Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry

other things could evoke. Combined with the rich aroma of the heavy wine, it was as if he were momentarily back in time, but he had no idea where.
    “You might remember something about Owen that would help,” he said in reply to Clive’s original question. “For example, do you know who owns the schooner that was moored opposite? How long was it there? Is it possible it was there by arrangement? You’ve already told me Owen was expert in his field. Did he usually work aboveboard, or was he always available for other things? Did he ever mention connections he might have? May I have your permission to speak to any of your men who worked with him?”
    Clive smiled, amusement lighting his face and softening the lines of it.
    “Where do you wish me to start? I doubt it was anything but chance as far as the schooner was concerned. It’s called the
Summer Wind,
and it belongs to a bit of an adventurer named Fin Gillander. I’ve known of him for some years. I doubt he arranged to pick up an escaped prisoner, unless he believed him innocent. And knowing what I do of Owen, and of English law, that is highly unlikely.”
    “For money?” Monk questioned.
    “Doubt it. Did Owen have money? I thought he’d just escaped from the wagon taking him from the court to prison. That’s what the papers said, for whatever that’s worth?” His expression was slightly quizzical.
    “If Gillander helped Owen for money, then someone other than Owen paid him,” Monk agreed. “It’s possible, but not likely. Looks as if it’s just the devil’s own luck. His escape, Pettifer’s drowning, Gillander being at exactly the right place at the right time…”
    Clive bit his lip. “You don’t believe in so much coincidence and neither do I. I don’t know what the connection is, but there must be one.”
    “McNab at Customs lost another prisoner he was questioning. A convicted man taken out of prison to the customs offices, to identify something, I believe. His name was Blount, and that was just over a week ago,” Monk told him.
    Clive looked startled. “Did he get away, too?”
    “Yes…and no,” Monk said with dark amusement. “McNab didn’t catch up with him until someone pulled him out of the water, and called McNab. Blount had been drowned, and then shot.” He wanted to see the expression on Clive’s face.
    Clive blinked. “Drowned and then shot? Is that not…excessive? And now Owen has escaped.” The gentleness of his voice robbed it of malice.
    “While some might agree with you, I don’t believe in this much coincidence, either. Blount was a master forger, Owen an explosives expert. Both were in the custody of Customs, at least at the time of their original escape. Although in neither case were customs officers apparently responsible for their deaths. We have no idea who drowned Blount, or who shot him, either. As far as the business with Owen is concerned, it’s Pettifer who’s dead, and Owen’s…God knows where. But the question arises, was Owen meant to be killed? You’ve told me about Owen, thank you. What do you know about the schooner, or Gillander? How long has he moored there almost opposite you?”
    Clive smiled. “I’ve known Gillander on and off for years, something like twenty.” He took another sip from his drink and leaned back in his chair. “He’s in his thirties, or perhaps forty. Something of an adventurer. Never told anybody exactly where he came from, just turned up in San Francisco, around about the time of the gold rush in ’49. He was little more than a deckhand then, picking up an odd job wherever he could find it. Cheeky bastard. All the nerve in the world. Hard player, hard drinker, and easy with women. Mind you, he was extraordinarily handsome, and he knew it, and used it. But he was a good seaman, especially in the smaller boats, two or three masts. Never bothered with the clippers, but then he didn’t much like taking orders.” His eyes narrowed a little. “Don’t you know all