William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

know why, or exactly about what, but the honesty between them was compromised. Her manner of dress was different, bolder, more like everyone else’s, as if she cared what society thought of her and without any explanation she had needed to conform.
    For that matter, why had she gone to the recital at all? She disliked that type of function as much as he did. He was there only because Huntley had invited him and it was a politic move that he accept.
    The morning was little better, and brought no ease to his mind. He went to his office as usual, and put aside personal matters with the discipline of concentration he had developed over the years. But all the strength of will at his disposal, intense as it was, could not rid him of his sense of confusion, and even of loss.
    It was quite late in the afternoon, with the light already fading as rain set in, when his clerk came to inform him that Mr. William Monk had called to see him. It was on a matter he regarded as so urgent that he refused to be put off by the fact that Sir Oliver had other commitments for the rest of the day. He simply would not leave; in fact, he would not even be seated.
    Rathbone glanced at his watch. “You had better ask Mr. Styles to wait a moment or two. Apologize to him and say that an emergency has arisen, and send Monk in. Warn him that I have only ten minutes, at the most.”
    “Yes, Sir Oliver,” the clerk said obediently, his lips pursed. He did not approve of alteration to arrangements, particularly those made with clients who paid, which he knew that Monk did not. But he also loved order, and obedience was the first rule of his life, so he did as he was told.
    The moment Monk came in Rathbone knew that whatever had brought him was extremely serious. He was barely recognizable. His usual elegance had vanished; he looked more like a man of substance fallen on hard times, perhaps sunk to the edges of the criminal world. His trousers were shapeless, his boots built for endurance rather than grace, his jacket such as a laborer might wear, and it was definitely soiled, and with a tear in the sleeve.
    But all that Rathbone noticed at a glance. It was Monk’s face that shocked him and held his attention. His skin had no color at all beneath the dark stubble of his beard, and his eyes were hollow, the shadows around them almost like bruises.
    Monk closed the door behind himself, having already sent the clerk away. “Thank you,” he said simply.
    Rathbone felt a flicker of alarm. Surely if something had happened to Hester, Margaret would have told him? He had seen her only yesterday evening, and she had said nothing.
    “What is it?” he asked a little abruptly.
    Monk took a deep breath, but he did not sit down, as if he would find the slightest bodily comfort impossible. “I had taken a job on the river,” he began, speaking swiftly, as if the whole outline of what he was going to say had been rehearsed. “On October twenty-one, to be precise. It was to find some ivory that had been stolen from the
Maude Idris
while she was moored on the river waiting for a wharf at which to unload.”
    Rathbone was puzzled; it was not Monk’s usual type of work. It must be a favor he owed, or more likely a financial pressure had driven him to accept it.
    “Why weren’t the River Police involved?” he asked. “They’re good, and as long as you stay clear of the Revenue men, for the most part they’re honest. Get the odd bad one, but they’re few and far between.”
    A shadow crossed Monk’s eyes. “The issue that matters is that when the theft was discovered, so was the body of the night watchman from the crew, with his head beaten in—”
    “Just a minute,” Rathbone interrupted. He could feel the tension in Monk so powerful it was like a live thing in the air, but looking for stolen goods rather than reporting and pursuing murder was so unlike Monk he needed to be certain he had grasped the facts truly. “Are you saying the man was killed by the thieves, or not? Was the shipowner trying to conceal it? Who is he, anyway?”
    “I’m telling you the facts!” Monk snapped back. “Just listen!” His voice all but choked on the emotion within him. A flicker of self-consciousness appeared and vanished. He did not apologize, but it was implicit. “Clement Louvain. He showed me the body of the man, named Hodge. His skull was stoven in at the back. I saw the ledge inside the hold where he was found, and there was very little blood. I wasn’t