Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

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

“Five guineas,” was the answer.

“And if I have more?” he asked.

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scuff!” he called out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

“Yer mean cheap?”

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

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

“How much?”

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

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

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

“Thank you. I shall be here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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