William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

tide was slack, but the wind was raw. As they pulled out into the river, Monk was glad to go with the other passengers below deck into the cramped cabin, where there was some shelter. There were at least fifty other people on board: men and women and several children. Everyone was wrapped up in winter coats that offered a host of places easy enough to hide the proceeds from picked pockets. One obese gentleman wore a fur-collared coat that flapped as he walked. He could have hidden half a dozen one-pound bags of sugar without causing any further bulges on his person.
    A thin woman with voluminous shawls scolded three children who trailed after her. She looked like an ordinary housewife, but Monk knew perfectly well that she could also be a passer of stolen goods, one to whom the pickpocket gave them until he was safely free of suspicion and could take them back. She would get her cut, in time.
    The plan was that if no one robbed him on the way down to Greenwich, he was to meet with one of the other policemen who was dressed as a passenger and show him the carving, as if intending to sell it to him. The policeman would pretend to decline and Monk would return to Westminster. He refused even to imagine the possibility of the thieves taking it and not being caught. On the other hand, if they were arrested too soon, then the whole operation was abortive. The police would have the thief—the fingers of the crime—but not the brain or the heart.
    A man bumped against him, apologized, and moved on.
    Monk’s hands went to his pocket. The carving was still there.
    It happened again, and again. He was so nervous his fingers were stiff and trembling.
    Butterworth bumped into him and apologized, using the password to let him know that he had been robbed. Why was the carving not gone? Without the theft they would not need to find the Fat Man.
    They were past the Surrey Docks and heading down the Limehouse Reach.
    Ten minutes later Monk’s pocket was empty, and he had not even felt it. Panic broke over him in a wave, the sweat hot and then cold on his skin. He had no idea who had taken it, not even whether it was man or woman. He spun around. Where was Butterworth?
    “Thin man, mustache, sad face like a rat,” Constable Jones said almost at his elbow. “Over there, by the way up to the deck.”
    Monk found himself gasping with relief, barely able to draw enough air into his lungs. Should he say he knew who had taken the statue? The lie died on his lips. Jones would see in his reaction that he had not. “Thank you,” he said instead. “He’s the one we have to watch, never mind the others.”
    Butterworth was almost six feet from the man with the mustache. He was pretending to look for something in his coat pocket, but his eyes were on the man. He had seen, too. He and Jones were good, quicker than Monk.
    The boat reached the Dog and Duck Stairs, and the man with the carving got off. Monk, Jones, and Butterworth got off behind him, as did half a dozen others.
    The man walked down the quay back towards the Greenland Dock. It was dark, and there was a smell of rain in the wind. Here and there the streetlamps were lit. It was in some ways the most difficult time to keep anyone in sight. The shadows were deceptive; you thought you saw someone, and suddenly you didn’t. There were pools of light, and long stretches of gloom. The sound and movement and shifting reflections of water were everywhere.
    Monk, Jones, and Butterworth moved separately, trying to give themselves three chances not to lose him. It would be better to arrest him and catch no one else than lose the carving. But then the whole exercise would have been a failure. One thief was hardly here or there. They would have betrayed their hand for nothing.
    They were moving south again. Orme and his men should be keeping pace with them along the river.
    There was another man in the shadows. Monk stopped abruptly, afraid of catching up and being seen. Then he realized he should not have stopped. It drew attention to him. It was years since he had done this sort of thing. He retraced his steps a couple of yards and bent down as if to pick up something he had dropped, then went forward again. The new man had caught up with the thief. His outline under the lamppost looked familiar. He was short and fat with a long overcoat and a brimless hat. He had been on that boat—another thief?
    A third man had joined them by the time they turned right and reached another ancient