William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

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?”
    Monk smiled back. “Monk—”
    Crow roared with laughter, and Monk found himself oddly self-conscious; in fact, he felt himself coloring. He turned away and fished in his pocket to pay Mr. Herbert for his brandy.
    Herbert refused the money, and Monk gave Madge sixpence instead, and another sixpence when she brought him water and soap to clean up his jacket before he walked outside. There was a bitter wind coming off the tide, but its chill revived him.
    With a sharper mind and a slightly clearer head came the awareness that if he was going to go back to see Little Lil, then he had to have at least two or three gold watches to sell her. Not even to earn Louvain’s money was he going to part with Callandra’s watch. The only person whose help he could ask for now was Louvain himself. The thought choked in his throat, but there was no alternative. The sooner he did it, the sooner it would be over.
             
    “What?” Louvain said incredulously when Monk told him.
    Monk felt his face burn. He was standing in front of Louvain’s desk and Louvain was sitting in the large, carved, and padded chair behind it. Louvain had already remarked on Monk’s torn sleeve, and Monk had dismissed it.
    “I need to convince them that I have stolen goods to sell,” Monk repeated, staring back at him unblinkingly. He knew exactly what Louvain was trying to do by his demeanor because he had exercised exactly that kind of domination of will over others when he had been in the police and had the power to back it. He refused to be cowed. “Talk means nothing,” he answered. “I have to show them something.”
    “And you imagine I’m fool enough to give it to you?” There was a bitter derision in Louvain’s voice, and perhaps disappointment as well. “I fund four or five gold watches for you, hand them over, and why should I ever see you again, let alone my watches? What kind of an idiot do you take me for?”
    “One that does not hire a man to retrieve his stolen goods without first finding out enough about him to know whether he can trust him or not,” Monk replied immediately.
    Louvain smiled, showing his teeth. There was a flash of respect in his eyes, but no warmth. “I know a great deal more about you than you do about me,” he conceded with a touch of arrogance.
    Monk smiled back, his look hard, as if he also had secret knowledge that amused him.
    Louvain saw something, and there was a subtle change in his eyes.
    Monk smiled more widely.
    Suddenly, Louvain was uncertain. “What do you know about me?” he asked, no timbre or lift in his voice to indicate whether the answer mattered to him or not.
    “I’m not concerned with anything except what has to do with the ivory,” Monk told him. “I needed to know your enemies, rivals, people who owe you, or whom you owe, and any persons who think you have wronged them.”
    “And what have you found out?” Louvain’s eyebrows rose, interest sharper in him.
    Perhaps if Louvain were to succeed in the hard and dangerous trade he had chosen he needed to appear a man no one would dare cross, but was there a gentle man behind the mask? Was he capable of softer passions as well, of love, vulnerability, dreams? Was the woman he had taken to Portpool Lane the mistress of a friend for whom he would perform such a service? Or was she perhaps his own mistress, and