Revenge in a Cold River

Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry Page A

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Authors: Anne Perry
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going north.
    Laker looked pleased with himself. “Well, yes, there is, sir. Sort of. Bit of information I got from a snitch downriver from here. Said he thought Owen might make for France, but not the way you’d expect, which would be the first boat down to the Estuary that he could get, then something going across the Channel from there. That’s where everybody else’ll be looking for him, I reckon. But apparently there’s a schooner moored well upriver, sir. Fast two-master. Clean cut, oceangoing. We haven’t got much that could keep up with something like that, especially not in the hands of a good sailor.”
    “And where is this schooner moored, then?” Monk asked.
    “Thought you might want to know that.” Laker smiled with satisfaction. “Just beyond Millbank, sir. He’ll have to go a roundabout way to get there. South bank, just about under the Vauxhall Bridge.”
    “Skelmer’s Wharf.” Monk jumped to the conclusion. He knew the place. For a small fee, an oceangoing two-master could well lie there without causing comment. And nobody would be looking for it. Clever. “Any reason to think it’s that one, Laker?” he asked.
    Laker bit his lip. “Informant of mine. Thing is, the customs men know it, too. It’s not for sure, but if we get to Skelmer’s Wharf now, we could be there before them. They don’t know that stretch of the river. Too far up for them to be there regularly. You could cross over on London Bridge, sir….”
    “Right! Then get us a fast, light hansom, and—”
    “Got one, sir. Just waiting…” Laker increased his pace as they followed him across the open stretch of the dock. Instead of going into the police station, they kept on with even longer strides toward where a hansom was waiting at the curb, the horse sensing the excitement and moving restlessly.
    Hooper was on their heels and swung up into the cab, making room for Monk.
    “Thank you, Laker. Good job,” Monk said, then gave the driver instructions to find the fastest way, generously offering him an extra couple of shillings if he got there within thirty minutes.
    “Forty, if the traffic’s right,” the cabbie agreed. “Over London Bridge should be right at this hour. ’Ang on, gents!”
    They leaned back and Monk settled in for a long and fast drive. It was their only chance of catching Owen, even if Laker was right, and if they really had as good a start on Owen as they thought. But Skelmer’s Wharf was a good guess. It was a sheltered mooring where even a large oceangoing schooner would not be remarked on. At this hour there would be few people about: mostly workmen, shipwrights and carpenters, possibly a few dockers, but all well involved in their own labor.
    A man coming or going, perhaps with a fishing rod and a few sandwiches for lunch, would not seem strange to anyone. His having a friend who turned up in a rowboat was to be expected. It would be a good day on the river, even if they caught nothing. Fishing, the odd pleasant conversation, a couple of pasties and a few bottles of ale, well wrapped up, a fine day, even if cold. Nothing unusual about that.
    They had arrested men there before, not fugitives from the law so much as from being asked a few very inconvenient questions.
    Neither Monk nor Hooper spoke. Monk was thinking that it would be a nice score against McNab if they managed to catch his man for him. That was two escapees in the space of a week. He would not forget the malice in McNab’s face as he had stood over the body of Blount watching Monk turn him over to reveal the bullet wound in the man’s back.
    They crossed the river at London Bridge and the cab picked up speed along a stretch where the traffic was light. The driver was really taking Monk at his word. He was going to have to pay the extra fare he had promised. They cut inland then joined the river again along the Albert Embankment.
    Another few minutes and they crossed the Vauxhall Bridge and swung in beside the dock and the open

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