Page 10 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

He took another mouthful of food. “I’m not sure that I can begin there,” he replied. “I think I’ll have to come at it the other way, find out where it went and trace back from there to who took it. I need the thief because he killed Hodge. Otherwise I wouldn’t care about him. But he sold the ivory to someone, or he will. Everything that’s stolen gets sold sooner or later, unless you can eat it, burn it, or wear it.”

“Burn it?” she said in surprise.

“Coal,” he explained with a sudden smile. “Most of the mudlarks on the banks are after coal. Some are looking for nails, of course, or anything else you could use.”

“Oh. . yes.” She should have thought of that. She tried to imagine wading up to her knees in the winter river, bending to search for bits someone would buy. But perhaps it was no worse than walking the alleys at night in the rain, hoping to sell the use of your body for half an hour. Poverty, and the need to survive, could change your view of a lot of things. Thank heaven that if Monk did not find the ivory, at least they could turn to Callandra Daviot to help them-temporarily. That is if Monk could bear to ask her.

Perhaps Hester should go to her and ask for something for the clinic? Callandra, of all people, would understand. She had worked ceaselessly for the good of the hospital, and never shrank from asking anyone for money, time, or anything else she needed. She had shamed many a society matron into a larger gift than the woman had ever intended.

She stood up and cleared away the plates. She had a hot bread-and-butter pudding in the oven, and she brought it out and served it with considerable pride. Making it so well was a very recent achievement. She watched him eat it with pleasure, noting the amusement he strove to hide, not with great success. She caught his smile, and shrugged a little ruefully.

They were still at the table when there was a firm rap on the front door.

Monk stood up immediately, but there was surprise in his face. It was too late for anyone to call socially, and he expected no information on his case for Louvain yet. Either the caller was for Hester, to do with some emergency at Portpool Lane, or a new case for him.

Hester picked up the dirty dishes and carried them out to the kitchen. When she returned, Callandra Daviot was standing in the sitting room. Her hat was askew and her hair was as wildly untidy as usual, curling in the damp and falling out of its pins, none of which mattered in the slightest. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. She had one glove in her hand; the other one was nowhere to be seen. She was glowing with happiness.

Hester was delighted to see her. She went forward to welcome Callandra.

“How are you, my dear?” Callandra said warmly.

“Very happy to see you,” Hester replied, letting her go and standing back. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Callandra looked startled. “Oh! No thank you, my dear.” She stood still in the middle of the floor as if unable to make herself sit down, the smile still wide on her face. “How are you both?”

Hester thought of lying politely, but she and Callandra had known each other too long and too well. The generation between them had not affected their friendship in the slightest. It had been Hester, rather than anyone her own age or social class, who had watched Callandra’s heartbreaking love for Kristian Beck, and understood it. It had been Hester and Monk to whom she had turned when Kristian had been accused of murder, and not only because of Monk’s skill, but because they were friends who would not mock her loyalty or intrude upon her grief.

Hester could not deceive her. “We are struggling to make ends meet in the clinic,” she answered. “Victims of our success, I suppose.” However deep their friendship, she would not tell her that for Monk work had been poor of late. He could do so if he wished; for her to do it would be a betrayal.

Callandra immediately turned her concentration to the subject.

“Raising funds is always difficult,” she agreed. “Particularly when it is not a charity one feels comfortable boasting about. It’s one thing to tell everyone at the dinner table that you have just given to doctors or missionaries scattered across the Empire. It can stop conversation utterly to say you are trying to save the local prostitutes.”

Hester could not help laughing, and even Monk smiled.

“Do you still have that excellent Margaret Ballinger with you?” Callandra asked hopefully.

“Oh, yes,” Hester said with enthusiasm.

“Good.” Callandra lifted up her hand as if she should have had an umbrella in it, then remembered that she had left it somewhere. “I can give her some reliable names for raising contributions. You had better not be the one to ask.” A smile of profound affection softened her face. “I know you too

well to delude myself that you would be tactful. One refusal, and you would render such an opinion as to make all future approaches impossible.”

“Thank you,” Hester said with mock decorum, but there was something in Callandra’s words which disturbed her. Why did Callandra not offer to ask them herself? In the past she had not been hesitant, and she could surely see in Hester’s face that she was already busier than she could manage with comfort.

Callandra was still standing in the middle of the room as though too excited to sit. Now she was searching in her reticule for something, but since it was more voluminous than most, and obviously over-full and in no sort of order at all, she was having difficulty. She gave up. “Have you a piece of paper, William? Perhaps you would write them down for me?”

“Of course,” he agreed, but he glanced at Hester rapidly, and away again before he moved to obey.

Hester was on the edge of asking what it was that had brought Callandra, unannounced, and was so clearly momentous to her that all her usual care was scattered to oblivion. But to do so might be intrusive. She was a dear friend, but that did not destroy her right to privacy.

Monk brought the pen and paper, and an inkwell, setting them on the table for Callandra. She sat down at last and wrote the names and addresses herself, and then after a moment’s thought, with a flourish added what sums she thought they could comfortably contribute. She held the list up in the air and waved it for the ink to dry, since Monk had brought no blotting paper, then she handed it to Hester. “Don’t lose it,” she commanded. “I may not be able to replace it for you.”

Monk stiffened.

Hester looked up at him slowly, hardly breathing.

Callandra’s eyes were bright. It was with happiness and tears, as if she were on the edge of some tremendous step and she was clinging to the last moments of the familiar, because it too was dear to her and she could not let go without pain.

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