The Shifting Tide (8 page)

“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 lightermen 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 fool. “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.

Monk felt suddenly isolated on the dockside, as if the warmth and the meaning of life were out there on the water, in comradeship and a shared purpose. There had been much about waiting in the police which had infuriated him, as well as the restrictions, the answerability to men of limited vision and unlimited vanity, sometimes the monotony of it. But the very boundaries were also a shape and a discipline. The same man whose weakness curtailed his freedom also supported him when he was vulnerable, and sometimes covered his failures. He had been intolerant then. He was paying some of the price for that now as he stood alone on the dockside having to learn everything for himself in a new, alien, and bitterly cold world where few of the familiar rules applied.

About mid-afternoon, as his legs seemed frozen immobile and he realized he was shivering and all his muscles were locked, he saw a man walk up to another and accost him in an obvious bad temper. The first man answered him fiercely. Within moments they were shouting. Two of three bystanders joined in, taking one side or the other. The quarrel swayed backwards and forwards and looked like it was developing into an ugly incident. More than half a dozen men became involved, and the crowd swirled around a group of laborers unloading brassware.

Monk moved forward, mostly to stretch his limbs and get the feeling back in his feet. No one noticed him; they were all watching the quarrel. One of the men took a wild swing at another and connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards to knock over a third man. A fourth let fly his own punch, and then it was a melee. It was by chance that Monk saw two men detach themselves and with remarkable speed and skill pick up four of the brass ornaments and slip them sideways to a youth and an old woman among the bystanders, who promptly turned and walked away.

Monk left as well, before the police could come to part the combatants and restore peace. He could not afford to be caught on the outskirts of the crowd. Scuffle-hunting was a trade he had seen a hundred times before, and the brass would never be found. But as he walked back along the quayside towards Louvain’s offices, he resented the fact that he was in effect running away from the band of men he used to be one of—indeed, used to command. It was a bitter taste to swallow.

He was acutely mindful of the fact that he had to report to Louvain today, and he had nothing remotely useful to tell him. The search for evidence of barges unloading surreptitiously had been fruitless. He had no facts at all, and not a great deal of deduction. He walked slowly as he thought about it, the sounds of the riverside all about him, the clang of metal, creak of wood, hiss and slurp of water. The tide was turning, sweeping in again upriver, driving the mudlarks up the shore and lifting the ships higher at anchor. The dusk seemed later this afternoon because the sky was streaked with clear, pale strips to the west, and the water was all grays and silvers, dotted by riding lights burning yellow.

What had he deduced? That the ivory could have been taken by any of the thieves on the river, and almost certainly ended up with a receiver who would sell it on to . . . whom? Who would buy ivory? A dealer, to pass it on to jewelers, carvers of ornaments or chess pieces, makers of piano keys, any of a dozen artists or artisans.