William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

he had had to protect his family, whoever they were, wife, children, parents?
    “What have you found?” Louvain repeated.
    “Don’t you know?” Monk asked aloud.
    Louvain nodded very slowly. “If I get the watches for you, you now know that if you steal them, England won’t be big enough for you to hide in, let alone London.”
    “I won’t steal them because I’m not a thief,” Monk snapped. He was overpoweringly aware of the difference in wealth between them. He lived from week to week, and Louvain would know that, whereas Louvain owned ships, warehouses, a London home with carriages, horses, possibly even a house in the country. He would have servants, possessions, a future of as much certainty as was possible in life.
    Louvain raised his eyebrows, but there was a flicker of humor in his face. “Perhaps no one else was rash enough to give you gold watches?”
    “I never worked for anyone who lost a shipment of ivory before,” Monk snapped back. “I tend to specialize in murders.”
    “And minor thefts,” Louvain added cruelly. “Lately you’ve retrieved a couple of brooches, a cello, a rare book, and three vases. However, you have failed to retrieve a silver salver, a red lacquer box, and a carriage horse.”
    Monk’s temper seethed. Only knowledge of his own dependency on the payment for this job kept him in the room. “Which begs the question of why you asked me to find your ivory, rather than the River Police, as any other victim of crime would have done!” he said bitterly.
    There were many emotions in Louvain’s face, violent and conflicting: fury, fear, a moment of respect, and mounting frustration. He realized Monk was still staring at him and that his eyes read far too much. “I’ll give you forty pounds,” he said abruptly. “Get what you can. But if you’re going to sell them around here, you’d better go to the south side of the river to buy them. The pawnbrokers and receivers all know each other’s business on this side. Now go and get on with it. Time’s short. It’s no damned use to me finding out who took my ivory if they’ve already sold it on!”
    He stood up and went to the safe in the farther corner, unlocked it with his back to Monk, took out the money, and locked the safe again. He faced Monk and counted out the coins. His eyes were as hard as the winter wind off the Thames, but he did not repeat his warning.
    “Thank you,” Monk accepted, turning on his heel and leaving.
    Louvain was correct that there was no time to lose—also, that he would be far wiser to buy his watches on the south side of the river, perhaps as far down as Deptford, opposite the Isle of Dogs. He walked briskly back along the dockside, guarding his injured arm as well as he could. He should find a tailor to stitch up the gash in his coat, but he had no time to spare now. The cut was surprisingly small for the pain the knife had inflicted on his flesh.
    It was growing dusk already, even though it was mid-afternoon. He had missed lunch, so he bought a couple of eel pies from a peddler on the curbside. Only when he bit into the first one did he realize how hungry he was. He stood on the embankment side near the stone steps down to the water, waiting until he saw a ferry that would take him across. It was half tide, and the smell of the mud was sour. It seemed to cling to skin, hair, cloth, and would probably be with him even when he left the river to go home.
    The air was damp; the sound of water slapping against the stones was as rhythmic as the blood in a living thing. Faint veils of mist hung over the slick surface. The wind-ribbed shafts of silver were bright one moment, vanishing the next. Far to the south, along the curve of Limehouse Reach, a foghorn sounded, drifting like a cry of loss.
    Monk shivered. As the wind dropped the mist would increase. He had no desire to be caught trying to cross back again if there was a real pea-souper. He must go as quickly as possible. Without reasoning the advantage to it, he walked to the edge of the steps and down the first two or three, parallel to the wall, railless, the black water swirling and slopping a dozen feet below him.
    There was a boat twenty yards away, a man sitting idly at the oars. Monk cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to him.
    The man half turned, saw where Monk was standing, and dug the oars in deep, pulling the boat towards him.
    “Wanter cross?” he asked when he was close enough to be heard.
    “Yes,” Monk