The Shifting Tide Page 2

  Monk looked at Louvain’s tight-muscled shoulders and effortless balance, and was quite certain that the lack of a ladder would not have stopped him, had he been intent on boarding. “Would the grapple leave any marks on the wood?” Monk said aloud.

  Louvain drew in his breath sharply, then let it out again as understanding came to him. “You think the crew were in on it?”

  “Were they?” Monk asked. “Do you know each one well enough to be certain?”

  Louvain thought before he answered. He was weighing some judgment in his mind; his eyes reflected it, and the moment of decision. “Yes,” he said finally. He did not qualify it or add any assurances. He was not used to explaining himself; his word sufficed.

  Monk looked around the deck. It was broad and open, scrubbed clean, but still it was a small space to imagine in the vastness of the ocean. The hatches were closed but not battened down. The wood was strong and in good repair, but the marks of use were clear. This was a working ship; even at a glance one could see the ingrained stains of hands on the surrounds of hatches, of feet on the tracks to and from the way down. Nothing was new, except one piece of shroud going up the foremast high into the rigging to be lost in the web above. Its pale color marked it plainly.

  From the aft hatch, which was standing open, a hand appeared and then a huge body, climbing through and up. He stood well over six feet; his round head was covered in a bristle of brownish gray hair, his chin similarly. It was a coarse face, but intelligent, and it was apparent he made no move without thought. Now he walked slowly over to Louvain and stopped a little distance short of him, waiting for his orders.

  “This is the ship’s bosun, Newbolt,” Louvain said. “He can tell you all he knows of the theft.”

  Monk relaxed a little, deliberately. He regarded Newbolt with care: the man’s immense physical power; his callused hands; the weathered clothes; dark blue trousers worn and shapeless, but strong enough to protect him against cold or a loose rope lashing. His jacket was thick, and the front of a rough woollen sweater in fancy stitches was visible at the neck. Monk remembered it was an old seafaring habit to wear such garments, the different stitches identifying a man by family and clan even if his dead body had been in the sea for days, or weeks.

  “Three of you here, and the dead man?” Monk asked him.

  “Yeah.” Newbolt did not move at all, not even to nod his head. His eyes were fixed on Monk, steady, clever, unreflecting.

  “And where was it you found Hodge’s body?” Monk asked.

  Newbolt’s head moved fractionally to one side, a minute acknowledgment. “Bottom o’ the steps from the aft ’atchway down to the ’old.”

  “What do you suppose he was doing there?” Monk asked.

  “I dunno. Mebbe ’e ’eard summink,” Newbolt answered with ill-concealed insolence.

  “Then why didn’t he raise the alarm?” Monk enquired. “How would he do that?”

  Newbolt opened his mouth and took a deep breath, his huge chest swelling. Something in his face changed. Suddenly he was watching Monk quite differently, and with far more care.

  “Shout,” he answered. “Can’t fire a gun around ’ere. Might ’it someone else.”

  “You could fire it in the air,” Monk suggested.

  “Well if ’e did, no one ’eard it,” Newbolt replied. “I’d guess as they crept up on ’im. Mebbe one of ’em made a noise, like, and when ’e turned ter look, another one whacked ’im over the ’ead. As ter ’is bein’ found at the bottom o’ the hatchway steps, that’d be where they threw ’im. If they’d a left ’im lyin’ on deck someone else could’ve seen ’im, an’ know’d there were summink wrong. Thieves ain’t fools. Least not all of ’em.”

  It made excellent sense. It was what Monk himself would have done, and how he would have answered such an enquiry. “Thank you.” He turned to Louvain. “May I see where he was found?”

  Louvain took a lantern from Newbolt and moved to the aft hatch, climbing over onto the steps, twisting his body in a single movement. He went downwards, disappearing into the dense shadows of the interior, only the space immediately around him illuminated by the flame.

  Monk followed, with less grace, feeling his way rung by rung. Ahead of him floorboards and bulkheads were visible, and beyond the dark, the open maw of the hold, denser outlines of the cargo emerging as his eyes became used to the gloom. He could just make out stacks of timber lashed tight. He could imagine the destruction if it broke loose in heavy seas. In weather wild enough it could pierce the hull and the ship would sink in minutes. Even through the wrapping of oilcloth and canvas, he could smell the strange spices, but they were not strong enough to mask the mustiness of closed air and the sourness of the bilges below. His own boating experiences had been above deck, open to the wind and the seas. He had known the coast, not the ocean, and certainly not Africa, where this cargo had begun.

  “There.” Louvain lowered the lantern until the light shone on the ledge nearer the steps down onto the floor of the hold. It was clear enough to see the marks of blood.

  Monk took the lantern from Louvain and bent to look more closely. The stains were smears, not the still-damp pools he would have expected if a man dead of a lethal head wound had either been killed here or placed here within moments of being struck. He looked up. “What was he wearing on his head?” he asked.

  Louvain’s face was upward lit, giving it an eerie, masklike quality that accentuated his surprise at the question. “A . . . a hat, I think,” he answered.

  “What kind?”

  “Why? What has that to do with who killed him or where my ivory is?” There was tension in his voice.

  “If a man is hit over the head hard enough to kill him, there’s usually a lot of blood,” Monk replied, standing up to face Louvain levelly. “Even when you nick your skin shaving.”

  Comprehension flared in Louvain’s eyes. “A woollen hat,” he answered. “It gets very cold on deck at night. Air off the river eats into your bones.” He drew in his breath. “But I think you’re right. He was probably killed up there.” He glanced upwards towards the ladder and the darkening square of sky through the hatchway. “As Newbolt said, they’d have thrown him down here to stop the chance of his being seen by a passing boat and the alarm raised.”

  Monk turned back towards the hold, lifting the lantern higher to see the space more clearly. “How do you unload the timber?” he asked. “Is there a main hatch which comes off?”

  “Yes, but it has nothing to do with this. It’s locked fast.”

  “Could that be why they took the ivory? Because it could be carried up the steps and out of this hatchway?”

  “Possibly. But so could the spices.”

  “What does a tusk weigh?”

  “Depends—eighty or ninety pounds. A man could carry them, one at a time. You’re thinking a chance thief?”

  “Opportunist,” Monk replied. “Why? What did you think?”

  Louvain weighed his answer carefully. “There’s a lot of theft on the river, everything from piracy to the mudlarks, and people know when a ship comes in and has to be at anchor before she can find a wharf to unload. It can be weeks, if you’re unlucky—or don’t know the right people.”

  Monk was surprised. “Weeks? Wouldn’t some cargoes rot?”

  Louvain’s face was sardonic. “Of course. Shipping is not an easy business, Mr. Monk. The stakes are high; you can win a fortune, or lose one. No errors are forgiven, and no mercy is asked or expected. It’s like the sea. Only a fool fights with it. You learn its rules and, if you want to survive, you obey them.”

  Monk believed him. He needed to know more about crime on the river, but he could not afford to expose his ignorance in front of Louvain. He loathed being obliged to court a job and equivocate about his own abilities.

  “Could anyone assume you would be anchored here for several days before being able to unload?” he asked.

  “Yes. That’s the only reason I can put off my buyers,” Louvain answer
ed. “You’ve got no more than eight or nine days at the outside to find my ivory and get it back, whether you get the thief or not. We can prove his guilt later.”

  Monk raised his eyebrows. “Of murder? Wasn’t Hodge your man?”

  Louvain’s face hardened, his eyes as cold and hollow as a winter sky. “How I deal with my men is not your concern, Monk, and you’d be advised to remember it. I’ll pay you fairly, or better, and I expect the job done my way. If you catch the man who murdered Hodge, so much the better, but I’m concerned with feeding the living, not revenging the dead. You can take your evidence to the River Police. They’ll hang whoever’s responsible. I assume that is what you want?”

  A sharp retort rose to Monk’s tongue, but he bit it back, and merely agreed. “Where is Hodge’s body now?” he asked instead.

  “At the morgue,” Louvain answered. “I have made arrangements for his burial. He died in my service.” His mouth formed a thin line, as if the knowledge caused him pain. Monk found it the first comforting thing he had seen in Louvain. He no longer feared that Hodge’s killer would escape any kind of accounting. It might be river justice, so the burden upon Monk to make sure he had the right man was even greater, but perhaps he should have expected that. He was dealing with men of the sea, where judgments had to be right the first time because there was no mercy, and no appeal.

  “I need to see him,” Monk said. He made it an order rather than a suggestion. Louvain would have no respect for a man he could dominate, and Monk could neither afford his contempt nor stomach it.

  Wordlessly, Louvain took the lantern from Monk and turned to begin the climb up the ladder again through the hatch and out onto the deck. Monk followed him. Up on deck the wind was harder, like a whetted knife edge as the tide came in. The heavy gray skies made it close to darkness already, and there was a smell of rain in the air. The wash from a string of barges made the ship strain a little at the anchor and set the boat rocking where it was waiting for them, the waterman steadying it with his oars.

  Newbolt was waiting for them, his arms folded over his barrel chest, swaying to keep his balance.

  “Thank you,” Monk said to Louvain. He looked at Newbolt. “Was there a change of watch during the night?” he asked.

  “Yes. Atkinson was on midnight to four, Hodge from four till eight,” Newbolt replied. “Then me.”

  “And no one came on deck before eight in the morning, when you found Hodge?” Monk let his surprise show, and a degree of contempt, as if he considered Newbolt incompetent.

  “ ’Course they was on deck!” Newbolt growled. “Nobody went down the ’old, so they din’t find ’Odge’s body.” His eyes were level and angry, the way a man’s eyes are if he has been unjustly accused—or is lying.

  Monk smiled, showing his teeth a little. “What time?”

  “Just arter six,” Newbolt replied, but his face betrayed his understanding. “Yeah . . . the thieves came arter four an’ afore six, an’ that’s cuttin’ it fine.”

  “Why wouldn’t they come between midnight and four?” Monk asked him, temporarily ignoring Louvain. “Wouldn’t you . . . if you were a thief?”

  Newbolt stiffened, his big body motionless. “What are you sayin’, mister? Exact!”

  Monk did not flinch or move his eyes even a fraction. “That either we have the facts wrong or we have a most unusual thief who either chooses, or is obliged, to carry out his robberies on the river in the last couple of hours before dawn, rather than the middle of the night watch. Do you disagree with that?”

  “No . . .” Newbolt admitted reluctantly. “Mebbe ’e’d tried other ships an’ either the watch were too spry or they din’t ’ave nothin’ as ’e wanted or could move easy. We was ’is last chance for the night.”

  “Perhaps,” Monk agreed. “Or could he have picked Hodge’s watch for some reason?”

  Newbolt understood immediately. “Yer sayin’ as ’Odge were in on it? Yer wrong, mister. ’Odge were a good man. I know’d ’im fer years. An’ if ’e were in on it, ’ow come the poor sod got ’is ’ead bashed? Don’t sound ter me like a bargain even a fool’d make!” He sneered at Monk, showing strong, yellowish teeth.

  “No, it wouldn’t be Hodge’s arrangement,” Monk agreed.

  The dull color rose up Newbolt’s face. “Well it bloody in’t mine, yer son of a bitch! ’Odge is family ter me! I know’d ’im twenty years, an’ ’e’s married ter me sister!”

  Monk felt a stab of regret. He had not even thought of personal loss until this moment. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly.

  Newbolt nodded.

  Monk considered the information. It was possible all of it was true, some of it, or very little. Atkinson might have been in collusion with the thieves, and been caught by Hodge at any time from midnight until four, or possibly even later. Monk turned to Louvain. “Get me Atkinson,” he requested.

  Atkinson was a tall, lean man. The scar that ran from his brow across his cheek to his chin showed livid through the stubble of his beard. He moved easily with a feline sort of grace and he regarded Monk with faint suspicion. He looked to Louvain for orders.

  Louvain nodded to him.

  “What time did Hodge come to relieve you from watch?” Monk asked, although he knew the answer was of little use because he would have no idea if it was the truth or not.

  “ ’Bout ’alf past three,” Atkinson replied. “ ’e couldn’t sleep, an’ I were ’appy enough ter let ’im do my last ’alf hour. I went away ter me bed.”

  “Describe the scene you left,” Monk requested.

  Atkinson was surprised. “Nothin’ ter tell. All quiet. Weren’t nob’dy on deck but me an’ ’Odge. Nob’dy near on the water neither, least not that I could see. ’Course anyone could be there wi’out ridin’ lights, if they was daft enough.”

  “Did Hodge say anything to you? How did he look, sound?”

  Newbolt was watching him, his eyes angry.

  “Same as any time,” Atkinson answered. “Much as you’d be if yer’d come out o’ yer bed at ’alf past three in the mornin’ ter stand on a freezin’ deck an’ watch the tide rise and fall.”

  “Sleepy? Angry? Bored?” Monk pressed.

  “ ’e weren’t angry, but yeah, ’e looked rough, poor sod.”

  “Thank you.” Monk turned to Louvain. “May I see Hodge’s body now, please?”

  “Of course, if you think there’s any point,” Louvain said with frayed patience. He walked over to the rail and shouted for the lighter to come back, and waited while it did so. He swung over the rail, grasped the ropes of the ladder, nodded at Newbolt, then disappeared down.

  Monk went after him, a great deal more carefully, scraping his knuckles again on the way and bruising his fingers as he was bumped against the ship’s hull by the movement of the water.

  Once down in the boat he sat, and he and Louvain were rowed wordlessly back to the wharf.

  At the top of the steps, a shorter distance with the turned tide racing in, the wind was keener and edged with rain turning to sleet.

  Louvain put up his collar and hunched his shoulders. “I’ll pay you a pound a day, plus any reasonable expenses,” he stated. “You have ten days to find my ivory. I’ll give you twenty pound extra if you do.” His tone made it plain he would not accept negotiation. But then a police constable started at just under a pound a week. Louvain was offering seven times as much, plus a reward at the end if Monk was successful. It was a lot of money, far too much to refuse. Even failure was paid at a better rate than most jobs, although the penalty afterwards to his reputation might be dear. But he also could not afford to think of the future if there were no present.

  He nodded. “I’ll report to you when I have progress, or need more information.”

  “You’ll report to me in three days regardless,” Louvain replied. “Now come see Hodge.” He swiveled on his foot and marched along the wharf all the way to the street without looking back. As Monk caught up with him they crossed together, picking their wa
y between the rumbling wagons. It was almost dark, and street lamps made ragged islands as the mist blew in and the cobbles glistened underfoot.

  Monk was glad to be inside again, even though it was the morgue, with its smell of carbolic and death. The attendant was still there; perhaps this close to the river there was always someone present. He was an elderly man with a scrubbed, pink face and a cheerful expression. He recognized Louvain immediately.

  “Evenin’ sir. You’ll be after Mr. ’Odge. ’is widder’s ’ere, poor soul. In’t no use in yer waitin’. She could be ’ere some time. I reckon as she’s makin’ ’er peace, like.”

  “Thank you,” Louvain acknowledged. “Mr. Monk is with me.” And without waiting for the attendant to show him, he led the way to the room where a large, rawboned woman with gray hair and fine, pale skin was standing silently, her hands folded in front of her, staring at the body of a man lying on a bench.

  He was covered up to the neck with a sheet, which was stained and a little thin at the edges. His face had the lividity of death, and the strangely shrunken absent look of a shell no longer inhabited by its spirit. He must have been large in life—the frame was there, the bones—but he seemed small now. It took a force of imagination to think of him as having been able to move and speak, to have will, even passion.

  The woman looked briefly at Louvain, then at Monk.

  Monk spoke to her first. “I am sorry for your grief, Mrs. Hodge. My name is William Monk. Mr. Louvain has hired me to find out who killed your husband, and to see that he answers for it.”

  She looked at him with leaden eyes. “Mebbe,” she answered. “Don’t make much difference ter me, nor me kids. Don’t pay the rent nor put food in our mouths. Still, I s’pose ’e should swing.” She turned back to the motionless form on the table. “Stupid sod!” she said with sudden fury. “But ’e weren’t all bad. Brought me a piece o’ wood back from Africa last time, all carved like an animal. Pretty. I never ’ocked it afore. S’pose I’ll ’ave ter now.” She glanced at the corpse. “Yer stupid sod!” she repeated helplessly.