William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

said quickly.
    Gould chuckled deep in his throat. “I ’eard,” he answered, but the laughter in his voice made the truth obvious.
    “Thieves around? Dangerous ones,” Monk said thoughtfully.
    Gould was still amused by Monk’s naÏveté.
    “In their own boats, or borrowed?” Monk pursued. “Or stolen for the night? Anybody ever steal your boat?”
    “Nah!” Gould was indignant. It was an insult to his ability and his worthiness on the river.
    “How would you know if somebody’d had your boat at, say . . . three or four o’clock in the morning?” Monk said dubiously.
    “I’d know if somebody’d ’ad me boat any time,” Gould said with complete confidence. “I leave it tied wi’ me own kind o’ knot, but at four in the mornin’ I’d be in it meself.”
    “Would you.” It was an acknowledgment more than a question. “Every morning?”
    “Yeah—jus’ about. Why? Some mornin’ yer got special, like?”
    Monk knew he had gone far enough. Gould was probably familiar with many of the river thieves; he might even be one of them, an accomplice. The question was, did Monk want to risk word of his hunt getting back to whoever had taken the ivory? Except that they almost certainly knew already.
    The large bulk of a schooner loomed up ahead of them, almost over them. Gould made a hasty movement with the oars, throwing his weight against them to turn the boat aside. Monk found himself gripping the sides. He hoped in the darkness that Gould had not seen him. He half expected the shock of cold water on his skin any second.
    It was worth the risk—maybe. He could spend weeks going around and around the subject, and discovering what had happened to the ivory when it was too late. How would he survive anything if his reputation was ruined? He lived on other people’s perceptions of him as a hard man—ruthless, successful, never to be lied to.
    “October the twentieth,” he answered. He wanted to add “And look where you’re going!” but tact told him not to.
    Gould was silent.
    Monk strained his eyes ahead, but he could not see the opposite shore yet. Although in this murk it could be twenty feet away.
    “Dunno,” Gould replied at last. “I were down Greenwich way around then. Weren’t up ’ere. So come ter fink on it, nob’dy coulda ’ad me boat. So wotever it was as was done, it weren’t done in my boat.” His voice lifted cheerfully. “Sorry, I can’t ’elp yer.” And the next moment the dark wall of the Embankment was above them and the hull of the boat scraped gently against the stones of the step. “There y’are, mister, safe an’ sound.”
    Monk thanked him, paid the second half of his fare, and climbed out.
             
    It was another miserable night because Hester was not home. He knew that the reason would be illness at Portpool Lane, people she could not leave because there was no one else to care for them, but it did not ease his loneliness.
    He slept in, largely because his arm kept him awake until long after midnight, and disturbed him after that. He was undecided where to go to have the bandage changed. He kept telling himself to go back and find Crow. He might learn more from him. But even as he did so he was putting on his coat, mitts, and muffler and walking towards the omnibus stop in the direction of Portpool Lane.
    It was raining steadily, a persistent, soaking rain that found its way into everything and sent water swirling deep along the gutters. Even so he strode down the footpath under the shadow of the brewery with a light step, as if he were going home after a long absence.
    He entered the clinic and found Bessie in the main room, sweeping the floor. She glanced up and was about to berate him when she realized who he was, and her face broke into a transformed smile.
    “I’ll get ’er for yer, sir,” she said immediately. “She’ll be that glad ter see yer. Workin’ like a navvy, she is.” She shook her head. “We got more in ’ere sick than yer ever seed. Time o’ year, I reckon. An’ you look starvin’ cold, an all. D’yer like an ’ot cup o’ tea?”
    “Yes, please,” he accepted, sitting down as she disappeared out the door, still carrying the broom as if it had been a bayonet.
    He had little time to look around him at how the place had changed since he had last been there—the addition of a new cupboard, a couple of mats salvaged from somewhere—before Hester came in. Her face filled with pleasure at seeing him, but it did