The Shifting Tide (11 page)

“Thereabouts?” she questioned. “Can’t yer count, then?”

“Depends on your offer,” he prevaricated.

She chortled with laughter, which was high-pitched like a little girl’s.

“Do you want them?” he asked.

“I like you,” she said frankly. “We can do business.”

“How much?”

She thought about it for several seconds, watching his face, although it seemed she was doing it now for the pleasure it gave her more than any need for time to think.

Monk wanted to come to the point and then leave. “I have a client looking for ivory,” he said a bit abruptly. “You wouldn’t have any advice on that, would you?”

“I’ll ask fer yer,” she said in a whisper, unexpectedly gentle. “Come back ’ere in two days. An’ bring me some o’ them watches an’ I’ll pay yer nicely.”

“How much?” he asked. She would expect him to haggle, and Callandra’s watch must have cost at least thirty pounds.

“Like that? Twelve pound, ten,” she replied.

“Twelve pound, ten!” he said in horror. “It’s worth more than twice that! Twenty, at the very least.”

She thought for a moment, looking at him through her eyelashes. “Fifteen,” she offered.

“Twenty?” He could not afford to lose her, or to appear to give in too easily.

This time she considered for longer.

Monk felt a sweat break out on his body in the warm room. He had made a mistake. He had let his desperation push him into going too far. Now he had no retreat.

“Seventeen,” she said at last.

“Right,” he agreed, his mouth dry. He wanted to escape this stifling house and be outside alone in the street to think of a way to extricate himself, and still be able to hear any information Little Lil might give him. “Thank you.” He inclined his head slightly, and saw her acknowledge it with a gleam of satisfaction. She liked him. He despised himself for playing on it, at the same time as he knew he had to.

In the street, he was barely beyond the ring of the lamplight when Scuff materialized from the darkness.

“Yer got anyfink?” he asked eagerly.

Monk swore under his breath.

Scuff giggled with satisfaction. “She like yer, does she?” he said.

Monk realized Scuff had expected it, and he reached out to clip him over the ear for the acute embarrassment he had suffered, but Scuff ducked sideways and Monk’s hand missed him. Not that it would have hurt more than a slight sting. He was still laughing.

They reached the main street running parallel with the docks and crossed into the better light. Monk turned to Scuff again, and realized he was not there. He saw a shadow in front of him, a row of buttons gleaming on a dark jacket, a solidity, a confidence to him.

“Has his wits about him more’n yer have, Mr. Monk,” the man observed.

Monk froze. The man was River Police; he knew it with certainty—more than the uniform, it was the quiet authority in him, the sense of pride in his calling. He did not need to threaten, not even to raise his voice. He was the law and he understood its worth. If only Monk had that same dignity, the fellowship of all the other quiet men who kept order on the river and its immediate shore. Suddenly the reality of his aloneness was almost beyond bearing.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said stiffly, with more than necessary politeness.

“Durban,” the man replied. “Inspector Durban o’ the River Police. I haven’t seen you here before a couple o’ days ago. You say you’re looking for work, but it doesn’t seem to me like you want it. Why would that be, Mr. Monk?”

Monk ached to tell him the truth, but he dared not. He was committed to Clement Louvain, and to his own need.

“I’d rather work with my brain than bending my back,” he replied, putting an edge of truculence in his voice that he did not feel.

“There’s not much call for brain work down on the dock,” Durban pointed out. “Least not that’s legal. There’s a lot that’s not, as I’m sure you know. But I wonder if you really know how dangerous that is? You wouldn’t believe the number of dead bodies we pick up out of the water, an’ there’s no one to say how they got in there. I wouldn’t like yours to be one of ’em, Mr. Monk. Just be a little bit careful, eh? Don’t go messing with the likes o’ Little Lil Fosdyke, or the Fat Man, or Mr. Weskit. There’s no room for more opulent receivers than we’ve already got. Do you take my meaning?”

“I’m sure there isn’t,” Monk agreed, hating the lies. “My interest is in running errands and being of service to people who can’t do all their own jobs. I don’t buy or sell goods.”

“Really . . .” Durban said with disbelief. His face was almost unreadable in the near darkness, but his voice was sad, as if he had expected better, fewer lies at least.

Monk remembered with a jarring urgency being in exactly the same position, seeing a man well-dressed, well-spoken, hoping he was in the run-down alley only by chance, and realizing within minutes that he was a thief. He remembered his disappointment. He drew in his breath to explain himself to Durban and then let it out again in a sigh. Not until after he had earned Louvain’s money.

“Yes, really,” he said tartly. “Good night, Inspector.” And he walked away down the street towards the lighted thoroughfare to catch an omnibus, and then another home.

FOUR

Oliver Rathbone sat in the hansom as it moved with relative ease through the London traffic from his own home towards that of Margaret Ballinger. He was going to take her as his guest to an evening concert given by a very fine violinist. It was in aid of a worthy charity, and many people of social importance would attend. He was dressed in the height of elegance, fashionable enough to occasion admiration, and yet not so much as to look as if he cared. A real gentleman did not need to make an effort to please; it was a gift with which he was born.

And yet Rathbone was not at ease. He sat upright rather than relaxing into the padding of the seat. He had plenty of time, but he could not help looking out of the windows to see where he was, watching the yellow glitter of the street lamps reflected on the wet surfaces of the road through the drifts of rain, and note the familiar landmarks.

It had been a hurried invitation, offered to her yesterday somewhat impulsively. He could not remember exactly what the conversation had been, but certainly something to do with the clinic in Portpool Lane, as their conversation so often was. Were anyone else so single-minded it would almost certainly have been tedious, but he still found pleasure in seeing the animation in her face when she spoke of her work there. He even found himself involved with the welfare of certain of the patients she described, anxious for their recovery, upset at the injustices, happy for any success. Such a thing had never happened to him before. He governed his professional life with strict emotional discipline. He engaged his extraordinary skill in the service of those who needed it, by its nature those accused of some crime, but he kept his personal feelings well apart.

But then had anyone a few months ago outlined to him the plan by which Hester obtained the use of Squeaky Robinson’s establishment for the clinic he would have been horrified. Far from joining in, or in any way whatever assisting them, he would have struggled with his conscience as to whether he should actually report them to the police.

He blushed even now, sitting alone in the dark, islanded from the noise and bustle of anonymous traffic outside. He felt the heat well up in his face. No one else but Hester, Margaret, and Squeaky Robinson—and possibly Monk—knew what had taken place. But there had been a sublime kind of justice in it. He did not realize that he was smiling as he recalled Squeaky’s face, his horror at being so brilliantly and completely outmaneuvered. And it was Rathbone, not Hester, who had delivered the ultimatum to him and cornered him so he could not escape. Rathbone was profoundly embarrassed for having allowed himself to be involved in such dealings. He would be mortified if any of his professional colleagues were to know. Yet he was also obscurely proud of it—it had been exquisitely satisfying. That was the most remarkable thing, the incomprehensible thing. How he had changed! One would not have recognized him from the man he had been even a few months ago.

He was at the Ballinger house already, and the hansom was drawing up. He did not feel completely prepared. He had no conversation on his tongue for Mrs. Ballinger. She was a type of woman he had encountered numerous times before. After all, he was an eligible bachelor, and she had an unmarried daughter. Her ambition was so naked as to be beyond embarrassment. Not that there was any society matron in London whose ambition was any different, so attempting to conceal it or place it behind a mask of decency was really irrelevant. It would simply have spared Margaret.

As Rathbone stepped out of the carriage onto the glistening footpath, he felt the cold air on his face. He went up the steps and pulled the doorbell. A moment later the footman opened it and ushered him in and across the hall to the rich, dark withdrawing room, where Mrs. Ballinger was waiting for him.

“Good evening, Sir Oliver,” she said with more guarded enthusiasm than on their earlier encounters, since he had not yet met her expectations regarding her daughter, and he had had more than adequate opportunity. However, the brightness was still there in her eyes, the single-minded concentration. She was a woman who never forgot her purpose.

“Good evening, Mrs. Ballinger,” he replied with a slight smile. “How are you?”

“I am in excellent health, thank you,” she said. “I am most fortunate in that respect, and I thank God for it every day. I see friends and acquaintances around me who suffer from this and that.” She raised her eyebrows. “So wearing, I always think, don’t you? Headaches and shortness of breath, exhaustion, or even palpitations. Such a difficulty, don’t you find?”

He was about to say that he had never suffered such afflictions when he realized the double meaning in her words. She was not really referring to herself, or to concern for the hundreds of women who were so troubled. She was telling him, in her own way, that Margaret was from good stock, not only healthy by nature but not brought up to indulge herself in fancies and complaints.

He bit back the reply that came to his tongue. “Yes,” he agreed. “One should be most grateful for such excellent health. Unfortunately, it is not enjoyed by all. But I am happy for you.”

“How generous you always are,” she said without hesitation. “I find rudeness so unattractive, don’t you? It speaks of a selfishness of nature, I always think. Please sit down, Sir Oliver.” She gestured towards the chair nearest the fire with its embroidered armrests and antimacassars over the back to protect the upholstery from gentlemen’s hair oils. “Margaret will be a few minutes yet. You are delightfully punctual.” She suited her own actions to her words, spreading her wide silk-and-lace skirts around her.

It would have been impolite for him to decline. He sat opposite her and prepared to indulge in chatter until Margaret should appear. He was very used to guarding himself. He hardly ever spoke without thought. After all, his profession, at which he was one of the most gifted men of his generation, was to plead the cause of those accused of crime and against whom there was sufficient evidence for them to stand trial. No society matron was going to discomfit him, let alone outwit him.

“Margaret tells me it is a most charming event to which you have invited her this evening,” Mrs. Ballinger observed. “Music is so civilized and yet speaks to the romantic in us at the same moment.”

He found himself irritated and defensive already. “It is a function at which they hope to raise a considerable amount of funds for charitable work,” he replied.

She smiled, showing excellent teeth. “How I admire your giving of your time to such a cause. I know it is one of the qualities Margaret finds most worthy in a man. Many people who are successful in life forget those who are less fortunate. I am so pleased to see that you are not such a one.”

She had placed him in an impossible position. What on earth could he say to that? Any answer would sound ridiculous.

She nodded. “Margaret has such a noble heart. But I am sure you are already aware of that. Good works have brought you together so many times.” She made it sound as if he had somehow contrived to see Margaret at every opportunity. He had not! Indeed, he still saw quite a variety of other ladies—at least two of whom might be considered eligible for marriage, even if they were widows.

She was waiting for him to reply. His silence was beginning to look like disagreement.

“A noble heart—indeed she has,” he said with more fervor than he had intended. “And what is more unusual, she has the courage and the selflessness to pursue it, and create of it deeds that are far-reaching.”

A shadow flashed across Mrs. Ballinger’s face. “I am so pleased you mentioned it, Sir Oliver.” She leaned forward towards him. “Of course I am happy that Margaret devotes her time to worthy causes rather than frittering her hours away with mere entertainment, as so many young women do, but this latest cause of hers does alarm me more than a little. I am sure it is very noble to be concerned for the morally unfortunate, but I think she could place her care to better advantage in something a little more . . . salubrious. Perhaps with your influence you could suggest to her other avenues that you may be aware of? I expect you know many ladies who . . .”

Rathbone found himself suddenly furious. He knew exactly what she was doing. At one stroke she was manipulating him into spending more time with Margaret, not because he wished to but as a moral obligation to her mother, and also reminding him of social pressures and duty in general. It was unbelievably condescending to Margaret. He could feel the blood rising in his face and his body so stiff his hands were locked where they lay on his knee.

“I came to see Margaret because I enjoy her company, Mrs. Ballinger,” he said with as much control as he was able to muster. He saw her eyes gleam with satisfaction, and alarm rose up inside him as he realized what he had committed himself to, but he did not know how to stop. “I would not presume to influence her in her choice of causes. She feels intensely about the clinic, and I believe she would regard any interference from me as impertinent, and I should lose her friendship.” He did not know if that was true, but even the possibility struck him with extreme unpleasantness. It surprised him how very sharp it was.