Feeling uncomfortable, he did as he was told.
She looked at the watch again. “Open it,” she ordered.
He did so, turning it carefully for her to inspect, but keeping a firm hold on it.
“Nice,” she said. “ ’Ow many?”
“Dozen, or thereabouts,” he answered.
“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
