Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

Was she some shipowner’s mistress whose circumstances made it impossible for him to give her the care she needed? Was he afraid she was going to die, and he would be unable to explain the presence of her body in his house?

Or was she Louvain’s own mistress, and for some reason he was unwilling to admit that?

Had the reputation of the clinic spread so far that even on the dockside Louvain had heard of it? Or had Monk mentioned something of it when accepting his new job?

Perhaps none of that mattered now. She did not ask questions of the others in her care. Their recovery was all that concerned her. Why should this woman be different?

Bessie came with the tea, and between them they propped Ruth up. A teaspoonful at a time, they managed to persuade her to take it. Finally they eased her down again, put the covers right up to her chin, and left her to sink into a sleep so profound she seemed close to unconsciousness.

Outside the room Hester fished in her pocket and took out the money. She gave one of the sovereigns and the fourteen shillings to Bessie. “Go and get food, coal, carbolic, vinegar, brandy, and quinine,” she ordered. She added another sovereign. “Enough for the rest of the week. Thank God there isn’t rent to pay! I’ll give this to Squeaky. That should make him smile!” And with a lift of hope she followed down the corridor after Bessie.

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.