The Shifting Tide

by Anne Perry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gould was still amused by Monk’s naÏveté.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gould was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, please,” he accepted, sitting down as she disappeared out the d
oor, 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.