to keep it warm enough to be comfortable. Perhaps she would sell the house, and its memories, before she was out of mourning. She had no wish to live here.

  Her boudoir, like that of many other women of means, was her own sitting room on the sam
e floor and wing as her bedroom, and furnished entirely to her own taste. The colors were soft and simple, the chairs comfortable to sit in. The bookcases were filled with books she actually read, such as novels by Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters, some adventure stories, and a great deal of poetry. The pictures on the walls were few, and represented memories she cherished, or dreams she had yet to fulfill. Others were merely beautiful—soft light on water, flights of wild birds across the sky, reeds spearing a mountain pool—and they gave her pleasure to look at.

  She must answer the invitation today, or she would effectively have ignored it. It was silly to put it off, because she knew the answer. She should accept. She would have to be very unwell to decline, and she would not descend to such a lie. It was not how she intended to live her life now that she was at last free to choose. What a travesty that would be!

  Aaron and Miriam Clive had invited her to dinner. It was not a party, which would have been unsuitable for her to attend while she was in mourning, and if she did, word would spread and everyone would know. She must not appear to be enjoying herself. Widows were expected, even required, to mourn their husbands for a noticeable period. The only way to escape it would be to go abroad, and she was not prepared to do that—not yet, anyway. No, the invitation was to a very quiet dinner over which to discuss the offer Aaron Clive had made to endow a university chair for the study of law, in Ingram York’s name and his memory.

  It was a gracious and generous offer. Aaron was an enormously wealthy man, but it was still a notable thing to do, and far from inexpensive. And since he had not known Ingram personally, it was totally unexpected. Beata could not help wondering if it were actually for her that he did so, at least in part. Of course it would also be socially, and—if he wished it—politically a good move. But Aaron did not need such public acts. He was highly respected anyway. His wealth was unmeasured, his influence discreet, but wide. And his personal charm seemed to touch everyone. Publicly at least, he had never made a mistake. But then neither had Ingram, publicly.

  What was there for Beata to debate? She had no reason to refuse. Her reluctance was simply her own feelings about Ingram. The thought of young men studying law holding him in admiration was offensive, like throwing human waste into the pool from which all must drink.

  No, she must stop such thoughts, and teach herself to think of only the public man, who had been remarkable, at times harsh, but brilliant in the law, tireless in the pursuit and conduct of a case. Until the very end, he had been a force for the cause of justice, at least as he saw it. He did occasionally temper it with mercy, but she wished it had been more often.

  She went to her desk and composed a letter in reply, accepting the offer both for the endowment of a chair in her late husband’s name, and to discuss the nature of such a gift over dinner the following evening. When she had written it to her satisfaction, she rang for the footman to take her reply to the post. They would have it by this evening. Surely they would have known that she would accept?

  —

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING BEATA dressed very carefully. She disliked black. She hardly ever wore it from choice. Her coloring was delicately fair, serene. Her skin was still flawless and the odd wisps of white in her hair were lost in the natural pale gold. Lilacs and soft grays, the other accepted colors of later mourning, looked marvelous on her. Black was such a harsh color, or more correctly, lack of color, but it was still too soon to discard it.

  And of course she must be modest, everything should be high to the throat, and with little in the way of ornament to relieve it. Ingram would be amused, if he could see her. He had taken pride in her beauty, even if he seldom commented on it without some barb. There was always a worm in the apple.

  What did beauty matter anyway? It was the mind and the soul that were the real person.

  She had had her dressmaker create two or three black dresses. They had been prepared a few months ago, when Ingram was first taken to the hospital. Now she selected the least unflattering, and her maid assisted her to fasten it. It was right up almost to the chin—as if she were smitten with grief! What did it say? That she was a hypocrite.

  The waist was tight and the skirt full. It was going to be uncomfortable. Still, what did that matter? She must stand up straight, walk with her head high, or that neck would choke her.

  She should wear jet earrings. Everybody did for mourning. Diamonds would look frivolous.

  She thanked the maid, stood up from the dressing table stool, and walked across the room toward the door. Then she stopped in amazement. The reflection she saw in the mirror was startling. She looked fierce and lonely, but quite beautiful…all moonlight and shadow. The perfect widow. How absurd!

  She never played games with arrivals. To be early inconvenienced people; to be late was rude. To arrive fashionably late in order to make a spectacular entrance with as many as possible of the other guests already there to notice was supremely arrogant, an affectation she deplored.

  She arrived a few minutes after the hour, and was welcomed in the hall by Miriam. If Beata were winter, Miriam was blazing late autumn. Her hair was the color of the last leaves, her gown russet, mahogany, and black. But of course it was far lower cut, displaying the warmth of her skin and the fire in her topaz necklace. Her face had the same beauty and passion Beata remembered from long ago. Time had refined it, but left no visible blemish.

  “Thank you,” she said to Beata immediately. “I don’t imagine you feel like going anywhere, but believe me, I really am happy to see you.” She turned to lead the way into the withdrawing room. Beata scarcely had time to notice the magnificence of the hall with its glorious chandelier blazing with light. The floor was not black and white as many marble floors were, but a delicate mixture of creams and soft earth colors that accentuated the deeper tones of the pilasters that framed the fireplace and the recesses on the walls to the side. The staircase, which occupied most of the central wall, was not dark wood but carved and rounded marble also.

  “We have invited very few other guests,” Miriam went on. “Actually only Giles Finch from the university, and Lord Justice Walbrook, whom you must already know.”

  “Only slightly,” Beata replied, trying to bring his face to mind.

  “He is recently a widower.” Miriam opened the door to the withdrawing room. It was huge, with fireplaces at both ends and sufficient space to house two complete sets of furniture of the utmost comfort. The shades of autumn warmth and polished wood were complemented by the most startling touches of a bright color between blue and green, such as one might find in the tail of a peacock or in tropical seas. They glowed in velvet or satin cushions and in ornaments of glass in exquisite shapes—globes and spires and painted dishes.

  It jolted in Beata’s mind memories of more than twenty years ago, before she had ever met Ingram. She had spent her earlier years in California, in San Francisco before there was gold discovered in the sand and pebble shores of the American River, before fever had gripped the minds of investors, adventurers, and exploiters from half the world.

  She had been born in England, but when her mother died, her father had decided to follow his love of adventure and take her with him out to the west coast of America and the lands that then belonged to Mexico. Since returning to England, marrying Ingram, and settling down, she had almost forgotten some of the wilder things she had done in the past. Some she had forgotten by choice, and only with long and deliberate effort, things she spoke of to no one.

  She remembered the early mission posts set up by the Franciscan monks after the first Spanish explorers landed on the coast. How Spanish the buildings were, full of columns or arcades. Even the names of them rolled off the tongue like the words of a song.

  The current priests were Franciscan as well, and worked among the people of the nearby settlements. At nineteen she had fallen in love with one of them. She remembered his dark brown robes with the rope around his waist, and his gentle smile. Perhaps she was absurd, but his dedication had f
illed her with longing to feel just as deeply about something herself, anything.

  Of course nothing had happened between them, but the ardent melancholy of her dreams lingered. She remembered standing in the hot sun talking to him, trying to think of something to say that he would think wise. She so badly wanted to impress him. If she closed her eyes now she could smell the dust and the water on the stone and the sharp astringent aroma of crushed herbs. At times when Ingram was hurting her, she had done so deliberately, trying to bring back the innocence she had felt then, the ritual words of forgiveness.

  Then she and her father had gone north to San Francisco, to the cooler, bright light on the sea. That was just after the first gold had been found in the river. Her father had set up trade. The wealth, the new people had arrived so fast, he had worked every day and half the night just to keep up with it. He became rich. At that time it was still all good.

  She had married—not well, but adequately. It didn’t do to be a single woman in those days, unless you were a schoolteacher, or something of the sort. She had had no wish for that, although looking back, she thought it would have been a fine calling. She wanted to taste life far more deeply than any children’s classroom could offer. How naïve! But marriage then was an unexplored land for her, full of hope. There had been good times and bad, probably like the marriages of most of the young women she had known.

  Then her husband had been killed in a stupid gunfight over a gold claim. She became a respectable widow, and had no desire to marry again. Her father had been too busy to force the issue, but that was a subject she still would not ever revisit willingly.