Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry

you, Oliver.” She wanted to think of something else to say, but there was nothing that could not be misread.
    Another carriage passed them, and through the window she saw Miriam Clive. For a moment their glances met, then the Clives’ carriage passed, and Beata accepted the footman’s hand and climbed into her own, leaving Rathbone on the path, watching her until she was out of sight.

M ONK AND H OOPER WERE on the river on one of those unusual November days when the sky was almost cloudless and there were moments when it seemed as if the river were made of gray glass. Not a breath of wind stirred the surface. The only movement was the occasional wash of a boat going up or downstream, all but silently. The voices of lightermen calling to one another echoed, and the splash of an oar could be heard.
    Now and then a water bird dived for a fish. It broke the smooth surface almost without sound, and then came up victorious. It was an hour short of high tide. Soon the river would brim its banks. An hour after that it would turn.
    They rowed randan, that is, holding only one oar each, on two separate seats, one slightly in front of the other. It was swift, maneuverable, and when rowers were well matched they could keep up the pace for hours.
    Hooper was a good partner and now that his injuries from the battle on the gun smugglers’ ship were almost healed, he was extremely strong. It was a challenge to keep up with him, but one that Monk enjoyed. They were returning from the successful solution to a robbery.
    “Hear any more about the drowned man?” Hooper asked curiously. “The one that was shot.”
    “No. I’ve got Laker on it,” Monk replied. “But whatever happened to Blount, it’s probably to do with smuggling, or even someone he rubbed the wrong way before he was caught. I daresay it was to keep him quiet, in case he talked to Customs.” He smiled bleakly. “Anyone with knowledge of smuggling is McNab’s problem, not mine.”
    “Right,” Hooper agreed. Monk could not see his face because they both rowed facing the stern so all he could see was Hooper’s back. But he heard the pleasure in his voice, and he shared it.
    Five minutes later they pulled in at the steps up to the Wapping Police Station and saw Laker standing on the dockside, clearly waiting for them. He came down the steps easily, the sun gleaming on his fair hair. He was in his late twenties, overly sure of himself, graceful, quick-witted, and definitely a touch arrogant. Monk had seen the more vulnerable side of him only once, during the gun battle on the smugglers’ ship. But it was a part of the man he had not forgotten, and it was the reason he had not disciplined him harder.
    “Sir!” Laker said as Monk shipped his oar and stood up.
    “What is it?”
    “Another escaped prisoner, sir.” Laker’s handsome face lit with a smile of pure pleasure. “Customs again. This one had just been convicted. Sentence came down this morning. He escaped when he was being transferred into the wagon to go back to prison.”
    “What’s it got to do with Customs?” Monk stepped out of the boat onto the flight of stone steps up to the dockside. Hooper came on the other side and tied the boat.
    “One of their convictions, sir. Bad bastard, by the name of Silas Owen.”
    “Owen?” The name caught Monk’s attention immediately. “Isn’t he an explosives man? Got caught with gelignite?”
    They reached the top of the steps and stood in the sun.
    “Yes, sir. They were pretty lucky to convict him,” Laker replied. “He’s a demolition expert and has done a lot of regular professional work: tunnels, bringing down old buildings, and the like. But he’s skipped it this time.”
    “Any reason to think he’s coming our way?” Monk felt a spark of interest, but it was far more likely that the regular police would catch him. He would go inland or maybe across the flat stretches around the Estuary, and hope to get a lift on some sort of barge or collier