The Shifting Tide

SIX

Monk was becoming accustomed to the dampness in the air and the smell of the tide, the movement and the constant sound of water. There was something vaguely comfortable about it, like the beating of a heart. The light was different from that in the streets; it was sharper, cleaner, full of angles and reflections. At dusk and dawn it shone back off the polished surfaces of the water in flashes of pink and primrose. It took far longer to fade than it did over the dense rooftops of the city.

Now he had something urgent to do. He knew enough to realize that seeking the thief directly would be pointless. He must anticipate his movements and be a step before him when he sold the ivory. If it was not already too late.

But failure was not something he could afford to think about; such thoughts would prove crippling, robbing him of the strength even to try. If the ivory had been taken by someone who knew of it and already had a buyer, then there had never been any chance of getting it back. On the other hand, if it had been a crime of opportunity then the ivory would be far harder to sell, and it was likely that it had not yet been moved more than to keep it safe.

And today Little Lil should send for him. What would she have to say? The thought was not entirely a pleasant one.

The first lift of hope came in the middle of the morning, when he was sharing a sheltered spot out of the damp wind off the outgoing tide with one of the men he had seen in the scuffle-hunting gang. He had just mentioned Louvain’s name.

The man jerked his head around, anger and fear in his face. “Yer workin’ fer ’im?” he snarled.

Monk was uncertain whether to admit or deny it. “Why?” he asked.

“In’t nothin’ ter do wi’ me,” the man said quickly.

“What isn’t?” Monk demanded, moving a step towards him.

“Get off me!” The man lifted his arm as if to shield himself, and took a quick, scrambling step sideways and backwards. “I dunno nuffink!”

Monk went after him. “About what?”

“Clem Louvain! I don’t touch nuffink ter do wif ’im. Get off me!”

Monk snatched the man’s arm and held it. “Why not? Why not Louvain?”

The man was frightened. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl, but his body was trembling. There was hate in his eyes. He glared at Monk for a moment, then his free hand went into his pocket. An instant later Monk felt a stinging pain in his upper arm even before he saw the knife. Partly to defend himself, but at least as much in sheer fury, he lifted up his knee and sent the man staggering backwards, clutching himself and squealing, tears running down his face.

Monk looked at his arm. His jacket was sliced open and there was a stain of blood spreading on to his shirt and the fabric of his coat. “Damn you!” he swore, looking at the man, now half crouched over. “You stupid sod! I only asked you.” He turned and walked away as quickly as he could, aware that he must get his arm seen to before he lost too much blood or it became infected.

He was a hundred yards along the street before he realized that he had no specific idea where he was going.

He stopped for a moment. His arm was painful, and he was becoming worried in case it hampered his ability to go on as he had intended. One-armed, he was at a disadvantage he could ill afford. Where was there a doctor who could bind up his wound, stitch it if need be?

Would the Portpool Lane clinic have helped him? Or was it open only to women of the street? Pity it was too far away. He had not been aware of doing it, but he was holding his arm, and the blood was oozing stickily through his fingers. He must find a doctor.

He turned and walked back to the nearest shop and went in. It was stacked with ironmongery of every sort: pots, pans, kitchen machines, gardening tools, but mostly ships’ chandlery. The air was thick with the smell of hemp rope, tallow, dust, and canvas.

A little man with spectacles on his nose looked up from behind a pile of lanterns. “Oh, dear now, wot’s ’appened ter you, then?” he asked, looking at Monk’s arm.

“Thief,” Monk replied. “I shouldn’t have struggled with him. He had a knife.”

The man straightened up.

“Oh, dear. Did ’e get your money?”

“No. I can pay a doctor, if I can find one.”

“ ’ere, sit down afore yer fall. Look a bit queasy, you do.” He came out from behind the lanterns and led Monk to a small hard-backed chair. “Mouthful o’ rum wouldn’t do yer no ’arm neither.” He turned around to face the door at the back of the shop. “Madge! Go an’ fetch the crow! Quick on your way. I in’t got no time ter mess abaht!”

There was a call of agreement from somewhere out of sight, and then the patter of feet and a door slamming.

Monk was glad to sit down, although he did not feel as bad as the proprietor seemed to think.

“You jus’ stay there,” the man told him with concern, then bustled away to sell a coil of rope and two boxes of nails to a thin man in a pea jacket, then a packet of needles for stitching sails, a couple of wooden cleats, and a coal scuttle to a sailor with a blond beard.

Monk sat thinking about the response the man on the dockside had made to the mention of Louvain’s name. He had been angry, but more than that he had been genuinely afraid. Why? Why would a scuffle-hunter be afraid of a man of power? Louvain’s influence could help or hurt many he would barely even know. Monk had seen that kind of fear when he had been in the police, in small men without defense who had hated and feared him because he could injure them and he let them know it. He had thought it was the only way to do the job, but the price was high. Was that true of Louvain also, a shadow of the same knowledge and responsibility, and use of power? Louvain’s stature? How would their paths even have crossed?

“ ’ere ’e is,” said a small, high-pitched voice that jerked him out of his thoughts.

He looked up to see a child about eight or nine years old, her hair tied up in a piece of string, her face grubby, her skirts down to the tops of her boots. But the fact that she had boots was unusual here. She must be Madge.

Behind her was a man of about thirty with sleek black hair almost to his shoulders, and a wide smile. He looked relentlessly cheerful.

“I’m the crow,” he announced, using the cant word for a doctor-or a thieves’ lookout. “Bin in a fight, ’ave yer? Let’s see it then. Can’t do nothin’ useful through all that cloth.” He regarded Monk’s jacket. “Pity, not a bad bit o’ stuff. Still, let’s ’ave it orff you.” He reached out to help Monk divest himself of it, taking it from him as Monk winced at moving his injured arm.

Madge turned and ran off, coming back seconds later with a bottle of brandy. She held on to it, cradling it in her arms like a doll until it should be needed.

The crow worked with some skill, pulling the cloth of the shirt away from the wound and screwing up his face as he peered at it.

Monk tried not to think about what training the man had, if any, or even what his charges might be. Perhaps he would have been wiser to have taken a hansom to Portpool Lane after all, whatever the time or the money concerned. In the end it would have been safer, and maybe cost no more. But it was too late now. The man was already reaching for the brandy and a cloth to clean away the blood.

The raw spirit stung so violently that Monk had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out.

“Sorry,” the doctor muttered with a wide smile, as if that would be reassuring. “Coulda bin worse.” He peered closely at the wound, which was still bleeding fairly freely. “Wot’ve yer got worth puttin’ up that kind o’ fight fer, eh?” He was making conversation to keep Monk’s mind off the pain, and possibly the blood as well.

Monk thought of Callandra’s watch, and was glad that he had put it away in the top drawer of the tallboy in the bedroom. He smiled back at the doctor, though it was rather more a baring of teeth than an expression of good humor. “Nothing,” he replied. “I made him angry.”

The doctor looked up and met his gaze, curiosity bright in his face. “Make an ’abit o’ that, do yer? I could make me livin’ orff you, an’ that’s a fact. O’ course that’s only if you din’t go an’ die on me. Don’ make nob’dy angry enough ter stick it in yer throat next time.” He was pressing hard to stop the bleeding as he spoke. “Put yer other ’and on that,” he ordered, directing Monk to a pad of cloth above the wound. “ ’old it.” He pulled out of his pocket a fine needle and a length of catgut. He washed them in the brandy, then told Monk to release the pad. Quickly and deftly, he stitched first the inside of the wound, then the skin on the outside. He surveyed the result with satisfaction before winding a bandage around Monk’s arm and tying the ends. “Yer’ll ’ave ter ’ave that changed termorrer, an’ every day till it’s ’ealed,” he said. “But it’ll do yer.”

“My wife will do it,” Monk replied. He was beginning to feel cold and a little shivery. “Thank you.”

“She don’t come all over faint at the sight o’ blood then?”

“She nursed in the Crimea,” Monk replied with a fierce welling up of pride. “She could amputate a leg if she had to.”

“Jeez! Not my bleedin’ leg!” the doctor said, but his eyes were wide with admiration. “Really? Yer ’avin’ me on!”

“No, I’m not. I’ve seen her do something like it on the battlefield in the American War.”

The doctor pulled a face. “Poor sods,” he said simply. “ ’Oo did yer get across, then? Yer must ’ave done it good ter make ’im do this to yer.”

“I don’t know. Some scuffle-hunter.”

The doctor squinted at him, studying him with interest. “Yer in’t from ’round ’ere.” It was a statement. “Down on yer luck, eh? Yer speak like yer come from up west, wi’ a plum in yer mouth.” He regarded Monk’s shirt, ignoring the torn and bloody sleeve. “Cardsharp, are yer? Ye in’t no receiver; yer in’t ’alf fly enough. Daft as a brush ter get sliced like that.”

“No,” Monk said stiffly. The wound was painful now, and he was feeling colder with every passing moment. Discretion was gaining him little. “The man who stabbed me did it because I asked him about Clement Louvain.”

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.”

“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 naIvete.

“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.”

He felt a prickle at the back of his neck. He must not betray his ignorance to her. “My money’s on Louvain,” he said.

She pulled her mouth into a thin line. “Then yer knows summink as I don’t. Like where ’is ivory went ter, mebbe? ’Cos if ’e don’t get that back afore March closes in on ’im, ’e won’t ’ave the money ter pay ’is debt. ’E’ll lose ’is ware’ouse, an’ he won’t be able ter pay up fer that damn big clipper as is comin’ up for sale when she makes port. An’ ol’ Bert Culpepper’ll get it, sure as God made little fishes. An’ then where’ll Clem Louvain be, eh? I’ll tell yer, a week be’ind for the rest of ’is days. An’ you an’ I but know wot good a cargo is a week be’ind! So yer put yer money on Clem Louvain if yer want, but I’m keepin’ mine in me pocket till I sees which way the cat jumps.”

Monk smiled at her very slowly. “Then so will I,” he said softly. It was what he had wanted at last.

She was uncertain just how deep his agreement was. She wanted it all, but she knew she had to play it slowly. She had reeled in many fish in her day, and this was a tasty one.

Monk sat back again, still looking at her. “You said something about watches?”

She moved her fingers gently on the fabric of her embroidery. “Yer got watches?”

“Three. . for now.”

She held out her hand.

He gave them to her, one at a time, hoping she would either give them back to him or pay him something like their worth. If not, the information she’d just revealed would have been bought at a price he could not afford.

It took him nearly an hour to haggle with her, and she relished every moment of it as if it were a kind of game between them. She sent for a bottle of gin, and it was brought by a thin man with muscles like cords in his neck, and a knife scar over the crown of his shaven head. He brought it with ill grace, and Lil barely looked at him. She was bored with him, her appetite was sharp for Monk.

They sat in front of the fire, sipping gin, arguing back and forth. She leaned forward so close to him he could smell the warmth and the staleness of her, but he dared not let her see that. He could feel the sweat trickling down his body and knew it was as much from revulsion as from the heat of the room. He had walked into this knowingly, using what he saw in her face, and now he did not know how to get out. He was tempted to settle for less than the watches were worth-anything to escape. But if he did that she would know why, and not only despise him for it but be insulted, which would be far more dangerous. Every instinct in him screamed that a woman rebuffed was an enemy no man could afford. Better a man robbed of his goods, or insulted in his honor, better almost anything rather than that.

The minutes ticked by. She sent for the man with the corded neck again to fetch more coal. Apparently his name was Ollie.

He brought it. She told him to stoke the fire. He did so. She dismissed him.

“Forty pound,” she said as Ollie closed the door behind him. “That’s me last offer.”

He pretended to weigh it very carefully. He had asked forty-five, three pounds more than the forty pounds Louvain had given him, expecting to have to come down. This would mean he lost two pounds, but he would not do better. “Well. . I suppose there’s more to a price than money,” he said at last.

She nodded with satisfaction. “Gimme.”

He passed over the watches, and she stood up and went to a locked box in the far corner of the room. She opened it and brought back forty sovereigns, counting them out for him.

He took them and put them in his own inside pockets. He knew better than to leave instantly. It was another five minutes before he rose to his feet, thanked her for her hospitality, and said he would be back the next time he had business of a similar nature.

He walked briskly to Louvain’s office, tense all the way, thinking he heard footsteps behind him. He could not afford to lose the money. He went in with a sense of relief so overwhelming it was like exhaustion suddenly catching up with him. He asked to see Louvain immediately, and was shown in within ten minutes.

“Well?” Louvain demanded, his face dark with anger and impatience.

Monk realized how glad he was that he had something positive to report-and that the coins were in his pocket. He took them out and put them on the desk. “Forty pounds,” he said. “It bought me information that you should have told me in the first place.”

Louvain looked at the money for a moment, then picked it up, scraped his fingernail across one of the coins, and put them in his pocket. “What information is that?” he said quietly. There was a rough, dangerous edge to his voice, and his eyes were cold, but he did not ask for the other two pounds.

“That your warehouse is surety for a loan from Bert Culpepper, and if you don’t redeem it you can’t put it up for collateral to buy the clipper when it comes up for auction,” Monk told him.

Louvain let out his breath slowly, his jaw clenched so the muscle stood out. “Who told you that? And what you say had better be the truth.”

“An opulent receiver,” Monk replied. “If you want to know who else knows, I can’t tell you, I didn’t learn that.”

“So now they know you’re my man!”

“I’m not your man! And no, they don’t know.”

“You’re my man until I say you aren’t.” Louvain leaned forward over his desk, his hands, callused and scarred by ropes, spread wide on the polished wood. “How does knowing about Culpepper and the clipper get you any further? I told you I needed to deliver the ivory because it was due. I hadn’t time to tell you all my enemies along the river. I have crossed every man on it, one time or another. And they’ve crossed me. It’s not a trade for the squeamish.”

“Because if you’d told me about Culpepper I could have started to trace the ivory from the other end!” Monk answered back with equal bitterness. “Following the ivory from the ship I’m always at least two days behind.”

A dull flush spread up Louvain’s cheeks. “Well, go and get on with looking at Culpepper, but for the love of God, be careful! You’re no use to me at the bottom of the river with your throat cut.”

“Thank you,” Monk said sarcastically, then turned on his heel and went out. He felt safer now that he had only a little silver and copper change in his pocket, but he still kept to the middle of the road all the way back to the omnibus stop.

He was standing, waiting, hunched against the wind, when another man came up, presumably to wait also. Only when he stood beside him was Monk suddenly aware of a weight pressing into his side. He turned to complain, and saw the hatred in the man’s eyes. He had a hat on, covering his shaven head and the strangely muscular neck, but Monk recognized his jaw and mouth. It was Ollie, who had waited on him at Little Lil’s.

“Yer in’t ready ter go ’ome yet, Mr. Busybody,” Ollie hissed softly, as if someone might overhear him. “Fancy yerself, do yer? Think our Lil’d give yer more’n the time o’ day, do yer? Well yer in’t gonner ’ave the chance, see, ’cos yer comin’ wi’ me fer a little trip down Lime’ouse way.” He jerked the knife blade in his hand a little more sharply into Monk’s ribs. “An’ there in’t nob’dy listenin’, so don’ bother yellin’ out, ner thinkin’ as mebbe I wouldn’t stick yer, ’cos I would.”

Monk did not doubt it. He might get a chance to overpower him later, but certainly not now. And his mind was filled with the memory of the knife in his arm as a scream filled the silence. Obediently he turned from the omnibus stop and walked back along the dark, gusty street, the wind in his face, the stones slick under his feet.

They were alone side by side, Ollie close and a little behind, always keeping the knife bumping Monk’s back. He must have done such a thing before, because never once-all the way along the road, across the dark inlet to the Shadwell Docks and beyond, towards the curve southward of Limehouse Reach-did he ever let Monk move far enough from him to turn or escape the prodding blade.

Monk saw the cranes and warehouses of the West India Dock ahead. The rain was spitting in their faces and the air was pungent with the smells of fish and tar when Ollie ordered him to stop. “Yer goin’ fer a nice little swim, you are,” he said with malicious delight. “Mebbe our Lil won’t fancy yer so much when they fish yer out.” He laughed to himself, a sound like a clearing of the throat. “That’s if they do, like! Sometimes bodies get caught up in the piers an’ no one ever finds ’em. They stay there forever.”

“I’ll make damn sure you come with me!” Monk retorted. “Is this what Lil wants?”

“Don’t yer talk abaht ’er, yer. .” Ollie’s voice shook with rage.

Monk felt the knifepoint prick him. He moved towards the broad surface of the wharf where it stretched out ten or twelve yards into the dark water before dropping off abruptly, nothing beyond but the creaking, dripping stumps poking up like dead men’s bones. The smell of wood rot was heavy in his nose. It was dark but for the riding lights of a ship twenty yards away.

“Garn!” Ollie prompted, shoving Monk forward with the knife blade. He was too close behind for Monk to twist and lunge back at him. Monk stepped down as he was told, and felt the boards slippery under his feet. The wood was pitted and slimy with age. He could hear the river swirling and sucking around the stakes, only a few feet below him now. Would he have any chance of swimming in that current? Could he catch hold of the next stake as he was carried against it? If it was that easy, why did people drown? Because the tide was fast, and the eddies pulled you away. Clothes soaked with water were too heavy to move in, and they pulled you under, no matter what you did.

He had to fight now or not at all. And Ollie knew that, too. He gave another stiff prod and Monk stumbled forward onto his knees and rolled over rapidly, in a single movement, just as Ollie flung himself into the place where he had been, knife blade arcing in the air and stabbing downward.

Monk scrambled to get up as a board cracked under his weight and swung for a moment, then plunged into the water below.

Ollie was on his feet again. He grunted with satisfaction. He knew the pier, where the rotten planks were, and he had the knife. He was between Monk and the way back, but at least there was space between them now and Monk could make out his shape in the darkness. Would that be enough? It had been a long time since he had fought physically for his life-in fact, not since that dreadful night in Mecklenburg Square before his accident, and he remembered that only in flashes.

Ollie was balancing on the balls of his feet, preparing to lunge.

This was ridiculous! If he were not facing death it would be funny. He was fighting a man he did not know for the favor of a woman he would have paid not to touch! And if he told Ollie that, Ollie would be so insulted for Lil he would murder Monk in outrage.

Monk gave a bark of laughter for the sheer lunacy of it.

Ollie hesitated. For the first time he was faced with something he did not understand.

Monk moved a step sideways, away from the board he knew was rotted and closer to the way back.

Ollie froze, looking beyond Monk.

It was then that Monk turned and saw the other figure in the gloom-solid, menacing, huge, with the riding lights behind him. Monk broke out in a sweat of panic-then the instant after, when the figure moved, recognized the slightly rolling gait of Durban from the River Police.

“Now then, Ollie,” Durban said firmly. “You can’t take us both, an’ you don’t want to finish up on the end of a rope. It’s a bad way to go.”

Ollie remained motionless, his jaw hanging.

“Put that away an’ go on home,” Durban went on, moving a step farther towards Monk. His voice held such certainty as if there was no question in anyone’s mind that Ollie would obey.

Ollie stood still.

Monk waited.

Underneath them the water sucked and belched, swirling around the pier stakes, and, somewhere, something was washed away and fell in with a splash.

Monk was shuddering with cold, and relief.

Ollie made his decision. He lowered his hand with the knife in it.

“Into the water,” Durban directed.

Ollie squawked with indignation, his voice high and harsh.

“The knife!” Durban said patiently. “Not you.”

Ollie swore, and tossed the knife. It fell into the water with only the faintest sound.

Monk stifled a laugh that was far too close to hysteria.

Ollie turned and stumbled up towards the street and the darkness swallowed him up.

Another figure appeared behind Durban, slighter, and moving with an ease that suggested he was also younger.

“You all right, sir?” His voice was concerned, challenging.

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant Orme,” Durban replied. “Just Ollie Jenkins getting a bit above himself again. Thinks Mr. Monk here has designs on Little Lil.”

Sergeant Orme was satisfied. The rigidity in him relaxed, but he did not leave.

“What exactly is it that you’re doing here, Mr. Monk?” Durban asked. “What are you looking for?”

“Thank you,” Monk said with profound feeling. It was embarrassing, being rescued by the River Police. He was used to being the one who helped, who did the favor and found the solutions. It was made the more so because he respected Durban and loathed not being able to be honest with him. It was a kind of grubbiness he would have paid a great deal to avoid.

“What are you looking for?” Durban repeated. The water gurgled around the pier, the wash from something passing in the gloom sloshed against the stakes and the wood creaked and sagged sideways. “I know you’re a private agent of enquiry,” Durban said in an expressionless voice. What he thought of such an occupation could only be guessed at. Did he think Monk was a scavenger in other people’s misery, or a profiteer from their crimes?

“Stolen goods,” he answered finally. “So I can return them to their owner.”

Still Durban did not move. “What sort of goods?”

“Anything that belongs to one man and has been taken by another.”

“You’re playing with fire, Mr. Monk, an’ you aren’t good enough at it, at least not down here on the river,” Durban told him softly. “You’ll get burnt, an’ I already have enough murders on my stretch without you. Go back to the city an’ do what you know how.”

“I’ve got to finish this job.”

Durban sighed. “I suppose you’ll do whatever you want. I can’t stop you,” he said wearily. “You’d better come with us back along the river. Can’t leave you around here or somebody could attack you in the other arm.” He turned and led the way out towards the river edge of the wharf to where the police boat was waiting on the high tide, close enough to the bank to jump down into.

Monk followed, and Sergeant Orme offered him a hand so he could balance himself in the dark. He landed moderately well in the boat, at least not falling over any of the oarsmen or pitching beyond into the water.

He sat quietly and watched as Orme, who was apparently in charge, gave the order and they put out again and turned upriver towards the Pool. They moved swiftly on the still-incoming tide, the men pulling with an easy rhythm, with that special kind of unity that comes with practice and a common purpose.

They maneuvered with skill, making little of the art and the knowledge required to weave their way between the anchored ships without hitting a boat. Now and then someone made a joke and there was a burst of laughter, a comfortable sound in the wind and the blustery darkness lit only by the glimmer of riding lights.

They called each other by nicknames, which were often derogatory, but the affection was too plain to need display. The mockery was their way of robbing the fear from the reality of violence and hardship. Monk knew that as he listened to them, and remembered all the better parts of his own police days, things he had forgotten until now, and lied to himself that he did not miss.

They put him off at London Bridge and he thanked them, climbing out stiffly, then walking towards the nearest omnibus stop.

He was glad to feel the solid earth under his feet, but his mind was in turmoil, his emotions raw. He hated having appeared such a fool to Durban. Even when the time came that he could tell him the truth, it might not sound a great deal better, even though ideas were at last becoming clearer in his mind. There were threads to follow, something definite to do.