The Shifting Tide wm-14 Read online

  And indeed Ruth Clark seemed so deep in her distress as to be beyond helping herself. When Hester bent to half lift her on one side, with Bessie on the other, it was all they could do to get her as far as the first bedroom. Bessie propped her up, sagging against the door frame, while Hester freed one hand to open the door, and then together they half lifted, half dragged her across to the bed. She fell on it heavily. Her eyes were still open, but she did not seem to see anything, nor did she speak.

  She was dead weight, and with considerable difficulty, in spite of much practice, Hester took her outer clothes off while Bessie went to get half a cup of hot tea with a drop of brandy in it.

  When she had removed all but Ruth’s undergarments and had eased her into the bed, Hester took the pins out of Ruth’s hair so she would be more comfortable. She touched the woman’s forehead. It was very hot, her skin dry. She studied her patient’s face, trying to assess what sort of woman she was and how long she had been ill.

  It must have come on very rapidly. Had it been slow-a sore throat, then a tight chest, then fever-surely Louvain would have brought her sooner. She did not look to be a woman of delicate constitution, or prone to infection. The skin of her arms and body was firm and her neck and shoulders had a good texture, not the loose, thin, slightly bluish look of someone frequently ill. Her hair was thick; indeed, it was very handsome, a dark brown with heavy wave, and when she was well it probably had a gloss to it. Her features were regular and pleasing. What kind of a man would have cast her off like this, simply because she was ill? It was certainly not chronic! If she recovered she would again be a healthy, vital woman; she was not beyond her mid-thirties.

  Was she some shipowner’s mistress whose circumstances made it impossible for him to give her the care she needed? Was he afraid she was going to die, and he would be unable to explain the presence of her body in his house?

  Or was she Louvain’s own mistress, and for some reason he was unwilling to admit that?

  Had the reputation of the clinic spread so far that even on the dockside Louvain had heard of it? Or had Monk mentioned something of it when accepting his new job?

  Perhaps none of that mattered now. She did not ask questions of the others in her care. Their recovery was all that concerned her. Why should this woman be different?

  Bessie came with the tea, and between them they propped Ruth up. A teaspoonful at a time, they managed to persuade her to take it. Finally they eased her down again, put the covers right up to her chin, and left her to sink into a sleep so profound she seemed close to unconsciousness.

  Outside the room Hester fished in her pocket and took out the money. She gave one of the sovereigns and the fourteen shillings to Bessie. “Go and get food, coal, carbolic, vinegar, brandy, and quinine,” she ordered. She added another sovereign. “Enough for the rest of the week. Thank God there isn’t rent to pay! I’ll give this to Squeaky. That should make him smile!” And with a lift of hope she followed down the corridor after Bessie.

  THREE

  Monk left the house before daylight, so he was on the wharfside by sunrise just before eight o’clock. It was a blustery day with a sharp wind from the fast-flowing tide. The barges going slowly upstream were dark. Grays, silvers, and looming shadows were cut by the dense blackness of masts sweeping the sky lazily, barely in motion, yardarms lumpy with sails lashed to them. The hulls of the ships were indistinguishable except for size, no features clear, just a shape: no gun ports, no figureheads, no timbers.

  He had learned a little yesterday, but most of it only emphasized how different the river was from the city-and that he was a stranger with no old debts or favors to call on.

  People stole for many reasons, he realized. Where Louvain’s ivory was concerned, Monk assumed the thief could sell it for profit-or he had some personal quarrel with Louvain and took it merely to make him suffer, possibly knowing that he had already committed it to a particular buyer.

  Monk needed to know more about the receiving of stolen goods on the river, and even more than that: about Louvain himself, his friends, his enemies, his debtors and creditors, his rivals.

  He had realized yesterday that he could not spend time around the dockside without a reason that would occasion no comment, so he had come dressed as if he were a gentleman fallen on times hard enough to drive him to seek work. He had noticed several such men the day before, and studied their manner and speech well enough to imitate them. He had good boots to keep his feet dry, old trousers, and a heavy jacket against the wind. He had bought a secondhand cap, both to protect his head and to disguise his appearance, a woollen muffler, and the kind of mittens that allowed a working man to use his fingers.

  He found a cart selling hot tea and bought a mugful. He contrived to fall into conversation with a couple of other men who appeared to be hoping for a day’s work when unloading began shortly. He was careful not to let them think he had any plans to jump his place in their queue.

  “What’s the cargo today?” he asked, sipping the hot tea and feeling it slide down his throat and warm him inside.

  The larger of the two men pointed with his arm. “The Cardiff Bay down there,” he replied, indicating a five-masted schooner fifty yards away. “Come in from the China Seas. I dunno wot they got, but they’ll likely be keen ter get it orff.”

  The other man shrugged. “Could be teak from Burma,” he said unhappily. “Damn ’eavy stuff that is, an’ all. Or rubber, or spices, or mebbe silk.”

  Monk looked farther out where another schooner was riding at anchor, this one with six masts.

  “The Liza Jones?” The first man raised his eyebrows. “South America; I ’eard Brazil. Dunno if that’s right. Could be a load of ’ogwash. Wot der they bring in from Brazil, Bert?”

  “I dunno,” Bert answered. “Wood? Coffee? Chocolate, mebbe? Don’t make no difference ter us. It’ll all be ’eavy an’ awkward. Every day I say I’ll never carry that bleedin’ stuff again, an’ then every night I get so cold I’d carry the devil piggyback just fer a fire an’ a roof over me ’ead.”

  “Yeah. . an’ all,” his friend agreed. He gave a warning glance at Monk. “First come, first served, eh? Remember that an’ yer won’t come ter no ’arm. ’Less yer fall in the water, like, or some bastard drops a load on yer foot.” The implied warning was as clear as the hard light on the water.

  Actually, Monk had no desire whatever to work at the backbreaking job of unloading, but he must not appear unworthy, or he would awaken suspicion. “That would be very foolish,” he observed.

  They went on talking desultorily, speaking of cargoes from all around the world: India; Australia; Argentina; the wild coasts of Canada, where they said tides rose and fell forty feet in a matter of hours.

  “Ever bin ter sea?” Bert asked curiously.

  “No,” Monk replied.

  “Thought not.” There was a benign contempt in his face. “I ’ave. Seen the fever jungles o’ Central America, an’ I in’t never goin’ there again. Frighten the bleedin’ life out o’ yer. Sooner see the midnight sun up Norway an’ the Arctic, like. Freezin’ ter death’d be quick. Saw a feller go overboard up there once. Got ’im out, but ’e were dead. The cold does it. Quicker than the fever, an’ cleaner. If I got the yellow fever I’d cut me own throat sooner’n wait ter die of it.”

  “Me an’ all,” his friend agreed.

  They spoke a little longer. Monk wanted to ask about cargoes being stolen, and where they would be sold, but he could not afford to arouse suspicion. They were all facing the water when a barge went by, and they could not help seeing the lumpers knock a few pieces of coal off into the shallow water where at the next ebb it would be low enough for the mudlarks to find it and pick it up. No one made any remark. It was an accepted part of life. But it stirred a thought in Monk’s mind. Could the ivory have been moved like that, dropped off the Maude Idris in the dark onto the barges on their way up or downstream? It would take only moments to move canvas to conceal them. He must find which light
ermen were out that night and follow it up.

  The foreman came from one of the loading gangs, looking for two men. Monk was intensely relieved he did not want three, but he affected disappointment-although not deep enough for the men to start thinking of another ship that might want him.

  He did not manage to avoid a small errand, for which he was paid sixpence. He spent the next two hours asking about which barges moved at night, and learned that there were very few indeed, and only with the tide, which-according to the time of Hodge’s death-would have been upstream, towards the morning high water. Painstakingly, he accounted for all of them.

  He bought a hot pie and a piece of cake for lunch, with another cup of tea. It was late, after one o’clock, and he had never felt colder in his life. No alley in the city, however ice-bound or wind-funneled, could match the cutting edge of the wind off the water and the sting of the salt. His recent cases of petty theft, when he had spent his time in offices and the servants’ quarters of other peoples’ houses, had made him soft. He realized it now with acute discomfort.

  He sat down on a pile of timber and old ropes which was sheltered from the wind, and began to eat.

  He was halfway through the pie, relishing the hot meat, when he realized that the shadow next to the pile of boxes to his left was actually a small boy wearing a ragged coat with a cloth cap pulled over his ears. His feet were bare, streaked with dirt and blue with cold.

  “Do you want some pie?” Monk said aloud. “Half?”

  The child looked at him suspiciously. “Wha’ for?”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d eat it!” Monk snapped. “Or shall I give it to the gulls?”

  “Yer don’ wan’ it, I’ll take it,” the child replied quickly, stretching out his hand, then pulling it back again, as if the thought were too good to believe.

  Monk took a last bite from the pie and handed it over. He drank the rest of the tea before his better nature lost him that as well.

  The child sat down beside him on a stump of wood and ate all of the pie solemnly and with concentration, then he spoke. “Yer lookin’ fer work?” he said, watching Monk’s face. “Or yer a thief?” There was no malice or contempt in his voice, simply the enquiry one stranger might make of another, by way of introduction.

  “I’m looking for work,” Monk replied. Then he added quickly, “Not that I’m sure I want to find any.”

  “If yer don’t work, an’ yer in’t a thief, where’d yer get the pie?” the child said reasonably. “An’ the cake?” he added.

  “Do you want half?” Monk asked. “When I say I don’t want work, I mean I don’t want to load or unload cargo,” he amended. “I don’t mind the odd message now and then.”

  “Oh.” The child thought. “Reckon as I might ’elp yer wi’ that, now an’ then, like,” he said generously. “Yeah, I’ll ’ave a piece o’ yer cake. I don’t mind if I do.” He held out his hand, palm upward.

  Monk carefully divided the cake and gave him half. “What’s your name?” he enquired.

  “Scuff,” the boy replied. “Wot’s yours?”

  “Monk.”

  “Pleased ter meet yer,” Scuff said gravely. He looked at Monk, frowning a little. “Ye’re new ’ere, in’t yer?”

  Monk decided to tell the truth. “Yes. How did you know?”

  Scuff rolled his eyes, but a certain courtesy prevented him from replying. “Yer wanna be careful,” he said, pursing his lips. “I’ll learn yer a few things, or yer’ll end up in the water. Ter begin wif, yer needs to know ’oo ter speak ter an’ ’oo ter stay clear of.”

  Monk listened attentively. At the moment all information was a gift, but more than that, he did not want to be discourteous to this child.

  Scuff held up a dirty hand less than half the size of Monk’s. “Yer don’ wanna know the bad ones-more’n that, yer don’ want them ter know you. That’s the night plund’rers.”

  “What?”

  “Night plund’rers,” Scuff repeated. “Don’t you ’ear too good? Yer better watch it! Yer gotta keep yer wits, or yer’ll end up in the water, like I said! Night plund’rers is them wot works the river at night.” There was an expression of infinite patience in his face, as if he were dealing with a very small child in need of constant watching. “They’d kill yer for sixpence if yer got in their way. Like the river pirates used ter be, afore there was ever River P’lice special, like.”

  Another string of coal barges passed, sending their wash slapping against the steps.

  “I see,” Monk replied, his interest engaged.

  Scuff shook his head, swallowing the last of the cake. “No, yer don’t. Yer don’t see nuffin’ yet. But if yer live long enough mebbe yer will.”

  “Are there a lot of night plunderers?” Monk asked. “Do they work for themselves or for others? What kinds of things do they steal and what do they do with them?”

  Scuff’s eyes opened wide. “What der you care? Yer in’t never goin’ ter even see none of ’em, if yer’ve any sense. Don’t yer go lookin’ into fings like that. Yer in’t got the wits fer it, nor the stomach neither. Yer stick ter wot yer can do-wotever that is.” He looked distinctly dubious that that was anything at all.

  Monk bit back the reply that rose to his lips. It irritated him surprisingly deeply that this child’s opinion of him was so low. It took an effort not to justify himself. But he did need this information. The theft from the Maude Idris looked like exactly the sort of thing such men would do.

  “I’m just curious,” he replied. “And yes, I mean to avoid them.”

  “Then keep yer eyes shut-an’ yer mouf-all night,” Scuff retorted. “Come ter that, yer’d better keep yer mouf shut most o’ the day, an’ all.”

  “So what do they take?” Monk persisted.

  “Anyfink wot they can, o’ course!” Scuff snapped. “Why wouldn’t they? Take yer ’ole bleedin’ ship, if yer sloppy enough ter let ’em.”

  “And what do they do with what they take?” Monk refused to be deterred. This was no time for delicate feelings.

  “Sell it, o’ course.” Scuff looked at him narrowly to see if he could really be as stupid as he appeared.

  “To whom?” Monk asked, keeping his temper with difficulty. “Here on the river, or in the city? Or on another ship?”

  Scuff rolled his eyes. “Ter receivers,” he replied. “Dependin’ on wot it is. If it’s good stuff, ter the op’lent geezers; if it’s poor, ter the cov’tous. They pick up the other bits. Or the Rev’nue men, o’ course. But they more often take just a cut. In’t easy ter sell stuff, ’less yer got the know-’ow, or the connections.” He shook his head. “Yer in’t never gonna last ’ere, mister. Leavin’ yer ’ere is like puttin’ a babe out by ’isself.”

  “I’ve done all right so far!” Monk defended himself.

  “Yeah?” Scuff said with heavy disbelief. “An’ ’ow long is that, then? I know everyone ’round ’ere, an’ I in’t never seen yer afore. Where yer gonna sleep, eh? Yer thought o’ that, then? If it rains, an’ then freezes, which it will sooner or later, them as in’t inside somewhere is gonna wake up dead!”

  “I’ve got a few contacts,” Monk invented rashly. “Maybe I’ll go into receiving. I know good stuff from bad-spice, ivory, silk, and so on.”

  Now Scuff was really alarmed. “Don’t be so bleedin’ daft!” he said, his voice going up into a squeak. “D’yer think it’s a free-for-all or summink? Yer go inter the cov’tous stuff an’ the Fat Man’ll ’ave yer feet fer door stoppers. An’ if yer try the op’lent stuff Mr. Weskit’ll fix yer fer the rest o’ yer life. Yer’ll wake up wi’ a splittin’ ’ead in the ’old o’ some ship bound for the fever jungles o’ Panama, or someplace, an’ nobody’ll never see yer again! Yer wanna go back ter thievin’ wi’ bits o’ paper, or wotever it is yer done afore. You in’t safe ’ere!”

  “I’ve managed so far!” Monk retaliated at last. He was angry with himself that he should care what this child thought, but he had had enough of being considered a fo
ol. “Meet me here tomorrow. I’ll bring you a damned good lunch!” It was a challenge. “A whole hot pie for yourself. And tea and cake with fruit in it.”

  Scuff shook his head disbelievingly. “Yer daft,” he said with regret. “Don’t yer go an’ get caught. It in’t no better in jail than it is ’ere, rainin’ or not.”

  “How do you know?” Monk challenged.

  “ ’Cos I keep me ears open an’ me mouf shut!” Scuff retorted. “Now I got work ter do, if you ain’t! Those lumpers put coal out. It in’t gonna sit there all bleedin’ day. I gotter go fish it up.” And he rose to his feet swiftly, looked once more at Monk and shook his head, then disappeared so rapidly Monk was not sure which way he went. But he determined to keep his word, however inconvenient, and be there the following day with the provisions he’d promised.

  He spent the afternoon further along the docks to the north side of Louvain’s offices where barges might have put in on the morning high tide. He tried to blend in with the other laborers, idlers, thieves, and beggars who populated the area. He took Scuff’s warning very seriously.

  He stood half sheltered behind a bale of wool ready for loading; it served the double purpose of concealing his outline and protecting him from the worst of the wind. He watched the men with backs bent under the weight of coal sacks, and hoped profoundly he would not have to resort to such a task to preserve his anonymity. He saw the intricate outlines of winches and derricks bearing heavier loads out of ships’ holds alongside the wharves. Everywhere was the sounds of shouting, the cries of gulls, and the slap of water. Barges moved in long strings, piled high with coal or timber. A three-masted schooner was tacking up towards the bridge. Ferries were weaving in and out like beetles, oars shining as they rose and dipped.

  He watched the River Police patrolling so close to the shore that he saw their faces as one turned to another with a joke, and they both laughed. A third made some remark and they shouted back at him, the waves drowning their words, but the good nature of it obvious.