William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

October street, and half an hour after that he was back on the dockside again. The air was still, almost windless, but the damp penetrated the flesh till it felt as if it reached the bone. He huddled into his coat, turning up the collar. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and stepped over the puddles from the night’s rain. It was a while since he had had a new pair of boots, and it might be even longer before he did again. He needed to take care of these ones.
    The more he considered the ivory, the more he believed the thieves would have taken it to a specific opulent receiver capable of selling it on to the highly specialized markets that could use it. There was a limited number of such people along the river. It was not finding them which was the major issue, but proving that they still knew where the ivory was, and with each passing day his chances of success were reduced.
    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