Caleb was on the lead barge, facing him, leaping up and down on the spot in mockery. He put his hands to his mouth to cup the sound.

“Come on!” he yelled. “Come and get me! Come on, Mr. Policeman! I killed Angus, didn't I? I destroyed him! He's gone forever! Finished! No more smart clothes, no more virtuous wife by the fireside! No more church on Sunday and `Yes Sir,' `No sir,' `Aren't I a good boy, sir'!” He folded his anus across his chest, flat, hands down, then flung them wide. “Dead!” he cried. “Gone forever! You'll never find him. Nobody'll find him, ever!

Ever!”

Monk started off towards him, floundering on the canvas piles, stumbling and regaining his balance, taking a wild leap across the dark water to the barge ahead, landing splayed and bruised on his hands and knees. He scrambled forward again, oblivious of pain or danger.

The bargee was yelling something but he ignored it.

They had passed the Blackwall entrance to the South Dock. Ahead of them was the Cubitt Town pier, then the curve of the river around the Isle of Dogs.

He could no longer see the lights of Greenwich on the far side. The fog and darkness were closing in. The marshes to the left were a dim outline. There were other boats, but he saw them only from the corner of his eye. He leaped to the front barge just in time to see Caleb apparently overbalance, land on his knees, then disappear over the side. Then he heard his laughter coming up from the water and just as he reached the edge himself, a rowing boat pulled away, one man heaving on the oars, another crouching in the stern, seemingly terrified.

Monk swore savagely. He swung around to the bargee, although even as he did, he knew it was pointless. The man had no way on earth of changing course. The heavily laden barges were tied together and going upstream on the tide.

“Monk!”

Where was the voice coming from?

“Monk! Jump, man!”

Then he saw the second rowing boat with the sergeant and another constable in it. Without a second's hesitation he jumped, landing in it and sending it rocking so violently it all but overturned. The constable at the oars let out an oath. The sergeant grabbed him roughly and forced him down on the duckboards at the bottom, and the boat righted itself and plowed forward again.

“After 'im!” the sergeant shouted unnecessarily.

They sat in silence, Monk still half crouched. The constable at the oars dug them into the water with all the strength he possessed, hurling his weight against them so violently that for several strokes the boat veered and bounced, then he settled down to an even pace and picked up speed.

There was hardly any light now. The late afternoon had drawn in and the overcast sky had robbed what little there was and the rising river mist distorted shapes. Foghorns sounded eerily. The lights of a clipper appeared, shadowed spars towering above them, drifting like giant trees in the sky. They rocked roughly in its wake.

“Where is the bastard?” the sergeant said between his teeth, peering forward through the gloom. “I'll get that swine if it's the last thing I do!”

“Bugsby's marshes,” Monk answered, straightening his legs to sit up properly. “I'll wager he's going downriver again.”

“Why?”

“He'll know we have men in Greenwich, and people who would say where he went. But he knows the marshes and we don't. We'll never get him once he's ashore there in the dark.”

The sergeant swore.

The constable pulled harder on the oars, his back straining, hands rubbed to blisters. The boat sped over the misty, dark-running tide.

The shore loomed up before they were prepared. There were no lights, only the mud banks catching the last of the daylight in thin, shining strips, and the soft, seeping sound of the rising water in the marsh reeds.

Monk scrambled forward and jumped out into mud up to his calves. It took a surprising effort to pull himself loose from its ice-cold, sucking grip.

But twenty yards downstream he could see another figure on a firmer stretch, and the black shape of a boat pulling away, as if it had landed the devil himself and would flee for salvation.

The constable was out behind him, cursing at the mud. Together they squelched and struggled over the slime onto firmer shore, floundering towards Caleb, who was already trying to run.

No one shouted again. They all three plunged wildly through the deepening mist as the rising wind blew wraiths of it around them, then away again.

The sergeant brought up the rear, dogged and determined, swinging inland a little, driving Caleb towards the point, cutting off his retreat back towards Greenwich.

It was another fifteen minutes of exhausting, heartpounding, leg-aching pursuit before at last they cornered Caleb with his back to the river and nowhere else to turn.

He held his gloved hands up, open wide. They could no longer see his face, but Monk could imagine his expression from his voice in the darkness. “All right! Take me!” he yelled. “Take me to your petty little courtroom, and your charade of a trial! What will you convict me of? There's no corpse!

No corpse!” And he threw his head back and roared with laughter. The sound of it echoed across the dark water and was swallowed in the mist. “You'll never find a corpse-you fools!”

Chapter 8

The sergeant never for a moment hesitated about charging Caleb with the murder of Angus Stonefield. However, when the Crown Prosecutor came to consider the case, it was a different matter. He debated the evidence be- fore him, and in the middle of the day sent for Oliver Rathbone. “Well?” he demanded, when Rathbone had reviewed what they knew and heard the tale of Caleb's arrest. “Is there any point in bringing him to trial? In fact have we sufficient evidence even to proceed with a charge?” Rathbone thought about it for some time before replying. It was a rare bright winter day and the sun shone in through the long windows.

“I have some knowledge of the case,” he said thoughtfully, sitting with his elegant legs crossed, his fingertips placed together. “Monk consulted me some time ago about the evidence necessary to presume death. He was acting for Mrs. Stonefield.”

The prosecutor's eyebrows rose. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“Not really,” Rathbone answered. “Poor woman was convinced in her own mind of what had happened, and understandably wished to be in a position to appoint someone to continue the business, before it was too severely dam- aged by Stonefield's absence.”

“So what do you know that might assist this case?” The prosecutor leaned back in his chair and regarded Rathbone steadily. “I'm inclined to believe Stone did kill his brother. I should very much like to see him answer for it, but I'm damned if I'll send to trial a case we cannot win, and which will leave the wretched man vindicated, as well as making us a laughingstock.”

“Oh, indeed,” Rathbone agreed heartily. “It would be sickening to have him acquitted for lack of evidence, and the moment after have the corpse turn up, with proof of his guilt, and not be able to do a damned thing about it.

That's the trouble, we have only the one shot. It must hit the mark, there is no second chance.”

“Considering that as children both men were wards of Lord Ravensbrook, it may well be a case which attracts some attention,” the prosecutor went on, “in spite of Stone's present highly disreputable way of life. It will be interesting to see who defends him.” He sighed. “If there is a need for defense.”

“The wretched man has admitted killing his brother,” Rathbone said grimly.

“Boasted of it, in fact.”

“It will still be very tight. We have no corpse, no absolute evidence of death…”

“But a great deal of circumstantial evidence,” Rathbone argued, leaning forward. “They were seen together the day Stonefield disappeared, even seen quarreling. Stonefield's torn and bloodstained clothing has been found, and no one has seen him since.”