by Anne Perry
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!”