and he had the knife. He was between Monk and the way back, but at least there was space between them now and Monk could make out his shape in the darkness. Would that be enough? It had been a long time since he had fought physically for his life-in fact, not since that dreadful night in Mecklenburg Square before his accident, and he remembered that only in flashes.
Ollie was balancing on the balls of his feet, preparing to lunge.
This was ridiculous! If he were not facing death it would be funny. He was fighting a man he did not know for the favor of a woman he would have paid not to touch! And if he told Ollie that, Ollie would be so insulted for Lil he would murder Monk in outrage.
Monk gave a bark of laughter for the sheer lunacy of it.
Ollie hesitated. For the first time he was faced with something he did not understand.
Monk moved a step sideways, away from the board he knew was rotted and closer to the way back.
Ollie froze, looking beyond Monk.
It was then that Monk turned and saw the other figure in the gloom-solid, menacing, huge, with the riding lights behind him. Monk broke out in a sweat of panic-then the instant after, when the figure moved, recognized the slightly rolling gait of Durban from the River Police.
“Now then, Ollie,” Durban said firmly. “You can’t take us both, an’ you don’t want to finish up on the end of a rope. It’s a bad way to go.”
Ollie remained motionless, his jaw hanging.
“Put that away an’ go on home,” Durban went on, moving a step farther towards Monk. His voice held such certainty as if there was no question in anyone’s mind that Ollie would obey.
Ollie stood still.
Monk waited.
Underneath them the water sucked and belched, swirling around the pier stakes, and, somewhere, something was washed away and fell in with a splash.
Monk was shuddering with cold, and relief.
Ollie made his decision. He lowered his hand with the knife in it.
“Into the water,” Durban directed.
Ollie squawked with indignation, his voice high and harsh.
“The knife!” Durban said patiently. “Not you.”
Ollie swore, and tossed the knife. It fell into the water with only the faintest sound.
Monk stifled a laugh that was far too close to hysteria.
Ollie turned and stumbled up towards the street and the darkness swallowed him up.
Another figure appeared behind Durban, slighter, and moving with an ease that suggested he was also younger.
“You all right, sir?” His voice was concerned, challenging.
“Yes, thank you, Sergeant Orme,” Durban replied. “Just Ollie Jenkins getting a bit above himself again. Thinks Mr. Monk here has designs on Little Lil.”
Sergeant Orme was satisfied. The rigidity in him relaxed, but he did not leave.
“What exactly is it that you’re doing here, Mr. Monk?” Durban asked. “What are you looking for?”
“Thank you,” Monk said with profound feeling. It was embarrassing, being rescued by the River Police. He was used to being the one who helped, who did the favor and found the solutions. It was made the more so because he respected Durban and loathed not being able to be honest with him. It was a kind of grubbiness he would have paid a great deal to avoid.
“What are you looking for?” Durban repeated. The water gurgled around the pier, the wash from something passing in the gloom sloshed against the stakes and the wood creaked and sagged sideways. “I know you’re a private agent of enquiry,” Durban said in an expressionless voice. What he thought of such an occupation could only be guessed at. Did he think Monk was a scavenger in other people’s misery, or a profiteer from their crimes?
“Stolen goods,” he answered finally. “So I can return them to their owner.”
Still Durban did not move. “What sort of goods?”
“Anything that belongs to one man and has been taken by another.”
“You’re playing with fire, Mr. Monk, an’ you aren’t good enough at it, at least not down here on the river,” Durban told him softly. “You’ll get burnt, an’ I already have enough murders on my stretch without you. Go back to the city an’ do what you know how.”
“I’ve got to finish this job.”
Durban sighed. “I suppose you’ll do whatever you want. I can’t stop you,” he said wearily. “You’d better come with us back along the river. Can’t leave you around here or somebody could attack you in the other arm.” He turned and led the way out towards the river edge of the wharf to where the police boat was waiting on the high tide, close enough to the bank to jump down into.
Monk followed, and Sergeant Orme offered him a hand so he could balance himself in the dark. He landed moderately well in the boat, at least not falling over any of the oarsmen or pitching beyond into the water.
He sat quietly and watched as Orme, who was apparently in charge, gave the order and they put out again and turned upriver towards the Pool. They moved swiftly on the still-incoming tide, the men pulling with an easy rhythm, with that special kind of unity that comes with practice and a common purpose.
They maneuvered with skill, making little of the art and the knowledge required to weave their way between the anchored ships without hitting a boat. Now and then someone made a joke and there was a burst of laughter, a comfortable sound in the wind and the blustery darkness lit only by the glimmer of riding lights.
They called each other by nicknames, which were often derogatory, but the affection was too plain to need display. The mockery was their way of robbing the fear from the reality of violence and hardship. Monk knew that as he listened to them, and remembered all the better parts of his own police days, things he had forgotten until now, and lied to himself that he did not miss.
They put him off at London Bridge and he thanked them, climbing out stiffly, then walking towards the nearest omnibus stop.
He was glad to feel the solid earth under his feet, but his mind was in turmoil, his emotions raw. He hated having appeared such a fool to Durban. Even when the time came that he could tell him the truth, it might not sound a great deal better, even though ideas were at last becoming clearer in his mind. There were threads to follow, something definite to do.
SEVEN
Monk returned home for the night, but Hester was not there. The emptiness of the house oppressed him and he found himself anxious for her, thinking how tired she must be. At least she was in no danger; Margaret Ballinger and Bessie would look after her as much as they could.
In the morning, he dressed, choosing another jacket with no tear, then went downstairs and cooked himself kippers and toast for breakfast. At eight he set out to pursue the ideas he had formed from the knowledge gained the day before. He began by enquiring for the exact location of Culpepper’s warehouse, then taking a boat down the river to Deptford Creek, just short of Greenwich.
He went ashore on the south bank and walked slowly along the street past ironmongers, ships’ chandlers, sailmakers, and general stores, making a note of the local public house, and then went and stood on the dockside as if waiting for someone. After a little while watching the laborers come and go, he began to appreciate how many men worked for Culpepper in one way or another. Culpepper was obviously an ambitious man.
In the public house at lunchtime again he listened, then, when he had heard enough, he continued to fall into conversation with a disgruntled dock laborer who said his name was Duff.
“It’s hard,” Monk sympathized with him. “Good work isn’t easy to come by.”
“Good work!” Duff exploded. “They’re a bunch o’ cutthroats, the whole poxy lot of ’em.”
“Pity they don’t cut each other’s throats and save us all our grief,” Monk agreed.
“Could ’appen.” Duff looked suddenly cheerful at the thought. “Culpepper an’ Louvain, any road. That’d be a start.”
