Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry Page B

stretch of water. There was an old man sitting on the wharf with a fishing line dangling over the edge. It was a bright, windless morning and there was barely a ripple on the flat surface of the river. The grim mass of Millbank Prison towered above like a fortress, casting its shadow. Nothing on the river moved.
    The two-masted schooner anchored in the lee was reflected on the river as if in a mirror. It looked fast and sleek, perfectly balanced, oceangoing. A flash of admiration crossed Monk’s mind, before he alighted and paid the driver, including the extra he had promised.
    The driver glanced at the money, estimated it, and put it in his pocket.
    “Want me ter wait for yer, sir?” he asked hopefully.
    “No, thanks,” Monk replied, fearing that he might regret the decision. However, if he had guessed correctly from what Laker had been told, then this was where Owen would be making for. Perhaps it was something as inconspicuous as a string of barges, heavy laden and covered in canvas tarpaulins under which he could hide. He could disappear in some dock unloading the cargo farther downriver. A change of clothes, and he would look like any other docker or waterman. But more likely it was the beautiful schooner he was making for, and the open sea. Either way, the presence of a waiting hansom would give away the possibility of the police, or anyone else, watching.
    “Sure?” the driver asked.
    “Quite sure,” Monk replied. “There could be trouble. That’s a good horse. Get her out of here before it starts.”
    The cabbie’s face changed. “Right y’are, sir.” Without another word he urged the horse on and within minutes they were out of sight.
    Monk looked around. It was pretty open: just the wharf itself, a couple of old bollards for mooring, and some rickety steps down to the water, which were half-submerged now with a high tide just about to turn.
    On the bank there were deserted boat sheds. The nearest one had a workshop attached, the door hanging by a broken padlock. Farther along were two benches, the warehouses, and slipways for taking boats down to the water’s edge. A hundred yards farther the huge bulk of the brewery and more workshops. This was the only wharf for half a mile or more.
    Monk looked at Hooper. At a glance he appeared like any other workingman along the river. His trousers were well worn, his heavy pea jacket like anyone else’s, and he had an old blue waterman’s cap on his head. It was Monk himself who stood out. His trousers were well cut, his pea jacket new. He was bareheaded, and his hair barbered with some skill.
    He could not take his coat off; a man in crisp white shirtsleeves would attract attention on a November morning.
    “You stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll get in that workshop; the door won’t take any effort to break. Just keep down.” No explanation was necessary.
    Hooper nodded, then walked slowly over to the river’s edge, as if he was contemplating something.
    Monk went to the broken door and gave the lock a sharp blow. It fell off and he was able to go just inside but stop where he could observe, without being seen from the path.
    The fisherman took no notice of either of them. Possibly he was asleep.
    Ten minutes went by in which two barges went upriver with no sound except the splash of their wash against the uprights of the wharf, and then a tiny ripple on the bank. A rowboat passed the other way, a young man pulling hard on the oars, looking as if he were enjoying the speed and the sense of power. It was slack water, but the tide would turn any minute.
    The fisherman stood up and walked away.
    The minutes dragged on.
    Monk moved restlessly from one foot to the other. Hooper had gone out of sight down the bank.
    Then suddenly a man appeared, small and slight, running from the direction of the road, straight toward the wharf in a purposeful fashion.
    Just as Monk came out of the work shed, a second man appeared. He was taller, bearded, and heavyset, coming