The Shifting Tide (17 page)

The doctor’s eyes opened even wider. “Did yer?” he said, making a faint whistling sound between his teeth. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you. Mr. Louvain in’t one ter meddle wi’, an’ yer won’t cross ’im twice, I’d put money on that!”

“But he has friends?”

“Mebbe. Mostly there’s them as ’ates ’im, an’ them as is frit of ’im, an’ them as is both.” He reached for the bottle of brandy and offered it to Monk. “Don’t take more’n a swig or two or yer’ll feel even worse, but that’ll get yer on yer way. An’ I’ll give yer summink else fer nothin’: Don’ meddle wi’ Clem Louvain. Anyb’dy crosses ’im up an’ ’e’s like a pit bull wi’ toothache. If yer wanter keep yer other arm, yer’ll steer clear of ’im.”

Monk took a swig of the brandy, and it hit his stomach like fire.

“So whoever crosses him is either very brave or very stupid?” he asked, watching the doctor’s face.

The doctor sat back and made himself comfortable against a pile of rope.

“Did you?” he asked candidly.

“No. It was a thief, and I’m trying to get the stuff back.”

“Fer Louvain?”

“Of course.”

“Off one of his boats? Likely the
Maude Idris
.”

“Yes. Why?”

“What were it?”

“Ivory.”

The doctor made another shrill whistle between his teeth.

Monk wondered if the loss of blood had weakened his wits. He should not have said so much. Desperation was making him careless. “So someone is either sitting on a pile of ivory wondering how on earth to get rid of it without betraying who they are and bringing down Louvain’s vengeance on them,” he said very quietly. “Or else someone with a great deal of power, enough not to need to be afraid of anything Louvain can do to him, is feeling very pleased with himself, and perhaps very rich.”

“Or very ’appy ter ’ave scored one orff Louvain,” the doctor added.

“Who would that be?”

The doctor grinned. “Take your pick—Culpepper, Dobbs, Newman. Any o’ them big men along the Pool, or the West India Dock, or even down Lime’ouse way. I’d go back ’ome, if I was you. Yer in’t suited fer this. River’s no place fer gennelmen. Cutthroats is still two a penny, if yer knows where ter find ’em.”

Monk gritted his teeth as pain from his arm washed over him.

“Let Louvain clean up ’is own mess,” the doctor added.

“How much do I owe you?” Monk asked, rising to his feet slowly and a trifle unsteadily.

“Well, you prob’ly owes ’Erbert ’ere fer ’is brandy, but I don’ need nuffink. I reckon yer worth it fer interest, like. Crimea, eh? Honest?”

“Yes.”

“She know Florence Nightingale?”

“Yes.”

“You met ’er?”

“Yes. She has a pretty sharp tongue in her, too.” Monk smiled, and winced at the memory.

The doctor pushed his hands into his pockets, his eyes shining.

Monk thought of telling him about the clinic in Portpool Lane, then changed his mind. It was only pride which made him want to. Better to be discreet, at least for now. “What’s your name?” He would do something later.

“Crow,” the doctor said with a huge smile. “At least that’s what they call me. Suits me profession. Wot’s yours?”

Monk smiled back. “Monk—”

Crow roared with laughter, and Monk found himself oddly self-conscious; in fact, he felt himself coloring. He turned away and fished in his pocket to pay Mr. Herbert for his brandy.

Herbert refused the money, and Monk gave Madge sixpence instead, and another sixpence when she brought him water and soap to clean up his jacket before he walked outside. There was a bitter wind coming off the tide, but its chill revived him.

With a sharper mind and a slightly clearer head came the awareness that if he was going to go back to see Little Lil, then he had to have at least two or three gold watches to sell her. Not even to earn Louvain’s money was he going to part with Callandra’s watch. The only person whose help he could ask for now was Louvain himself. The thought choked in his throat, but there was no alternative. The sooner he did it, the sooner it would be over.

“What?” Louvain said incredulously when Monk told him.

Monk felt his face burn. He was standing in front of Louvain’s desk and Louvain was sitting in the large, carved, and padded chair behind it. Louvain had already remarked on Monk’s torn sleeve, and Monk had dismissed it.

“I need to convince them that I have stolen goods to sell,” Monk repeated, staring back at him unblinkingly. He knew exactly what Louvain was trying to do by his demeanor because he had exercised exactly that kind of domination of will over others when he had been in the police and had the power to back it. He refused to be cowed. “Talk means nothing,” he answered. “I have to show them something.”

“And you imagine I’m fool enough to give it to you?” There was a bitter derision in Louvain’s voice, and perhaps disappointment as well. “I fund four or five gold watches for you, hand them over, and why should I ever see you again, let alone my watches? What kind of an idiot do you take me for?”

“One that does not hire a man to retrieve his stolen goods without first finding out enough about him to know whether he can trust him or not,” Monk replied immediately.

Louvain smiled, showing his teeth. There was a flash of respect in his eyes, but no warmth. “I know a great deal more about you than you do about me,” he conceded with a touch of arrogance.

Monk smiled back, his look hard, as if he also had secret knowledge that amused him.

Louvain saw something, and there was a subtle change in his eyes.

Monk smiled more widely.

Suddenly, Louvain was uncertain. “What do you know about me?” he asked, no timbre or lift in his voice to indicate whether the answer mattered to him or not.

“I’m not concerned with anything except what has to do with the ivory,” Monk told him. “I needed to know your enemies, rivals, people who owe you, or whom you owe, and any persons who think you have wronged them.”

“And what have you found out?” Louvain’s eyebrows rose, interest sharper in him.

Perhaps if Louvain were to succeed in the hard and dangerous trade he had chosen he needed to appear a man no one would dare cross, but was there a gentle man behind the mask? Was he capable of softer passions as well, of love, vulnerability, dreams? Was the woman he had taken to Portpool Lane the mistress of a friend for whom he would perform such a service? Or was she perhaps his own mistress, and he had had to protect his family, whoever they were, wife, children, parents?

“What have you found?” Louvain repeated.

“Don’t you know?” Monk asked aloud.

Louvain nodded very slowly. “If I get the watches for you, you now know that if you steal them, England won’t be big enough for you to hide in, let alone London.”

“I won’t steal them because I’m not a thief,” Monk snapped. He was overpoweringly aware of the difference in wealth between them. He lived from week to week, and Louvain would know that, whereas Louvain owned ships, warehouses, a London home with carriages, horses, possibly even a house in the country. He would have servants, possessions, a future of as much certainty as was possible in life.

Louvain raised his eyebrows, but there was a flicker of humor in his face. “Perhaps no one else was rash enough to give you gold watches?”

“I never worked for anyone who lost a shipment of ivory before,” Monk snapped back. “I tend to specialize in murders.”

“And minor thefts,” Louvain added cruelly. “Lately you’ve retrieved a couple of brooches, a cello, a rare book, and three vases. However, you have failed to retrieve a silver salver, a red lacquer box, and a carriage horse.”

Monk’s temper seethed. Only knowledge of his own dependency on the payment for this job kept him in the room. “Which begs the question of why you asked me to find your ivory, rather than the River Police, as any other victim of crime would have done!” he said bitterly.

There were many emotions in Louvain’s face, violent and conflicting: fury, fear, a moment of respect, and mounting frustration. He realized Monk was still staring at him and that his eyes read far too much. “I’ll give you forty pounds,” he said abruptly. “Get what you can. But if you’re going to sell them around here, you’d better go to the south side of the river to buy them. The pawnbrokers and receivers all know each other’s business on this side. Now go and get on with it. Time’s short. It’s no damned use to me finding out who took my ivory if they’ve already sold it on!”

He stood up and went to the safe in the farther corner, unlocked it with his back to Monk, took out the money, and locked the safe again. He faced Monk and counted out the coins. His eyes were as hard as the winter wind off the Thames, but he did not repeat his warning.

“Thank you,” Monk accepted, turning on his heel and leaving.

Louvain was correct that there was no time to lose—also, that he would be far wiser to buy his watches on the south side of the river, perhaps as far down as Deptford, opposite the Isle of Dogs. He walked briskly back along the dockside, guarding his injured arm as well as he could. He should find a tailor to stitch up the gash in his coat, but he had no time to spare now. The cut was surprisingly small for the pain the knife had inflicted on his flesh.

It was growing dusk already, even though it was mid-afternoon. He had missed lunch, so he bought a couple of eel pies from a peddler on the curbside. Only when he bit into the first one did he realize how hungry he was. He stood on the embankment side near the stone steps down to the water, waiting until he saw a ferry that would take him across. It was half tide, and the smell of the mud was sour. It seemed to cling to skin, hair, cloth, and would probably be with him even when he left the river to go home.

The air was damp; the sound of water slapping against the stones was as rhythmic as the blood in a living thing. Faint veils of mist hung over the slick surface. The wind-ribbed shafts of silver were bright one moment, vanishing the next. Far to the south, along the curve of Limehouse Reach, a foghorn sounded, drifting like a cry of loss.

Monk shivered. As the wind dropped the mist would increase. He had no desire to be caught trying to cross back again if there was a real pea-souper. He must go as quickly as possible. Without reasoning the advantage to it, he walked to the edge of the steps and down the first two or three, parallel to the wall, railless, the black water swirling and slopping a dozen feet below him.

There was a boat twenty yards away, a man sitting idly at the oars. Monk cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to him.

The man half turned, saw where Monk was standing, and dug the oars in deep, pulling the boat towards him.

“Wanter cross?” he asked when he was close enough to be heard.

“Yes,” Monk shouted back.

The man drew the boat in, and Monk went down the rest of the steps. It was going to be less easy to board the boat with one stiff arm, but he had to move it in order to keep his balance. The man watched him with a certain sympathy, but he was obliged to keep both hands on his oars to control the boat.

“W’ere yer goin’?” he asked when Monk was seated and pulling his coat collar up around his ears.

“Just the other side,” Monk replied.

The man dug his oars into the water again and bent his back. He looked to be about thirty or so, with a bland, agreeable face, skin a little chapped by the weather, fair eyebrows, and a smear of freckles across his cheeks. He handled the boat with skill, as if doing so was second nature to him.

“Been on the river all your life?” Monk asked. A man like this might have seen something of use to him, as long as his questions were not so obvious as to make his purpose known.

“Most.” The man smiled, showing a broken front tooth. “But yer new ’ere. Least I never seen yer afore.”

“Not this stretch,” Monk prevaricated. “What’s your name?”

“Gould.”

“How late do you work?”

Gould shrugged. “Bad night, go ’ome early. Got a good job, stay late. Why? Yer wanter come back across late?”

“I might do. If I’m lucky I ought not to be long.” He must phrase his questions so as not to arouse suspicion; he could not afford word to spread that he was inquisitive. He had already made one enemy in the scuffle-hunter, and the last thing he wanted was to be tipped overboard into the icy water. Too many bodies were fished out of the Thames, and only God knew how many more were never found.

“Isn’t it dangerous to be on the river at night?” he asked.

Gould grunted. “Can be.” He nodded towards a pleasure boat, lights gleaming on the water, the sound of laughter drifting across towards them. “Not for the likes o’ them, but down in the little boats like us, yeah, it can be. Mind yer own business and yer’ll be all right.”

Monk heard the warning, but he could not afford to obey it. “You mean river pirates use little boats?” he asked.

Gould tapped the side of his nose. “Never ’eard of ’em. In’t no pirates on the Thames. Odd thieves, an’ the like, but they don’t kill no one.”

“Sometimes they do,” Monk argued. They were about halfway across, and Gould was weaving in and out of the vessels at anchor with considerable skill. The boat moved almost silently, the dip and rise of the oars indistinguishable from the sounds of water all around them. The mist was drifting and most of the light was smothered by a clinging, choking gray mass that caught in the throat. The hulls of the ships loomed up as only a greater density in the murk, one moment clearly seen, the next no more than shadows. Foghorns echoed and re-echoed till it was hard to tell which direction they came from.

What had it been like on the night of the robbery? Had the thieves cleverly used the weather to their advantage? Or stupidly even chosen the wrong ship?

“Could you find a particular ship in this?” Monk asked, moving his head to indicate the mist swirling closer around them.

“ ’Course I could!” Gould said cheerfully. “Know the boats on the river like me own ’and, I do.” He nodded to one side. “That’s the
City o’ Leeds
over there, four-master she is, come in from Bombay.
Liverpool Pride
twenty yards beyond ’er. Come from Cape o’ Good ’Ope. Bin stuck ’ere three weeks waitin’ for a berth. Other side’s the
Sonora
, foreigner from India, or some place. I gotter know ’em ter the yard or so, or I’ll be rowin’ straight into ’em in this.”