cargo. A lone boatman was busy, oars working rhythmically, rising with the eastward blade dripping diamonds.
As he looked downriver a ship caught his sight. It was just a flash of white at first, but growing as it came closer until he could make out the five tiers of sails on its towering masts: mainsails, course, lower topsails, upper topsails, topgallants, and royals billowing to catch the surprise wind. It was a shining thing, a creature of dreams, all power and grace.
He stood spellbound, oblivious of everything else: the rest of the river, other traffic, people, anyone on the dockside near him. Not until the sun was fully risen and pouring light into every corner, showing the shabby and the new, the idle and the laboring, and the clipper was at last at anchor, did he even notice that Scuff was standing next to him, his face transfigured.
“Jeez!” The boy sighed, his eyes huge. “It’s enough ter make yer b’lieve in angels, in’it?”
“Yes,” Monk replied, for want of anything better to say. Then he decided that that was quite good enough. There was something of the divine in anything that was such a perfect blend of power, beauty, and purpose. “Yes,” he said again, “it is.”
Scuff was still rapt in the awe of the moment.
Monk did not want to, but he understood why Louvain was obsessed with the passion to own such a ship. It was far more than money or success-it was a kind of enchantment; it captured the glory of a dream. It spoke to a hunger for greater space and light, a width of freedom impossible in any other way.
He shook himself from those feelings with difficulty. He could not lose himself in them any longer. “I need to find someone to help me-for nothing,” he said aloud.
“I’ll ’elp yer.” Scuff drew his eyes away from the river reluctantly. Reality had governed him too long to allow self-indulgence. “Wot d’yer want?”
“Unfortunately, I need a grown-up.”
“I can do a lot o’ things yer wouldn’t believe. An’ I’m nearly eleven-I think.”
Monk judged his age at probably closer to nine, but he did not say so. “I need size as well as brains,” he said to soften the blow. “I was thinking a man called Crow might help. Do you know where I could find him-without anyone else knowing?”
“The doc? Yeah, I reckon. Yer won’t get ’im in no trouble, will yer?” Scuff asked anxiously. “I don’ think ’e’s no fighter.”
“I don’t want him to fight, just to offer to buy something.”
“I know where ’e lives.” Scuff appeared to be turning something over in his mind. Loyalties were conflicting with one another, new friends against old, habit against adventure, someone who healed him when he was sick as opposed to someone who shared food with him.
“Tell him I’m here, and I’d like to see him, urgently,” Monk requested. “Then we’ll have breakfast before we go. I’ll fetch us some ham sandwiches and tea. Be back in an hour. Do you know an hour?”
Scuff gave him a filthy look, then turned and ran off.
Fifty minutes later he was back, and a highly curious Crow was with him. He was dressed in a heavy jacket, his black hair hidden by a cap, and had mitts on his hands. Monk had the sandwiches, but was waiting to buy the tea fresh and hot. He gave Scuff the money and sent him off to fetch it.
Crow looked him up and down with interest, his eyes bright. “ ’Ow’s the arm?” he asked. “Yer never came back to get the bandage changed.”
“I had my wife do it,” Monk replied. “It’s fine, a bit stiff, that’s all.”
Crow pursed his lips. In the clear morning light, no softness in its glare, the tiny lines were visible on his skin. He looked closer to forty than the thirty Monk had assumed, but there was still a fire of enthusiasm in his expression that made him uniquely alive. “So what is it you want me for?” he asked.
Monk had been thinking how to broach the subject, and how much to tell him. He knew nothing about this man; he had made his decision on a mixture of instinct and desperation. Would he take caution as an insult, or as a sign of intelligence?
“I need someone to make an offer for me,” Monk replied, watching Crow’s expression. “I can’t do it myself. They wouldn’t believe me.”
Crow raised an eyebrow. “Should they?”
“No. What I’m looking for was stolen from a. . an associate of mine.” He could not bring himself to call Louvain a friend, and he was not yet willing to let Crow know that he was a client. It raised too many other questions.
“Associate. .” Crow turned the word over. “An’ yer want ter buy it back? Now, what kind o’ a thing would yer buy back if it was yers in the first place? An’ what kind o’ people do yer associate with that are happy ter buy back things that were stolen? An’ then why use yer, why not do it thesselves? Yer don’t do it for nothin’, do yer?”
Monk grinned. “No, I don’t. And no, I’m not going to buy it back. When I know where he’s put it, I’m going to take it, but he’s got it well hidden. I need you to make an offer to buy some of it so he’ll go there.”
Crow looked dubious. “Doesn’t ’e ’ave a receiver for it ’isself? If yer threat’nin’ ter cross up one o’ the receivers along ’ere, yer daft, an’ yer won’t last long.”
“I think it was stolen to deprive the owner of its use, not to sell on,” Monk explained reluctantly. “I just want you to make an offer for one tusk.”
Crow’s eyes widened. “Tusk! Ivory?”
“That’s right. Will you do it?”
Crow thought for a moment or two. He was still considering it when Scuff returned with the tea, carrying it carefully in three mugs.
Crow took one, warming his hands on it and blowing at the steam rising from the top. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Someone needs ter look after yer, or we’ll be fishin’ yer outta the water an’ tellin’ the police who you were.”
“Yeah,” Scuff added with sage concern.
Monk felt both cared for and diminished, but he could not afford the luxury of taking offense. Apart from that, they were right. “Thank you,” he said, a trifle tartly.
“In’t nuffin’,” Scuff said generously, and took a huge bite of his ham sandwich.
“So who do I have ter ask fer the tusk?” Crow enquired.
“Gould, the boatman.”
“Who works from the steps here?” Crow said with surprise. “Knew he was a thief, of course, but ivory’s a bit much for him. Yer sure?”
“No, but I think so.”
“Right.” Crow finished his sandwich and his tea, and rubbed his hands together to signify he was ready to begin.
Monk looked at Scuff, who was waiting expectantly. “Will you come with me, and when I’m sure where Gould is leading us, take a message to Mr. Louvain and tell him where we are, then go and fetch Mr. Durban of the River Police so we can arrest Gould and get the ivory back?”
Crow’s eyes widened. “Louvain?” he said with a sharpness to his voice, a sudden wariness as if it changed his perception.
“It’s his ivory,” Monk replied. “I’m going to return it to him. That’s what he hired me for.”
Crow whistled through his teeth. “Did ’e? Yer do this kind o’ thing often?”
“All the time, just not on the river before.” He tried to judge whether Crow would consider it a compliment or an insult to be offered money. Monk stroked his face, having no idea of the answer.
Then Crow grinned hugely, showing magnificent teeth. “Right!” He rubbed his mittened hands together. “Let’s go an’ find Mr. Gould. I’m ready! By the way, ’ow am I supposed ter know if ’e’s got ivory?”
“From an informant who is unusually observant, and whom it would be more than your life’s worth to name!” Monk said with an answering smile.
“Yeah! Right.” Crow put his hands in his pockets. “But if yer comin’ after me, I’d be ’appier if yer ’ad a boatman I could trust. I’ll get Jimmy Corbett. ’e won’t let yer down.” And without waiting for Monk’s agreement he strolled over towards the edge and started to walk along, scanning the water.
Scuff picked up the mugs and returned them, at a run, and he and Monk set off a comfortable distance behind Crow as he went to search for Jimmy Corbett, and then for Gould.
It took them nearly an hour before it was accomplished and Monk and Scuff saw the lanky figure of Crow finally step down into Gould’s boat and pull away just to the east of Wapping New Stairs and turn back upstream,
