William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

to.
    In the street, he was barely beyond the ring of the lamplight when Scuff materialized from the darkness.
    “Yer got anyfink?” he asked eagerly.
    Monk swore under his breath.
    Scuff giggled with satisfaction. “She like yer, does she?” he said.
    Monk realized Scuff had expected it, and he reached out to clip him over the ear for the acute embarrassment he had suffered, but Scuff ducked sideways and Monk’s hand missed him. Not that it would have hurt more than a slight sting. He was still laughing.
    They reached the main street running parallel with the docks and crossed into the better light. Monk turned to Scuff again, and realized he was not there. He saw a shadow in front of him, a row of buttons gleaming on a dark jacket, a solidity, a confidence to him.
    “Has his wits about him more’n yer have, Mr. Monk,” the man observed.
    Monk froze. The man was River Police; he knew it with certainty—more than the uniform, it was the quiet authority in him, the sense of pride in his calling. He did not need to threaten, not even to raise his voice. He was the law and he understood its worth. If only Monk had that same dignity, the fellowship of all the other quiet men who kept order on the river and its immediate shore. Suddenly the reality of his aloneness was almost beyond bearing.
    “You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said stiffly, with more than necessary politeness.
    “Durban,” the man replied. “Inspector Durban o’ the River Police. I haven’t seen you here before a couple o’ days ago. You say you’re looking for work, but it doesn’t seem to me like you want it. Why would that be, Mr. Monk?”
    Monk ached to tell him the truth, but he dared not. He was committed to Clement Louvain, and to his own need.
    “I’d rather work with my brain than bending my back,” he replied, putting an edge of truculence in his voice that he did not feel.
    “There’s not much call for brain work down on the dock,” Durban pointed out. “Least not that’s legal. There’s a lot that’s not, as I’m sure you know. But I wonder if you really know how dangerous that is? You wouldn’t believe the number of dead bodies we pick up out of the water, an’ there’s no one to say how they got in there. I wouldn’t like yours to be one of ’em, Mr. Monk. Just be a little bit careful, eh? Don’t go messing with the likes o’ Little Lil Fosdyke, or the Fat Man, or Mr. Weskit. There’s no room for more opulent receivers than we’ve already got. Do you take my meaning?”
    “I’m sure there isn’t,” Monk agreed, hating the lies. “My interest is in running errands and being of service to people who can’t do all their own jobs. I don’t buy or sell goods.”
    “Really . . .” Durban said with disbelief. His face was almost unreadable in the near darkness, but his voice was sad, as if he had expected better, fewer lies at least.
    Monk remembered with a jarring urgency being in exactly the same position, seeing a man well-dressed, well-spoken, hoping he was in the run-down alley only by chance, and realizing within minutes that he was a thief. He remembered his disappointment. He drew in his breath to explain himself to Durban and then let it out again in a sigh. Not until after he had earned Louvain’s money.
    “Yes, really,” he said tartly. “Good night, Inspector.” And he walked away down the street towards the lighted thoroughfare to catch an omnibus, and then another home.

FOUR
    Oliver Rathbone sat in the hansom as it moved with relative ease through the London traffic from his own home towards that of Margaret Ballinger. He was going to take her as his guest to an evening concert given by a very fine violinist. It was in aid of a worthy charity, and many people of social importance would attend. He was dressed in the height of elegance, fashionable enough to occasion admiration, and yet not so much as to look as if he cared. A real gentleman did not need to make an effort to please; it was a gift with which he was born.
    And yet Rathbone was not at ease. He sat upright rather than relaxing into the padding of the seat. He had plenty of time, but he could not help looking out of the windows to see where he was, watching the yellow glitter of the street lamps reflected on the wet surfaces of the road through the drifts of rain, and note the familiar landmarks.
    It had been a hurried invitation, offered to her yesterday somewhat impulsively. He could not remember exactly what the