“What happened?” He had no need to pretend interest.
“We killed three of ’em,” the man replied with satisfaction, licking his lips after the last mouthful of the pork pie. “Lost two o’ us, though. Wounded two more o’ them pretty bad, an’ put ’em over the side. They drowned.”
“Then what?”
“ ’Alf a dozen more of ’em, weren’t there!” he said bitterly. “I ’ad me arm gashed so bad I bled like a stuck pig. Got it all stitched up like, but went wi’ the gangrene. Took it off, they did. ’Ad ter, ter save me bleedin’ life!” He said it wryly, as if it were a long time ago and hardly mattered anymore, but Monk saw the pain in his eyes, and the memory of what he had been. He could feel not the physical agony of the knife, but the mental scream as he became less than whole, the mutilation that tore through him still.
Monk did not know how to respond. Should he acknowledge the pain he had seen, and attempt to convey some understanding of it, or was it better to behave as if he had not noticed?
“Are there still pirates on the river, even today?” he asked. It was an evasion, but it was the best he could do.
“Some,” the man answered, the brilliance of hurt fading from his eyes. “The ogglers is pretty good, but even they can’t do it all.”
“Are there pirates this far up the river?”
“Prob’ly not. Up by Lime’ouse an’ that way it’s opium eaters an’ them kinds o’ things. But yer never know. There’s other folks ’as ’ad a few run-ins wif ’em, ’part from me.”
“Louvain?” The moment Monk had said it, he wondered if it were wise.
The man’s face lit up with pleasure. “Clem Louvain? Yer damn right! ’e cut them up summink beautiful, ’e did! Yer never seen a better man wi’ a cutlass than Clem! They rued the day they messed wi’ ’im!” He sniffed cheerfully. “Mind, that’s a few year ago now, but it don’t make no diff’rence. Summink like that yer don’ forget. They don’ mess wif ’im still, an’ all!”
Monk measured his words carefully. “I’m surprised they don’t want revenge,” he said with a deliberate lift of curiosity.
The man grinned, showing gapped teeth. “Come up from ’ell ter ask for it, yer reckon?”
“Dead?” Monk was surprised.
“ ’Course, dead!” the man said contemptuously. “Two killed right there on the deck o’ the
“No one left to . . . want payment for it?” Monk pressed.
“Not for that bleedin’ lot o’ sods.” The man upended the glass to drain the last of his beer. “Reckon as Mr. Louvain’s ’ealth were drunk right well in a few ’ouses up an’ down the river that night.” He took his mug and pushed it an inch closer to Monk without looking at him. “River’s full o’ tales,” he added.
Monk took the hint and fetched them both another pint, although he had no capacity or wish to drink any more himself. He was prepared to listen for another hour at least.
His companion settled down to picking from his memory tales of violence, failed robberies and successful ones, and eccentric characters in the last fifty years along the river.
“Most o’ ’em back then,” he said gleefully. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Monk had bought him a second pie. The color with which he painted the river life contained many warnings that might prove useful, and it gave Monk a far better understanding of the intricacies of illicit trade, of light-horsemen, heavy-horsemen, lumpers, plunderers, and crooked Revenue men. Monk heard stories, some of the legendary receivers, including the present-day Fat Man, the most famous opulent receiver along this stretch of the water.
Monk did not arrive home until after nine o’clock, by which time Hester was concerned. The dinner she had made was far past its best and barely edible.
“I’m all right!” he assured her, holding her as closely as he could until she pushed him away to search his face. “Really!” he repeated. “I was in a public house down by the docks, listening to an old sailor telling me tales.”
Her face was very serious. “Mr. Louvain came to the clinic today—”
“What?” He was incredulous. “Clement Louvain? Are you sure? What for?” It disquieted him, although he did not know why. He did not want Louvain anywhere near Hester. And even as the thought was in his mind he knew it was absurd. Hester dealt with the ugliest and most tragic elements of life every day.
“What did he want?” he demanded, taking his coat off and hanging it up.
She recounted the story of Ruth Clark and mentioned Louvain’s generous donation. She bit her lip. “We’re finding it hard to get people to give.”
He heard the anger in her voice and he understood it. “Why didn’t he take her to a hospital?”
“He would have to register her there and tell them his own name. Anyway, he might be known. He’s an important man. They would ask who she was, and they might not believe he brought her for someone else.”
He smiled, touching her cheek gently. “Did you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t care. And I won’t repeat it to anyone except you. Did you learn anything more about the ivory?”
“Not specifically, but I gained an informant.”
“Good. You’re cold. Are you hungry?”
“Not very, but I’d like some tea.”
He followed her into the kitchen, telling her about Scuff as she filled the kettle and put it on the stove, fetched milk from the pantry and set out the teapot and cups on a tray. He told her many of the things he had seen and heard, but not about Louvain and the river pirates. There was no need to waken fears in her that she could do
