twenty feet away.
“Dunno,” Gould replied at last. “I were down Greenwich way around then. Weren’t up ’ere. So come ter fink on it, nob’dy coulda ’ad me boat. So wotever it was as was done, it weren’t done in my boat.” His voice lifted cheerfully. “Sorry, I can’t ’elp yer.” And the next moment the dark wall of the Embankment was above them and the hull of the boat scraped gently against the stones of the step. “There y’are, mister, safe an’ sound.”
Monk thanked him, paid the second half of his fare, and climbed out.
It was another miserable night because Hester was not home. He knew that the reason would be illness at Portpool Lane, people she could not leave because there was no one else to care for them, but it did not ease his loneliness.
He slept in, largely because his arm kept him awake until long after midnight, and disturbed him after that. He was undecided where to go to have the bandage changed. He kept telling himself to go back and find Crow. He might learn more from him. But even as he did so he was putting on his coat, mitts, and muffler and walking towards the omnibus stop in the direction of Portpool Lane.
It was raining steadily, a persistent, soaking rain that found its way into everything and sent water swirling deep along the gutters. Even so he strode down the footpath under the shadow of the brewery with a light step, as if he were going home after a long absence.
He entered the clinic and found Bessie in the main room, sweeping the floor. She glanced up and was about to berate him when she realized who he was, and her face broke into a transformed smile.
“I’ll get ’er for yer, sir,” she said immediately. “She’ll be that glad ter see yer. Workin’ like a navvy, she is.” She shook her head. “We got more in ’ere sick than yer ever seed. Time o’ year, I reckon. An’ you look starvin’ cold, an all. D’yer like an ’ot cup o’ tea?”
“Yes, please,” he accepted, sitting down as she disappeared out the door, still carrying the broom as if it had been a bayonet.
He had little time to look around him at how the place had changed since he had last been there-the addition of a new cupboard, a couple of mats salvaged from somewhere-before Hester came in. Her face filled with pleasure at seeing him, but it did not disguise her fatigue. He was alarmed at the pallor of her skin and the very fine lines around her eyes. He felt a lurch of tenderness, realizing how much of herself she spent in the care of others.
He stood up to greet her, keeping his injured left arm a little farther away, in case she touched the wound.
She noticed it at once. “What have you done?” she demanded, her voice sharp with anxiety.
“A slight cut,” he replied, and saw her disbelief. “I had a doctor stitch it up for me, but it needs looking at again. Will you, please?”
“Of course. Take your coat off and sit down.” She took the jacket from him. “And look at this!” she said crossly. “It’s ruined that sleeve! How am I going to mend that?” Her voice caught, and he realized she was close to tears. It had nothing to do with the jacket and everything to do with him, but she would not say so, because she knew he had no choice.
“It’ll stitch,” he replied calmly, not referring to the jacket either, but to his arm.
She took a deep, shivering breath and went to the stove for hot water, keeping her back to him. She picked clean bandages out of the cupboard and began to work.
It was early afternoon by the time Monk went a second time to Little Lil’s establishment, and was admitted. His arm was feeling a great deal easier. The bleeding had stopped, it smarted a bit, and was stiffer than usual, but apart from that it was hardly handicapped. Hester had said the cut was not very deep and in her opinion Crow had made a good job of stitching it up. Above all it was clean.
Lil was sitting in exactly the same place as before, with the same piece of embroidery in her lap. The fire was burning and the dim, crowded-in room had a reddish glow. She looked like an old, smug little cat, waiting to be served up another portion of cream. Or possibly another canary. Louvain had warned him not to underestimate the violence of an opulent receiver just because she might be a woman.
Lil looked up at him, her large eyes bright with anticipation. She regarded his hair, his face, the way he stood, the fact that he had taken his muffler and mitts off to come into her presence. She liked it. “Come in,” she ordered him. “Sit down.” She looked at the chair opposite her, no more than four feet from her own.
He obeyed her, thanking her quietly. She did not turn straight to business, and he felt more than the heat of the fire as he realized what she was doing.
“ ’eard yer got knifed,” she said, shaking her head. “Yer wanter look after yerself. A man wi’ no arms is a danger to ’isself.”
“It’s not deep,” he replied. “It’ll be healed in a few days.”
Her eyes never left his face. “Mebbe yer shouldn’t be workin’ by yerself?”
He knew what she was going to say next. Long before the words were framed, it was there in the appetite in her face. But he had invited it and there was no escape now.
“The river’s an ’ard place,” she continued. “Yer should think on workin’ wi’ someone else. Keep an eye on yer back for yer.”
He had to pretend to consider it. Above all he must draw some information from her. If she wanted flattery, attention, and heaven knew what else, then that was the price he must pay.
“I know the river’s dangerous,” he agreed, as if admitting it reluctantly.
She leaned forward a little.
He was acutely uncomfortable, but he dared not seem to retreat.
“Yer should think abaht it. Choose careful,” she urged.
“Oh yes,” he agreed with more emotion than she would understand. “There are a lot of people up and down this stretch I wouldn’t want to go against.”
She hesitated, weighing her next words. “Got no stomach fer it, in’t yer?” she challenged.
He smiled widely, knowing she would like it. He saw the answering gleam in her, and masked a shudder. “Oh, I like to be well thought of,” he said. “But I want to live to see it.”
She giggled with pleasure. It was a low noise in her throat like someone with heavy catarrh, but from her eyes it was clear that she was amused.
He spoke again, quickly. “Who do I keep clear of?”
She named half a dozen in a low, conspiratorial whisper. He had no doubt they were her rivals. It would not do to let her think he believed her unquestioningly. She would have no respect for that. He asked her why, as if he needed proof.
She described them in vicious and picturesque detail. He could not help wondering if the River Police knew as much about them.
“I’m obliged,” he said, when he was sure she had finished. “But there are more than receivers to be careful of. There are one or two shipowners I don’t want to cross.”
Her big eyes blinked slowly. “You frit o’ them?” she asked.
“I’d rather swim with the tide than against it,” he said judiciously.
Again she gave her strange, deep-throated giggle. “Then don’ cross Clem Louvain,” she told him. “Or Bert Culpepper. Least not until yer sees ’oo wins.”
He felt a prickle at the back of his neck. He must not betray his ignorance to her. “My money’s on Louvain,” he said.
She pulled her mouth into a thin line. “Then yer knows summink as I don’t. Like where ’is ivory went ter, mebbe? ’Cos if ’e don’t get that back afore March closes in on ’im, ’e won’t ’ave the money ter pay ’is debt. ’E’ll lose ’is ware’ouse, an’ he won’t be able ter pay up fer that damn big clipper as is comin’ up for sale when she makes port. An’ ol’ Bert Culpepper’ll get it, sure as God made little fishes. An’ then where’ll Clem Louvain be, eh? I’ll tell yer, a week be’ind for the rest of ’is days. An’ you an’ I but know wot good a cargo is a week be’ind! So yer put yer money on Clem Louvain if yer want, but I’m keepin’ mine in me pocket till I sees which way the cat jumps.”
Monk smiled at her very slowly. “Then so will I,” he said softly. It was what he had wanted at last.
She was uncertain just how deep his agreement was. She wanted it all, but she knew she had to play it slowly. She had reeled in many fish in her day, and this was a tasty one.
Monk sat back again, still looking at her. “You said something about watches?”
She moved her fingers gently on the fabric of her embroidery. “Yer got watches?”
“Three. . for now.”
