The Shifting Tide (18 page)

“Yes . . . of course.” Monk’s mind was racing, picturing the thieves creeping through the wreaths of vapor, finding the
Maude Idris
, having marked her carefully in daylight. Would it have had to be a bigger boat than this to carry two men, or even three, and the tusks as well? He looked at Gould, his powerful shoulders as he heaved on the oars, his agility as he made a sudden turn, swiveling the blade to change the boat’s course. He would have the strength to climb up the side of a ship and to carry the ivory. He would have the strength to beat a man’s head in, as Hodge’s had been.

“W’ere yer wanna go?” Gould asked.

Monk could see little that was distinguishable in the dark blur of the shoreline. What he needed was a good pawnbroker who asked no questions and who would decline to remember him afterwards, but if he had ever had any knowledge of the south side of the river, he had forgotten it now. He might as well make use of Gould’s help.

“Pawnbroker,” he replied. “One that has some good stuff but is not too particular.”

Gould chortled with hilarity. “Will yer want one on the souf side, eh? I could tell yer a few good ones on the norf. In’t none better’n ol’ Pa Weston. Give yer a fair price, an’ never ask no questions as ’ow yer got it, wotever it is. Tell ’im yer Aunt Annie left it yer, an’ ’e’ll look at yer as solemn as an owl an’ swear as ’e believes yer.”

Monk made a mental note that Gould had almost certainly tried that a few times himself. Perhaps he was a heavy-horseman on the side, with all the specially built pockets in his clothes, or simply a scuffle-hunter, like the man who had stabbed him. Monk was glad he did not have Callandra’s watch with him now.

“Rather the south side,” he answered. “Better for me at the moment.”

“I unnerstand,” Gould assured him. “In’t everything as is easy ter place.” He made a rueful gesture, a kind of shrug, and as he leaned forward a ship’s riding lights caught for a moment on his face, and Monk saw his expression of frustration, and a wry, desperate kind of self-mockery. Monk wondered what trinket Gould was trying to pawn. Presumably the description of it was already known to the police.

They were only a few yards from the shore now, and Monk saw the steep bank rise ahead of them and heard the water slapping on the steps. A moment later they were alongside, and with an expert turn of the oar, Gould bumped the boat gently against the stone so Monk could get out.

“Wot yer done ter yer arm, then?” he asked curiously, watching Monk wince as he fished in his pocket for money to pay his fare.

Monk raised his eyes to meet Gould’s. “Knife fight,” he said candidly, then he passed the money over, plus an extra sixpence. “Same for the way back, if you’re here in a couple of hours.”

Gould grinned. “Don’ slit nobody’s throat,” he said cheerfully.

Monk stepped out onto the stairs and began to climb upward, keeping his balance on the wet stone with difficulty. Once on the embankment, he walked to the nearest street lamp and looked around. He could not afford the time to explore; he needed to ask, and within a matter of minutes he found someone. Everybody was familiar with the need to pawn things now and then, and an enquiry for a pawnbroker was nothing to raise interest.

He was back at the stairs an hour and three-quarters later, and within ten minutes he saw Gould’s boat emerge from the mist and the now-total darkness of the river. He did not realize how relieved he was until he was seated in the boat again, rocking gently with its movement in the water, three gold watches in his pocket.

“Got wot yer wanted then, ’ave yer?” Gould asked him, dipping the oars and sending the boat out into the stream again. The mist closed around them and the shore disappeared. In a matter of moments the rest of the world vanished and there was nothing visible except Gould’s face opposite him and the outline of his body against the dark pall of the mist. Monk could hear the water, and now and again the boom of a foghorn, and smell the salt and mud of the fast-running tide. It was as if he and Gould were the only two men alive. If Gould robbed him and put him over the side, no one would ever know. It would be oblivion in every sense.

“I kept my word to someone,” he replied. He looked directly at Gould, staring at him with the hard, level iciness that had frozen constables, and even sergeants, when he had been in the police. It was the only weapon he had.

Gould might have nodded, but in the dark Monk could barely make out his figure. It was only the regular rhythmic movement of the boat that assured him the Gould was still rowing. For several moments they moved in silence except for the water, and far away the foghorns.

But Gould knew the river; Monk should not waste the opportunity to learn from him. “Are there boats on the water all night long, even shortly before dawn?” he asked.

Gould hesitated a moment or two before answering. “There’s always thieves on the lookout for a chance,” he replied. “But ’less yer know wot yer doin’, an’ can look arter yerself, better be in yer bed that hour.”

“How do you know that?” Monk said quickly.

Gould chuckled deep in his throat. “I ’eard,” he answered, but the laughter in his voice made the truth obvious.

“Thieves around? Dangerous ones,” Monk said thoughtfully.

Gould was still amused by Monk’s naÏveté.

“In their own boats, or borrowed?” Monk pursued. “Or stolen for the night? Anybody ever steal your boat?”

“Nah!” Gould was indignant. It was an insult to his ability and his worthiness on the river.

“How would you know if somebody’d had your boat at, say . . . three or four o’clock in the morning?” Monk said dubiously.

“I’d know if somebody’d ’ad me boat any time,” Gould said with complete confidence. “I leave it tied wi’ me own kind o’ knot, but at four in the mornin’ I’d be in it meself.”

“Would you.” It was an acknowledgment more than a question. “Every morning?”

“Yeah—jus’ about. Why? Some mornin’ yer got special, like?”

Monk knew he had gone far enough. Gould was probably familiar with many of the river thieves; he might even be one of them, an accomplice. The question was, did Monk want to risk word of his hunt getting back to whoever had taken the ivory? Except that they almost certainly knew already.

The large bulk of a schooner loomed up ahead of them, almost over them. Gould made a hasty movement with the oars, throwing his weight against them to turn the boat aside. Monk found himself gripping the sides. He hoped in the darkness that Gould had not seen him. He half expected the shock of cold water on his skin any second.

It was worth the risk—maybe. He could spend weeks going around and around the subject, and discovering what had happened to the ivory when it was too late. How would he survive anything if his reputation was ruined? He lived on other people’s perceptions of him as a hard man—ruthless, successful, never to be lied to.

“October the twentieth,” he answered. He wanted to add “And look where you’re going!” but tact told him not to.

Gould was silent.

Monk strained his eyes ahead, but he could not see the opposite shore yet. Although in this murk it could be twenty feet away.

“Dunno,” Gould replied at last. “I were down Greenwich way around then. Weren’t up ’ere. So come ter fink on it, nob’dy coulda ’ad me boat. So wotever it was as was done, it weren’t done in my boat.” His voice lifted cheerfully. “Sorry, I can’t ’elp yer.” And the next moment the dark wall of the Embankment was above them and the hull of the boat scraped gently against the stones of the step. “There y’are, mister, safe an’ sound.”

Monk thanked him, paid the second half of his fare, and climbed out.

It was another miserable night because Hester was not home. He knew that the reason would be illness at Portpool Lane, people she could not leave because there was no one else to care for them, but it did not ease his loneliness.

He slept in, largely because his arm kept him awake until long after midnight, and disturbed him after that. He was undecided where to go to have the bandage changed. He kept telling himself to go back and find Crow. He might learn more from him. But even as he did so he was putting on his coat, mitts, and muffler and walking towards the omnibus stop in the direction of Portpool Lane.

It was raining steadily, a persistent, soaking rain that found its way into everything and sent water swirling deep along the gutters. Even so he strode down the footpath under the shadow of the brewery with a light step, as if he were going home after a long absence.

He entered the clinic and found Bessie in the main room, sweeping the floor. She glanced up and was about to berate him when she realized who he was, and her face broke into a transformed smile.

“I’ll get ’er for yer, sir,” she said immediately. “She’ll be that glad ter see yer. Workin’ like a navvy, she is.” She shook her head. “We got more in ’ere sick than yer ever seed. Time o’ year, I reckon. An’ you look starvin’ cold, an all. D’yer like an ’ot cup o’ tea?”

“Yes, please,” he accepted, sitting down as she disappeared out the door, still carrying the broom as if it had been a bayonet.

He had little time to look around him at how the place had changed since he had last been there—the addition of a new cupboard, a couple of mats salvaged from somewhere—before Hester came in. Her face filled with pleasure at seeing him, but it did not disguise her fatigue. He was alarmed at the pallor of her skin and the very fine lines around her eyes. He felt a lurch of tenderness, realizing how much of herself she spent in the care of others.

He stood up to greet her, keeping his injured left arm a little farther away, in case she touched the wound.

She noticed it at once. “What have you done?” she demanded, her voice sharp with anxiety.

“A slight cut,” he replied, and saw her disbelief. “I had a doctor stitch it up for me, but it needs looking at again. Will you, please?”

“Of course. Take your coat off and sit down.” She took the jacket from him. “And look at this!” she said crossly. “It’s ruined that sleeve! How am I going to mend that?” Her voice caught, and he realized she was close to tears. It had nothing to do with the jacket and everything to do with him, but she would not say so, because she knew he had no choice.

“It’ll stitch,” he replied calmly, not referring to the jacket either, but to his arm.

She took a deep, shivering breath and went to the stove for hot water, keeping her back to him. She picked clean bandages out of the cupboard and began to work.

It was early afternoon by the time Monk went a second time to Little Lil’s establishment, and was admitted. His arm was feeling a great deal easier. The bleeding had stopped, it smarted a bit, and was stiffer than usual, but apart from that it was hardly handicapped. Hester had said the cut was not very deep and in her opinion Crow had made a good job of stitching it up. Above all it was clean.

Lil was sitting in exactly the same place as before, with the same piece of embroidery in her lap. The fire was burning and the dim, crowded-in room had a reddish glow. She looked like an old, smug little cat, waiting to be served up another portion of cream. Or possibly another canary. Louvain had warned him not to underestimate the violence of an opulent receiver just because she might be a woman.

Lil looked up at him, her large eyes bright with anticipation. She regarded his hair, his face, the way he stood, the fact that he had taken his muffler and mitts off to come into her presence. She liked it. “Come in,” she ordered him. “Sit down.” She looked at the chair opposite her, no more than four feet from her own.

He obeyed her, thanking her quietly. She did not turn straight to business, and he felt more than the heat of the fire as he realized what she was doing.

“ ’eard yer got knifed,” she said, shaking her head. “Yer wanter look after yerself. A man wi’ no arms is a danger to ’isself.”

“It’s not deep,” he replied. “It’ll be healed in a few days.”

Her eyes never left his face. “Mebbe yer shouldn’t be workin’ by yerself?”

He knew what she was going to say next. Long before the words were framed, it was there in the appetite in her face. But he had invited it and there was no escape now.

“The river’s an ’ard place,” she continued. “Yer should think on workin’ wi’ someone else. Keep an eye on yer back for yer.”

He had to pretend to consider it. Above all he must draw some information from her. If she wanted flattery, attention, and heaven knew what else, then that was the price he must pay.

“I know the river’s dangerous,” he agreed, as if admitting it reluctantly.

She leaned forward a little.

He was acutely uncomfortable, but he dared not seem to retreat.

“Yer should think abaht it. Choose careful,” she urged.

“Oh yes,” he agreed with more emotion than she would understand. “There are a lot of people up and down this stretch I wouldn’t want to go against.”

She hesitated, weighing her next words. “Got no stomach fer it, in’t yer?” she challenged.

He smiled widely, knowing she would like it. He saw the answering gleam in her, and masked a shudder. “Oh, I like to be well thought of,” he said. “But I want to live to see it.”

She giggled with pleasure. It was a low noise in her throat like someone with heavy catarrh, but from her eyes it was clear that she was amused.

He spoke again, quickly. “Who do I keep clear of?”

She named half a dozen in a low, conspiratorial whisper. He had no doubt they were her rivals. It would not do to let her think he believed her unquestioningly. She would have no respect for that. He asked her why, as if he needed proof.

She described them in vicious and picturesque detail. He could not help wondering if the River Police knew as much about them.

“I’m obliged,” he said, when he was sure she had finished. “But there are more than receivers to be careful of. There are one or two shipowners I don’t want to cross.”

Her big eyes blinked slowly. “You frit o’ them?” she asked.

“I’d rather swim with the tide than against it,” he said judiciously.

Again she gave her strange, deep-throated giggle. “Then don’ cross Clem Louvain,” she told him. “Or Bert Culpepper. Least not until yer sees ’oo wins.”