Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

“ ’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?”