The Shifting Tide

THREE

Monk left the house before daylight, so he was on the wharfside by sunrise just before eight o’clock. It was a blustery day with a sharp wind from the fast-flowing tide. The barges going slowly upstream were dark. Grays, silvers, and looming shadows were cut by the dense blackness of masts sweeping the sky lazily, barely in motion, yardarms lumpy with sails lashed to them. The hulls of the ships were indistinguishable except for size, no features clear, just a shape: no gun ports, no figureheads, no timbers.

He had learned a little yesterday, but most of it only emphasized how different the river was from the city—and that he was a stranger with no old debts or favors to call on.

People stole for many reasons, he realized. Where Louvain’s ivory was concerned, Monk assumed the thief could sell it for profit—or he had some personal quarrel with Louvain and took it merely to make him suffer, possibly knowing that he had already committed it to a particular buyer.

Monk needed to know more about the receiving of stolen goods on the river, and even more than that: about Louvain himself, his friends, his enemies, his debtors and creditors, his rivals.

He had realized yesterday that he could not spend time around the dockside without a reason that would occasion no comment, so he had come dressed as if he were a gentleman fallen on times hard enough to drive him to seek work. He had noticed several such men the day before, and studied their manner and speech well enough to imitate them. He had good boots to keep his feet dry, old trousers, and a heavy jacket against the wind. He had bought a secondhand cap, both to protect his head and to disguise his appearance, a woollen muffler, and the kind of mittens that allowed a working man to use his fingers.

He found a cart selling hot tea and bought a mugful. He contrived to fall into conversation with a couple of other men who appeared to be hoping for a day’s work when unloading began shortly. He was careful not to let them think he had any plans to jump his place in their queue.

“What’s the cargo today?” he asked, sipping the hot tea and feeling it slide down his throat and warm him inside.

The larger of the two men pointed with his arm. “The Cardiff Bay down there,” he replied, indicating a five-masted schooner fifty yards away. “Come in from the China Seas. I dunno wot they got, but they’ll likely be keen ter get it orff.”

The other man shrugged. “Could be teak from Burma,” he said unhappily. “Damn ’eavy stuff that is, an’ all. Or rubber, or spices, or mebbe silk.”

Monk looked farther out where another schooner was riding at anchor, this one with six masts.

“The Liza Jones?” The first man raised his eyebrows. “South America; I ’eard Brazil. Dunno if that’s right. Could be a load of ’ogwash. Wot der they bring in from Brazil, Bert?”

“I dunno,” Bert answered. “Wood? Coffee? Chocolate, mebbe? Don’t make no difference ter us. It’ll all be ’eavy an’ awkward. Every day I say I’ll never carry that bleedin’ stuff again, an’ then every night I get so cold I’d carry the devil piggyback just fer a fire an’ a roof over me ’ead.”

“Yeah . . . an’ all,” his friend agreed. He gave a warning glance at Monk. “First come, first served, eh? Remember that an’ yer won’t come ter no ’arm. ’Less yer fall in the water, like, or some bastard drops a load on yer foot.” The implied warning was as clear as the hard light on the water.

Actually, Monk had no desire whatever to work at the backbreaking job of unloading, but he must not appear unworthy, or he would awaken suspicion. “That would be very foolish,” he observed.

They went on talking desultorily, speaking of cargoes from all around the world: India; Australia; Argentina; the wild coasts of Canada, where they said tides rose and fell forty feet in a matter of hours.

“Ever bin ter sea?” Bert asked curiously.

“No,” Monk replied.

“Thought not.” There was a benign contempt in his face. “I ’ave. Seen the fever jungles o’ Central America, an’ I in’t never goin’ there again. Frighten the bleedin’ life out o’ yer. Sooner see the midnight sun up Norway an’ the Arctic, like. Freezin’ ter death’d be quick. Saw a feller go overboard up there once. Got ’im out, but ’e were dead. The cold does it. Quicker than the fever, an’ cleaner. If I got the yellow fever I’d cut me own throat sooner’n wait ter die of it.”

“Me an’ all,” his friend agreed.

They spoke a little longer. Monk wanted to ask about cargoes being stolen, and where they would be sold, but he could not afford to arouse suspicion. They were all facing the water when a barge went by, and they could not help seeing the lumpers knock a few pieces of coal off into the shallow water where at the next ebb it would be low enough for the mudlarks to find it and pick it up. No one made any remark. It was an accepted part of life. But it stirred a thought in Monk’s mind. Could the ivory have been moved like that, dropped off the Maude Idris in the dark onto the barges on their way up or downstream? It would take only moments to move canvas to conceal them. He must find which lightermen were out that night and follow it up.

The foreman came from one of the loading gangs, looking for two men. Monk was intensely relieved he did not want three, but he affected disappointment—although not deep enough for the men to start thinking of another ship that might want him.

He did not manage to avoid a small errand, for which he was paid sixpence. He spent the next two hours asking about which barges moved at night, and learned that there were very few indeed, and only with the tide, which—according to the time of Hodge’s death—would have been upstream, towards the morning high water. Painstakingly, he accounted for all of them.

He bought a hot pie and a piece of cake for lunch, with another cup of tea. It was late, after one o’clock, and he had never felt colder in his life. No alley in the city, however ice-bound or wind-funneled, could match the cutting edge of the wind off the water and the sting of the salt. His recent cases of petty theft, when he had spent his time in offices and the servants’ quarters of other peoples’ houses, had made him soft. He realized it now with acute discomfort.

He sat down on a pile of timber and old ropes which was sheltered from the wind, and began to eat.

He was halfway through the pie, relishing the hot meat, when he realized that the shadow next to the pile of boxes to his left was actually a small boy wearing a ragged coat with a cloth cap pulled over his ears. His feet were bare, streaked with dirt and blue with cold.

“Do you want some pie?” Monk said aloud. “Half?”

The child looked at him suspiciously. “Wha’ for?”

“Well, if I were you, I’d eat it!” Monk snapped. “Or shall I give it to the gulls?”

“Yer don’ wan’ it, I’ll take it,” the child replied quickly, stretching out his hand, then pulling it back again, as if the thought were too good to believe.

Monk took a last bite from the pie and handed it over. He drank the rest of the tea before his better nature lost him that as well.

The child sat down beside him on a stump of wood and ate all of the pie solemnly and with concentration, then he spoke. “Yer lookin’ fer work?” he said, watching Monk’s face. “Or yer a thief?” There was no malice or contempt in his voice, simply the enquiry one stranger might make of another, by way of introduction.

“I’m looking for work,” Monk replied. Then he added quickly, “Not that I’m sure I want to find any.”

“If yer don’t work, an’ yer in’t a thief, where’d yer get the pie?” the child said reasonably. “An’ the cake?” he added.

“Do you want half?” Monk asked. “When I say I don’t want work, I mean I don’t want to load or unload cargo,” he amended. “I don’t mind the odd message now and then.”

“Oh.” The child thought. “Reckon as I might ’elp yer wi’ that, now an’ then, like,” he said generously. “Yeah, I’ll ’ave a piece o’ yer cake. I don’t mind if I do.” He held out his hand, palm upward.

Monk carefully divided the cake and gave him half. “What’s your name?” he enquired.

“Scuff,” the boy replied. “Wot’s yours?”

“Monk.”

“Pleased ter meet yer,” Scuff said gravely. He looked at Monk, frowning a little. “Ye’re new ’ere, in’t yer?”

Monk decided to tell the truth. “Yes. How did you know?”

Scuff rolled his eyes, but a certain courtesy prevented him from replying. “Yer wanna be careful,” he said, pursing his lips. “I’ll learn yer a few things, or yer’ll end up in the water. Ter begin wif, yer needs to know ’oo ter speak ter an’ ’oo ter stay clear of.”

Monk listened attentively. At the moment all information was a gift, but more than that, he did not want to be discourteous to this child.

Scuff held up a dirty hand less than half the size of Monk’s. “Yer don’ wanna know the bad ones—more’n that, yer don’ want them ter know you. That’s the night plund’rers.”

“What?”

“Night plund’rers,” Scuff repeated. “Don’t you ’ear too good? Yer better watch it! Yer gotta keep yer wits, or yer’ll end up in the water, like I said! Night plund’rers is them wot works the river at night.” There was an expression of infinite patience in his face, as if he were dealing with a very small child in need of constant watching. “They’d kill yer for sixpence if yer got in their way. Like the river pirates used ter be, afore there was ever River P’lice special, like.”

Another string of coal barges passed, sending their wash slapping against the steps.

“I see,” Monk replied, his interest engaged.

Scuff shook his head, swallowing the last of the cake. “No, yer don’t. Yer don’t see nuffin’ yet. But if yer live long enough mebbe yer will.”

“Are there a lot of night plunderers?” Monk asked. “Do they work for themselves or for others? What kinds of things do they steal and what do they do with them?”

Scuff’s eyes opened wide. “What der you care? Yer in’t never goin’ ter even see none of ’em, if yer’ve any sense. Don’t yer go lookin’ into fings like that. Yer in’t got the wits fer it, nor the stomach neither. Yer stick ter wot yer can do—wotever that is.” He looked distinctly dubious that that was anything at all.

Monk bit back the reply that rose to his lips. It irritated him surprisingly deeply that this child’s opinion of him was so low. It took an effort not to justify himself. But he did need this information. The theft from the Maude Idris looked like exactly the sort of thing such men would do.

“I’m just curious,” he replied. “And yes, I mean to avoid them.”

“Then keep yer eyes shut—an’ yer mouf—all night,” Scuff retorted. “Come ter that, yer’d better keep yer mouf shut most o’ the day, an’ all.”

“So what do they take?” Monk persisted.

“Anyfink wot they can, o’ course!” Scuff snapped. “Why wouldn’t they? Take yer ’ole bleedin’ ship, if yer sloppy enough ter let ’em.”

“And what do they do with what they take?” Monk refused to be deterred. This was no time for delicate feelings.

“Sell it, o’ course.” Scuff looked at him narrowly to see if he could really be as stupid as he appeared.

“To whom?” Monk asked, keeping his temper with difficulty. “Here on the river, or in the city? Or on another ship?”

Scuff rolled his eyes. “Ter receivers,” he replied. “Dependin’ on wot it is. If it’s good stuff, ter the op’lent geezers; if it’s poor, ter the cov’tous. They pick up the other bits. Or the Rev’nue men, o’ course. But they more often take just a cut. In’t easy ter sell stuff, ’less yer got the know-’ow, or the connections.” He shook his head. “Yer in’t never gonna last ’ere, mister. Leavin’ yer ’ere is like puttin’ a babe out by ’isself.”

“I’ve done all right so far!” Monk defended himself.

“Yeah?” Scuff said with heavy disbelief. “An’ ’ow long is that, then? I know everyone ’round ’ere, an’ I in’t never seen yer afore. Where yer gonna sleep, eh? Yer thought o’ that, then? If it rains, an’ then freezes, which it will sooner or later, them as in’t inside somewhere is gonna wake up dead!”

“I’ve got a few contacts,” Monk invented rashly. “Maybe I’ll go into receiving. I know good stuff from bad—spice, ivory, silk, and so on.”

Now Scuff was really alarmed. “Don’t be so bleedin’ daft!” he said, his voice going up into a squeak. “D’yer think it’s a free-for-all or summink? Yer go inter the cov’tous stuff an’ the Fat Man’ll ’ave yer feet fer door stoppers. An’ if yer try the op’lent stuff Mr. Weskit’ll fix yer fer the rest o’ yer life. Yer’ll wake up wi’ a splittin’ ’ead in the ’old o’ some ship bound for the fever jungles o’ Panama, or someplace, an’ nobody’ll never see yer again! Yer wanna go back ter thievin’ wi’ bits o’ paper, or wotever it is yer done afore. You in’t safe ’ere!”

“I’ve managed so far!” Monk retaliated at last. He was angry with himself that he should care what this child thought, but he had had enough of being considered a fool. “Meet me here tomorrow. I’ll bring you a damned good lunch!” It was a challenge. “A whole hot pie for yourself. And tea and cake with fruit in it.”

Scuff shook his head disbelievingly. “Yer daft,” he said with regret. “Don’t yer go an’ get caught. It in’t no better in jail than it is ’ere, rainin’ or not.”

“How do you know?” Monk challenged.

“ ’Cos I keep me ears open an’ me mouf shut!” Scuff retorted. “Now I got work ter do, if you ain’t! Those lumpers put coal out. It in’t gonna sit there all bleedin’ day. I gotter go fish it up.” And he rose to his feet swiftly, looked once more at Monk and shook his head, then disappeared so rapidly Monk was not sure which way he went. But he determined to keep his word, however inconvenient, and be there the following day with the provisions he’d promised.

He spent the afternoon further along the docks to the north side of Louvain’s offices where barges might have put in on the morning high tide. He tried to blend in with the other laborers, idlers, thieves, and beggars who populated the area. He took Scuff’s warning very seriously.

He stood half sheltered behind a bale of wool ready for loading; it served the double purpose of concealing his outline and protecting him from the worst of the wind. He watched the men with backs bent under the weight of coal sacks, and hoped profoundly he would not have to resort to such a task to preserve his anonymity. He saw the intricate outlines of winches and derricks bearing heavier loads out of ships’ holds alongside the wharves. Everywhere was the sounds of shouting, the cries of gulls, and the slap of water. Barges moved in long strings, piled high with coal or timber. A three-masted schooner was tacking up towards the bridge. Ferries were weaving in and out like beetles, oars shining as they rose and dipped.

He watched the River Police patrolling so close to the shore that he saw their faces as one turned to another with a joke, and they both laughed. A third made some remark and they shouted back at him, the waves drowning their words, but the good nature of it obvious.

Monk felt suddenly isolated on the dockside, as if the warmth and the meaning of life were out there on the water, in comradeship and a shared purpose. There had been much about waiting in the police which had infuriated him, as well as the restrictions, the answerability to men of limited vision and unlimited vanity, sometimes the monotony of it. But the very boundaries were also a shape and a discipline. The same man whose weakness curtailed his freedom also supported him when he was vulnerable, and sometimes covered his failures. He had been intolerant then. He was paying some of the price for that now as he stood alone on the dockside having to learn everything for himself in a new, alien, and bitterly cold world where few of the familiar rules applied.

About mid-afternoon, as his legs seemed frozen immobile and he realized he was shivering and all his muscles were locked, he saw a man walk up to another and accost him in an obvious bad temper. The first man answered him fiercely. Within moments they were shouting. Two of three bystanders joined in, taking one side or the other. The quarrel swayed backwards and forwards and looked like it was developing into an ugly incident. More than half a dozen men became involved, and the crowd swirled around a group of laborers unloading brassware.

Monk moved forward, mostly to stretch his limbs and get the feeling back in his feet. No one noticed him; they were all watching the quarrel. One of the men took a wild swing at another and connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards to knock over a third man. A fourth let fly his own punch, and then it was a melee. It was by chance that Monk saw two men detach themselves and with remarkable speed and skill pick up four of the brass ornaments and slip them sideways to a youth and an old woman among the bystanders, who promptly turned and walked away.

Monk left as well, before the police could come to part the combatants and restore peace. He could not afford to be caught on the outskirts of the crowd. Scuffle-hunting was a trade he had seen a hundred times before, and the brass would never be found. But as he walked back along the quayside towards Louvain’s offices, he resented the fact that he was in effect running away from the band of men he used to be one of—indeed, used to command. It was a bitter taste to swallow.

He was acutely mindful of the fact that he had to report to Louvain today, and he had nothing remotely useful to tell him. The search for evidence of barges unloading surreptitiously had been fruitless. He had no facts at all, and not a great deal of deduction. He walked slowly as he thought about it, the sounds of the riverside all about him, the clang of metal, creak of wood, hiss and slurp of water. The tide was turning, sweeping in again upriver, driving the mudlarks up the shore and lifting the ships higher at anchor. The dusk seemed later this afternoon because the sky was streaked with clear, pale strips to the west, and the water was all grays and silvers, dotted by riding lights burning yellow.

What had he deduced? That the ivory could have been taken by any of the thieves on the river, and almost certainly ended up with a receiver who would sell it on to . . . whom? Who would buy ivory? A dealer, to pass it on to jewelers, carvers of ornaments or chess pieces, makers of piano keys, any of a dozen artists or artisans.

That led him to the crux of the question: Was it a theft of opportunity or a planned crime with a particular receiver in mind? The hour it must have happened, according to Hodge’s death, indicated the former. If the latter, then Monk had very little chance of recovering the ivory, because it was almost certainly well beyond the river by now.

He crossed the street and walked along the narrow footpath as a cart rattled over the cobbles. The lamplighter was busy, tipping his long pole to touch the wicks and bring the gift of sudden vision and the illusion of warmth. There was no mist off the water, just the customary driving wind and the faint haze of smoke. To the east, where it was darkest and the river wound beyond Greenwich and the Estuary to the sea, a few stars glittered sharp and brittle.

Monk turned the corner into the wind again, pulled his coat collar higher and tighter around his neck, and quickened his pace to Louvain’s offices. He was obliged to wait in the foyer for a quarter of an hour, pacing back and forth on the bare floor, before Louvain sent for him. But he would know there was no news yet. Had there been, Monk would have come earlier.

The office was warm, but Monk could not relax. The force of Louvain’s personality dominated the room, even though he looked tired. The lines on his face were deeper than before, and his eyes were pink-rimmed.

“I’m here because I said I would be,” Monk replied. “I need to cultivate informants—”

“Is that an oblique way of saying you want more money?” Louvain looked at him with undisguised contempt.

“Not more than I have,” Monk replied coldly. “If I do, then I’ll tell you in a manner you won’t mistake.” He looked at Louvain more closely. He would be a fool to miss such an opportunity to observe him. The theft might have been by chance, but it was equally likely to have been deliberate. He could not afford any kind of ignorance. Louvain stood in front of his desk now, with his back to the gas lamp on the wall. It was an easy and perfectly natural position, but it also concealed his expression, giving his features an unnatural and somber look.

“And how long does this process take?” he asked. There was an edge to his voice, anxiety and perhaps tiredness making it rough. He worked long hours. It was possible more of his fortune rested on recovering the ivory than he had told Monk.

“I should reap some benefits tomorrow,” Monk replied rashly.

“Do you have a plan?” Louvain enquired. Now his face was softer, something like a lift of hope in it. Perhaps his contempt was meant to conceal the fact that the theft mattered to him intensely, and he was dependent upon Monk. He employed him, and could pay him or not, but he would not find his ivory without help, and they both knew that.

Monk weighed his answer carefully. The tension in the room prickled as they each watched the other, weighing, judging. Who had the strength of will to bend the other? Who could harness his vulnerability and disguise it as a weapon?

“I need to narrow down the kind of receiver who could handle a load like that,” Monk said levelly. “A man with the connections to sell it on.”

“Or a woman,” Louvain amended. “Some of the brothel-keepers are receivers as well. But be careful; just because they’re women doesn’t mean they wouldn’t slit your throat if you got in their way.” The vaguest smile crossed his face and then vanished. “You’re no use to me dead.”

If it happened it would anger him, but it would not lie on his conscience. There was a certain respect in him, a levelness in the gaze, a candor he would not have used with a lesser man.

Monk refused to be ruffled. He glanced around the office at the pictures on the walls. They were not of ships, as he had expected, but were wild landscapes of fierce and alien beauty, stark mountains towering above churning water, or barren as the volcanoes on the moon.

“Cape Horn,” Louvain said, following his look. “And Patagonia. I keep them to remind me who I am. Every man should see such places at least once, feel the violence and the enormity of them, hear the noise of wind and water that never stops, and stand on a plain like that, where the silence is never broken. It gives you a sense of proportion.” He hunched his shoulders and pushed his hands into his pockets, still staring, not at Monk but at the pictures. “It measures you against circumstance so you know what you have to do—and what it will mean to fail.”

Monk wondered for an instant if it was a warning, but when he looked at the intense concentration in Louvain’s face, he knew the man was speaking to himself.

“It’s a cruel beauty,” Louvain went on, his voice touched with awe. “There’s no mercy in it, but it’s also freedom, because it’s honest.” Then, as if suddenly remembering that Monk was a hired hand, not an equal or a friend, he stiffened and the emotion fled from his face. “Get my ivory back,” he ordered. “Time’s short. Don’t waste it coming here to tell me you’ve got nothing.”

Monk swallowed the retort that came to his lips. “Good night,” he answered, and before Louvain responded he turned and went out.

He hesitated in the street. The wind was knife-edged, and a sickle moon was rising across the water. Ice rimed over the cobbles, making them slippery, and his breath was a plume of vapor in the air. The thought of going home was sweet, like a burst of warmth inside him, but it was too soon to give up on the day. It was only a little after six, and he could put in at least another two or three hours. The thieves would already have gotten rid of the ivory by now, and the receiver would be looking to place it. He needed to find it before then.

He walked back along the street towards the public house on the corner, pushed the door open, and went in. The room was warm and noisy, full of shouts, laughter, and the clink of glasses. The floor was covered with dirty straw. People jolted each other to move closer to the bar and into the lantern’s yellow light; the barman’s face gleamed with sweat above the tankards topped with foam. It all smelled of ale; the steam from hot, weary bodies; wet clothes; mud and horse manure on boots.

Monk waited his turn, moving slowly closer to the front of the queue, all the time listening and watching. There were street women among the men, garish in red and pink dresses low on the shoulder, faces painted with false gaiety. Their voices forced the laughter, and their eyes were tired.

He listened to snatches of conversation, straining to link them together and make sense of them. He had worked many years in the city; he knew receivers of stolen goods by instinct. It was not in their appearance so much as in their manner. Some were hearty, some furtive; some talked a great deal, others were terse. Some offered magnificent prices and sang praise of their own generosity and how it would ruin them; others haggled over every halfpenny. But they all had a watchfulness about them; they did not miss a word or a gesture from anyone, and they could assess the monetary worth of anything in seconds.

There was also a defiance, a cautious caginess with which other people approached them, not as friends but always with a mind to business.

He saw several transactions—some with a discreet hand in and out of the pocket, a piece of jewelry or a trinket shown; some were merely words. If one of them had concerned Louvain’s ivory he would not have known, but only a fool buys something he has not seen, and fools do not survive long in such a trade.

He reached the front of the queue and bought his ale. Then he found a place to sit and drink it, next to a man with a scar down his cheek and an empty left sleeve of his jacket.

Monk took the opportunity to strike up conversation. Within half an hour he had refilled his own glass and the man’s, getting them each a pork pie at the same time. It was an expense that could go on Louvain’s bill.

“ ’Course we still get some like it,” the sailor said, taking up his tale where he had left it when Monk stood up. “But not like the old days. Real pirates, they were.” His watery eyes were bright with memory. “Me granpa were one o’ the first in the River P’lice; 1798 that were. In them days there was crime on the river you wouldn’t believe!” He nodded. “Not now, seein’ as ’ow it’s all tame an’ respectable, like. Near ’alf the men in the docks was thievin’ back then.” He held up his fingers. “Two men, they were, Arriott an’ Colquhoun, set up the P’lice. Got rid of ninety-eight out of every ’undred o’ thieves, they did, in jus’ one year!” He stared at Monk challengingly. “Think on it! Don’ it eat yer ’eart out, eh? They was real men.” He said it with a fierce, happy sense of pride.

“Were you in the River Police?” Monk enquired with interest.

The man laughed so hard he all but spilled his ale. “No! No, I in’t an oggler, bless yer. I bin ter sea most o’ me life, till I lorst me arm. But that were river pirates, an’ all! Comin’ back from the Indies, we were.” He leaned forward confidentially, his voice quieter and more urgent as memory flooded back. “Java way. Them China Seas is summink ’orrible in bad weather, an’ swarmin’ wi’ pirates.” He took a long swig of his ale and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Don’ trust nobody. Keep a watch on deck all hours, an’ keep yer gun loaded an’ yer powder dry. But we made it all the way ’ome, down the Indian Ocean.” He made a circular movement with his finger. “ ’round the Cape o’ Good ’Ope and up the Atlantic past the Skeleton Coast o’ Africa, across Biscay . . . are yer followin’ me, like?”

“Yes, of course.”

“An’ ’ome ter Spit’ead,” he said triumphantly. “Five-masted schooner, we was, wi’ a good set o’ guns fore an’ aft. We passed Gravesend, tacked up Fiddler’s Reach, past the marshes on either side of us, safe as ’ouses. Gallion’s Reach right up ter Woolwich.” He sniffed lugubriously. “Could smell ’ome it were that close. ’Eave to for the night off Bugsby’s Marsh ter make the Isle o’ Dogs an’ the Pool the next day. Damn it if we weren’t boarded in the middle watch by ’alf a dozen river pirates an’ cut loose.” He banged his fist on the table. “Tide took us onter the mud banks an’ by dawn there weren’t a bleedin’ thing left o’ the cargo they could shift, the sons o’ bitches. On the watch raised the alarm, poor sod! Cost ’im ’is life. An’ we all come up on deck wi’ pistols an’ cutlasses, an’ it were a right battle. But yer can’t fight ’em bastards an’ the wind an’ the tide at once.”

Monk imagined it—the ship drifting, picking up speed with the current, the men fighting desperately on deck, trying to swing swords in the narrow spaces, seeking to shoot at moving, uncertain targets in the swaying lantern light, the violence, the fear, the pain.

“What happened?” He had no need to pretend interest.

“We killed three of ’em,” the man replied with satisfaction, licking his lips after the last mouthful of the pork pie. “Lost two o’ us, though. Wounded two more o’ them pretty bad, an’ put ’em over the side. They drowned.”

“Then what?”

“ ’Alf a dozen more of ’em, weren’t there!” he said bitterly. “I ’ad me arm gashed so bad I bled like a stuck pig. Got it all stitched up like, but went wi’ the gangrene. Took it off, they did. ’Ad ter, ter save me bleedin’ life!” He said it wryly, as if it were a long time ago and hardly mattered anymore, but Monk saw the pain in his eyes, and the memory of what he had been. He could feel not the physical agony of the knife, but the mental scream as he became less than whole, the mutilation that tore through him still.

Monk did not know how to respond. Should he acknowledge the pain he had seen, and attempt to convey some understanding of it, or was it better to behave as if he had not noticed?

“Are there still pirates on the river, even today?” he asked. It was an evasion, but it was the best he could do.

“Some,” the man answered, the brilliance of hurt fading from his eyes. “The ogglers is pretty good, but even they can’t do it all.”

“Are there pirates this far up the river?”

“Prob’ly not. Up by Lime’ouse an’ that way it’s opium eaters an’ them kinds o’ things. But yer never know. There’s other folks ’as ’ad a few run-ins wif ’em, ’part from me.”

“Louvain?” The moment Monk had said it, he wondered if it were wise.

The man’s face lit up with pleasure. “Clem Louvain? Yer damn right! ’e cut them up summink beautiful, ’e did! Yer never seen a better man wi’ a cutlass than Clem! They rued the day they messed wi’ ’im!” He sniffed cheerfully. “Mind, that’s a few year ago now, but it don’t make no diff’rence. Summink like that yer don’ forget. They don’ mess wif ’im still, an’ all!”

Monk measured his words carefully. “I’m surprised they don’t want revenge,” he said with a deliberate lift of curiosity.

The man grinned, showing gapped teeth. “Come up from ’ell ter ask for it, yer reckon?”

“Dead?” Monk was surprised.

“ ’Course, dead!” the man said contemptuously. “Two killed right there on the deck o’ the Mary Walsh an’ two ’anged up Execution Dock. I seed it meself. Went ter watch, I did. Rare sight, that.”

“No one left to . . . want payment for it?” Monk pressed.

“Not for that bleedin’ lot o’ sods.” The man upended the glass to drain the last of his beer. “Reckon as Mr. Louvain’s ’ealth were drunk right well in a few ’ouses up an’ down the river that night.” He took his mug and pushed it an inch closer to Monk without looking at him. “River’s full o’ tales,” he added.

Monk took the hint and fetched them both another pint, although he had no capacity or wish to drink any more himself. He was prepared to listen for another hour at least.

His companion settled down to picking from his memory tales of violence, failed robberies and successful ones, and eccentric characters in the last fifty years along the river.

“Most o’ ’em back then,” he said gleefully. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Monk had bought him a second pie. The color with which he painted the river life contained many warnings that might prove useful, and it gave Monk a far better understanding of the intricacies of illicit trade, of light-horsemen, heavy-horsemen, lumpers, plunderers, and crooked Revenue men. Monk heard stories, some of the legendary receivers, including the present-day Fat Man, the most famous opulent receiver along this stretch of the water.

Monk did not arrive home until after nine o’clock, by which time Hester was concerned. The dinner she had made was far past its best and barely edible.

“I’m all right!” he assured her, holding her as closely as he could until she pushed him away to search his face. “Really!” he repeated. “I was in a public house down by the docks, listening to an old sailor telling me tales.”

Her face was very serious. “Mr. Louvain came to the clinic today—”

“What?” He was incredulous. “Clement Louvain? Are you sure? What for?” It disquieted him, although he did not know why. He did not want Louvain anywhere near Hester. And even as the thought was in his mind he knew it was absurd. Hester dealt with the ugliest and most tragic elements of life every day.

“What did he want?” he demanded, taking his coat off and hanging it up.

She recounted the story of Ruth Clark and mentioned Louvain’s generous donation. She bit her lip. “We’re finding it hard to get people to give.”

He heard the anger in her voice and he understood it. “Why didn’t he take her to a hospital?”

“He would have to register her there and tell them his own name. Anyway, he might be known. He’s an important man. They would ask who she was, and they might not believe he brought her for someone else.”

He smiled, touching her cheek gently. “Did you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t care. And I won’t repeat it to anyone except you. Did you learn anything more about the ivory?”

“Not specifically, but I gained an informant.”

“Good. You’re cold. Are you hungry?”

“Not very, but I’d like some tea.”

He followed her into the kitchen, telling her about Scuff as she filled the kettle and put it on the stove, fetched milk from the pantry and set out the teapot and cups on a tray. He told her many of the things he had seen and heard, but not about Louvain and the river pirates. There was no need to waken fears in her that she could do nothing about.

She laughed at some of the descriptions: the eccentricity, the ingenuity, and the will to survive. They went to bed, tired from the work of the day and happy to be close not only in mind but in the warmth of touch.

In the morning he woke before she did. He slipped out of bed, and washed and dressed without disturbing her, not shaving in order to keep his image for the dockside. Downstairs, he riddled the stove and carried out the ashes. It was not a job he was accustomed to doing, but it was heavy, and he knew she had dismissed the woman who came to help. Louvain’s payment was generous, but it must be made to last as long as possible. He had no idea where the next reasonable sum was coming from.

He filled the kettle and set it on the hob, then went back upstairs to waken Hester and say good-bye to her. He had given a great deal of thought to how next to proceed, and only one answer pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. He needed to find the receiver. Reluctantly, he went to the drawer of his dresser and took out the gold watch Callandra had given him. He slipped it into the top pocket inside his jacket.

Ten minutes later he was out in the gray light of the October street, and half an hour after that he was back on the dockside again. The air was still, almost windless, but the damp penetrated the flesh till it felt as if it reached the bone. He huddled into his coat, turning up the collar. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and stepped over the puddles from the night’s rain. It was a while since he had had a new pair of boots, and it might be even longer before he did again. He needed to take care of these ones.

The more he considered the ivory, the more he believed the thieves would have taken it to a specific opulent receiver capable of selling it on to the highly specialized markets that could use it. There was a limited number of such people along the river. It was not finding them which was the major issue, but proving that they still knew where the ivory was, and with each passing day his chances of success were reduced.

He started at one of the better pawnshops, taking out the gold watch and asking what they could give him for it.

“Five guineas,” was the answer.

“And if I have more?” he asked.

The pawnbroker’s eyes widened. “More like that?”

“Of course.”

“Where’d you get more like that?” Disbelief was heavy in his face.

Monk looked at him with contempt. “What do you care? Can you deal with them or not?”

“No! No, I in’t in that business. You take ’em somewhere else,” the pawnbroker said vigorously.

Monk put the watch back into his pocket and went out into the street again, walking quickly, avoiding the close walls and skirting wide around the entrances of alleyways. He thought of word spreading and his being robbed, or even killed, and it sent colder knots clenching on his stomach than even the raw air could produce. But he knew of no other way to draw the attention of a receiver. He could not afford the time to play a slow, careful game, and he had no police knowledge or help to guide him. Far from going to them, as would have been his instinct, he was obliged to avoid them, to watch for them and take another path, as if he were a thief himself. Once again he cursed Louvain for keeping him from using the regular, lawful means.

He kept his promise to Scuff, and was at the dockside at the same time and place with hot pies, tea, and fruitcake. He was absurdly disappointed to see no one there waiting for him. He stood in the clearing amid the old boxes. He could hear nothing but the lost cries of gulls above and the wail of foghorns as mist rose from the water, choking the light and muffling sound. The rising tide slapped against the pier stakes, and in the distance men shouted at each other, some of them in languages he did not understand.

A string of barges made a wash that hit the shore sharply and then died away again, swallowed in the fog.

“Scuff!” he called out.

There was no answer, no movement except a rat scuttling into a pile of refuse twenty yards off.

If Scuff did not come soon the pies would not be warm anymore. But then he would have no way of telling the time! Even if he could? It was stupid to have expected him to be there. He was an urchin just like any of the petty thieves that roamed the alleys of the city, picking pockets or running errands for forgers, cardsharps, and brothel-keepers.

Monk sat down unhappily and began to eat his own pie. There was no point in allowing that to get cold, too.

He was halfway through it when he was aware of a shadow across his feet.

“You eaten my pie?” a voice said disgustedly.

He looked up. Scuff was standing in front of him, his face filthy, his expression full of reproach. “You didn’t oughta do that!” he accused.

“If you want yours cold, that’s up to you,” Monk said, overwhelmed with a relief that would be absurd to show. He held out the other pie. It was twice the size of yesterday’s.

Scuff took it solemnly and sat down, cross-legged, holding the pie with both hands as he consumed it. He said nothing until the last mouthful was gone, then he reached out and took the tea and cake. When that was finished, he spoke.

“That was good,” he said with satisfaction, wiping his mouth with one filthy sleeve.

“You were late,” Monk remarked. “How do you know the time anyway?”

“Tide, o’ course,” Scuff replied with exaggerated patience at Monk’s stupidity. “I come at the same ’eight o’ the water.”

Monk said nothing. He should have thought of that. If there was anything a mudlark would know, it was the rise and fall of the water.

Scuff nodded. “Yer bin runnin’ more errands?” he asked, glancing at the cups that had held the tea.

“Not today. I’m looking for a receiver who’ll deal in good stuff, maybe gold—or ivory.”

“Lots o’ gold,” Scuff said thoughtfully. “Dunno nob’dy wot ’as ivory. Worth a lot, is it?”

“Yes.”

“The Fat Man. ’e knows most things wot goes on. But yer’d best stay clear of ’im. ’E’s a right bad bastard, an’ yer in’t no match for ’im.” There was a gentle pity in his voice, and Monk was almost sure there was concern in his eyes.

“I need to find some ivory,” Monk confided. He knew he was being rash telling this young mudlark information he could not afford to have spread everywhere, but the desperation was mounting inside him. His efforts of the morning had not so far led him to a single receiver. “Who’d sell it?”

“Yer mean cheap?”

“Of course I mean cheap!” Monk agreed witheringly. “If I don’t go to the Fat Man, who else?”

Scuff considered for a few moments. “I could take yer ter Little Lil. She knows most o’ wot’s fer sale. But I can’t jus’ do it, like. I gotta make arrangements.”

“How much?”

Scuff was offended. “That in’t nice. I trust yer like a friend, an’ yer go an’ insult me!”

“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized with genuine contrition. “I thought it might cost you something!”

“I’ll ’ave another pie—termorrer, like. I can do a pie fer me lunch real nice. Come back ’ere at ’igh tide.”

“Thank you. I shall be here.”

Scuff nodded his satisfaction, and a moment later he was gone.

Monk returned to his round of pawnshops, and saw at least three he was certain were receivers of one sort or another, but only of petty goods. He was followed for almost a mile by two youths he believed would have robbed him if they could have caught him alone in one of the narrow alleys, but he took care to see that they did not. He in turn took care to keep well away from the occasional police patrol that he saw. It riled him to do it, but he had no choice.

By four o’clock he was back on the dockside again and found Scuff waiting for him. Wordlessly, the boy led the way along the wide street parallel with the river, up a flight of stone steps, and along an alley so tight Monk instinctively tucked his elbows in. The smells of old cooking, effluent, and soot almost choked him. They were twenty yards in from the river, and yet the damp seemed to be absorbed into the stones and breathed out again in a fog as the dusk settled and the few street lamps made yellow islands in the gloom. There was no sound but the steady dripping from the eaves.

Finally they came to a doorway with a painted sign above it, and Scuff knocked. Monk noticed that his dirty, clenched fist was shaking, and realized with a stab of amazement that Scuff was afraid. Of what? Was he betraying Monk to be robbed? The thought of losing Callandra’s watch was suddenly acutely powerful. It made him so angry he would have lashed out at anyone who attempted such a thing. The gift was immeasurably precious, the token of a friendship that mattered more than any other, except Hester’s. It was also an emblem of success, elegance, the kind of man he wanted to be, who could face Oliver Rathbone as something like an equal. He stood stiffly, ready to fight.

Or was Scuff afraid for himself? Was he doing something dangerous in order to cement his new friendship? Or perhaps as a matter of some obscure kind of honor to repay the man who had given him hot pies? Or even simply to keep his word?

The door opened and a large woman stood just inside, her hands on her hips. Her red dress was brilliant in the light of the street lamp, and there was red paint on her mouth and cheeks.

“I’nt yer a bit young fer this?” she said, eyeing Scuff wearily. “An’ if yer lookin’ ter sell yer sister, bring ’er an’ I’ll take a gander, but I in’t promisin’ nothin’.”

“I in’t got no sister,” Scuff said immediately, but his voice rose into a squeak, and his face pinched with anger at himself. “An’ if I did ’ave . . .” he added, “it’d be Miss Lil ’erself as I’d wanna see. I got a gennelman as is lookin’ ter buy summink else.” He gestured to Monk, half obscured in the shadows behind him.

The huge woman stared, screwing up her face in concentration.

Monk stepped forward. He considered smiling at her and decided against it.

“I’m looking for certain merchandise,” he said in a low, level voice, overly polite. He allowed an element of threat to show in his unblinking stare.

She stood still. She was about to speak, then said nothing, waiting for him.

Scuff looked very white, but he did not interrupt.

Monk said nothing more.

“Come in,” the woman said at last.

Without any idea of where he was going, Monk accepted, leaving Scuff in the street behind him. He went through the doorway into a narrow passage and then up a creaking flight of stairs, across a landing hung with pictures, and into a room red-carpeted and with papered walls and a good fire burning in the grate. In one of the soft, red armchairs a tiny woman sat with a piece of richly detailed embroidery spread across her lap, as if she had been stitching it. It was more than three-quarters completed, and the needle threaded with yellow silk was stuck into it. She had a thimble on one finger, and the scissors lay beside her on top of a basket of other silks.

“Miss Lil,” the huge woman said softly. “This one’s fer you.” She stood back to allow her employer to see Monk and make her own decision.

Little Lil was in her forties at least, and she had once been very pretty. Her features were still neat and regular. She had large eyes of a hazel color, but her jawline was blurred now, and the skin on her neck had gone loose, hanging from the shrunken flesh underneath. Her little hands were clawlike with their long fingernails. She regarded Monk with careful interest.

“Come in,” she ordered him. “Tell me what yer got as I might like.”

“Gold watches,” Monk replied, obeying because he had left himself no choice.

She held out her hand, palm upward in a clutching gesture.

He hesitated. Had it been any gold watch it would still have caused him concern, but Callandra’s gift was precious in a different and irreplaceable way. He took it out of his pocket slowly and held it up just beyond the grasp of her hand.

Her big eyes fixed on him. “Don’t trust me, then?” she said with a smile showing sharp, unexpectedly white teeth.

“Don’t trust anyone,” he replied, smiling back at her.

Something in her changed; perhaps it was a flash of appreciation. “Sit down,” she invited.

Feeling uncomfortable, he did as he was told.

She looked at the watch again. “Open it,” she ordered.

He did so, turning it carefully for her to inspect, but keeping a firm hold on it.

“Nice,” she said. “ ’Ow many?”

“Dozen, or thereabouts,” he answered.

“Thereabouts?” she questioned. “Can’t yer count, then?”

“Depends on your offer,” he prevaricated.

She chortled with laughter, which was high-pitched like a little girl’s.

“Do you want them?” he asked.

“I like you,” she said frankly. “We can do business.”

“How much?”

She thought about it for several seconds, watching his face, although it seemed she was doing it now for the pleasure it gave her more than any need for time to think.

Monk wanted to come to the point and then leave. “I have a client looking for ivory,” he said a bit abruptly. “You wouldn’t have any advice on that, would you?”

“I’ll ask fer yer,” she said in a whisper, unexpectedly gentle. “Come back ’ere in two days. An’ bring me some o’ them watches an’ I’ll pay yer nicely.”

“How much?” he asked. She would expect him to haggle, and Callandra’s watch must have cost at least thirty pounds.

“Like that? Twelve pound, ten,” she replied.

“Twelve pound, ten!” he said in horror. “It’s worth more than twice that! Twenty, at the very least.”

She thought for a moment, looking at him through her eyelashes. “Fifteen,” she offered.

“Twenty?” He could not afford to lose her, or to appear to give in too easily.

This time she considered for longer.

Monk felt a sweat break out on his body in the warm room. He had made a mistake. He had let his desperation push him into going too far. Now he had no retreat.

“Seventeen,” she said at last.

“Right,” he agreed, his mouth dry. He wanted to escape this stifling house and be outside alone in the street to think of a way to extricate himself, and still be able to hear any information Little Lil might give him. “Thank you.” He inclined his head slightly, and saw her acknowledge it with a gleam of satisfaction. She liked him. He despised himself for playing on it, at the same time as he knew he had to.

In the street, he was barely beyond the ring of the lamplight when Scuff materialized from the darkness.

“Yer got anyfink?” he asked eagerly.

Monk swore under his breath.

Scuff giggled with satisfaction. “She like yer, does she?” he said.

Monk realized Scuff had expected it, and he reached out to clip him over the ear for the acute embarrassment he had suffered, but Scuff ducked sideways and Monk’s hand missed him. Not that it would have hurt more than a slight sting. He was still laughing.

They reached the main street running parallel with the docks and crossed into the better light. Monk turned to Scuff again, and realized he was not there. He saw a shadow in front of him, a row of buttons gleaming on a dark jacket, a solidity, a confidence to him.

“Has his wits about him more’n yer have, Mr. Monk,” the man observed.

Monk froze. The man was River Police; he knew it with certainty—more than the uniform, it was the quiet authority in him, the sense of pride in his calling. He did not need to threaten, not even to raise his voice. He was the law and he understood its worth. If only Monk had that same dignity, the fellowship of all the other quiet men who kept order on the river and its immediate shore. Suddenly the reality of his aloneness was almost beyond bearing.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said stiffly, with more than necessary politeness.

“Durban,” the man replied. “Inspector Durban o’ the River Police. I haven’t seen you here before a couple o’ days ago. You say you’re looking for work, but it doesn’t seem to me like you want it. Why would that be, Mr. Monk?”

Monk ached to tell him the truth, but he dared not. He was committed to Clement Louvain, and to his own need.

“I’d rather work with my brain than bending my back,” he replied, putting an edge of truculence in his voice that he did not feel.

“There’s not much call for brain work down on the dock,” Durban pointed out. “Least not that’s legal. There’s a lot that’s not, as I’m sure you know. But I wonder if you really know how dangerous that is? You wouldn’t believe the number of dead bodies we pick up out of the water, an’ there’s no one to say how they got in there. I wouldn’t like yours to be one of ’em, Mr. Monk. Just be a little bit careful, eh? Don’t go messing with the likes o’ Little Lil Fosdyke, or the Fat Man, or Mr. Weskit. There’s no room for more opulent receivers than we’ve already got. Do you take my meaning?”

“I’m sure there isn’t,” Monk agreed, hating the lies. “My interest is in running errands and being of service to people who can’t do all their own jobs. I don’t buy or sell goods.”

“Really . . .” Durban said with disbelief. His face was almost unreadable in the near darkness, but his voice was sad, as if he had expected better, fewer lies at least.

Monk remembered with a jarring urgency being in exactly the same position, seeing a man well-dressed, well-spoken, hoping he was in the run-down alley only by chance, and realizing within minutes that he was a thief. He remembered his disappointment. He drew in his breath to explain himself to Durban and then let it out again in a sigh. Not until after he had earned Louvain’s money.

“Yes, really,” he said tartly. “Good night, Inspector.” And he walked away down the street towards the lighted thoroughfare to catch an omnibus, and then another home.