Page 42 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

“An opulent receiver,” Monk replied. “If you want to know who else knows, I can’t tell you, I didn’t learn that.”

“So now they know you’re my man!”

“I’m not your man! And no, they don’t know.”

“You’re my man until I say you aren’t.” Louvain leaned forward over his desk, his hands, callused and scarred by ropes, spread wide on the polished wood. “How does knowing about Culpepper and the clipper get you any further? I told you I needed to deliver the ivory because it was due. I hadn’t time to tell you al

l my enemies along the river. I have crossed every man on it, one time or another. And they’ve crossed me. It’s not a trade for the squeamish.”

“Because if you’d told me about Culpepper I could have started to trace the ivory from the other end!” Monk answered back with equal bitterness. “Following the ivory from the ship I’m always at least two days behind.”

A dull flush spread up Louvain’s cheeks. “Well, go and get on with looking at Culpepper, but for the love of God, be careful! You’re no use to me at the bottom of the river with your throat cut.”

“Thank you,” Monk said sarcastically, then turned on his heel and went out. He felt safer now that he had only a little silver and copper change in his pocket, but he still kept to the middle of the road all the way back to the omnibus stop.

He was standing, waiting, hunched against the wind, when another man came up, presumably to wait also. Only when he stood beside him was Monk suddenly aware of a weight pressing into his side. He turned to complain, and saw the hatred in the man’s eyes. He had a hat on, covering his shaven head and the strangely muscular neck, but Monk recognized his jaw and mouth. It was Ollie, who had waited on him at Little Lil’s.

“Yer in’t ready ter go ’ome yet, Mr. Busybody,” Ollie hissed softly, as if someone might overhear him. “Fancy yerself, do yer? Think our Lil’d give yer more’n the time o’ day, do yer? Well yer in’t gonner ’ave the chance, see, ’cos yer comin’ wi’ me fer a little trip down Lime’ouse way.” He jerked the knife blade in his hand a little more sharply into Monk’s ribs. “An’ there in’t nob’dy listenin’, so don’ bother yellin’ out, ner thinkin’ as mebbe I wouldn’t stick yer, ’cos I would.”

Monk did not doubt it. He might get a chance to overpower him later, but certainly not now. And his mind was filled with the memory of the knife in his arm as a scream filled the silence. Obediently he turned from the omnibus stop and walked back along the dark, gusty street, the wind in his face, the stones slick under his feet.

They were alone side by side, Ollie close and a little behind, always keeping the knife bumping Monk’s back. He must have done such a thing before, because never once-all the way along the road, across the dark inlet to the Shadwell Docks and beyond, towards the curve southward of Limehouse Reach-did he ever let Monk move far enough from him to turn or escape the prodding blade.

Monk saw the cranes and warehouses of the West India Dock ahead. The rain was spitting in their faces and the air was pungent with the smells of fish and tar when Ollie ordered him to stop. “Yer goin’ fer a nice little swim, you are,” he said with malicious delight. “Mebbe our Lil won’t fancy yer so much when they fish yer out.” He laughed to himself, a sound like a clearing of the throat. “That’s if they do, like! Sometimes bodies get caught up in the piers an’ no one ever finds ’em. They stay there forever.”

“I’ll make damn sure you come with me!” Monk retorted. “Is this what Lil wants?”

“Don’t yer talk abaht ’er, yer. .” Ollie’s voice shook with rage.

Monk felt the knifepoint prick him. He moved towards the broad surface of the wharf where it stretched out ten or twelve yards into the dark water before dropping off abruptly, nothing beyond but the creaking, dripping stumps poking up like dead men’s bones. The smell of wood rot was heavy in his nose. It was dark but for the riding lights of a ship twenty yards away.

“Garn!” Ollie prompted, shoving Monk forward with the knife blade. He was too close behind for Monk to twist and lunge back at him. Monk stepped down as he was told, and felt the boards slippery under his feet. The wood was pitted and slimy with age. He could hear the river swirling and sucking around the stakes, only a few feet below him now. Would he have any chance of swimming in that current? Could he catch hold of the next stake as he was carried against it? If it was that easy, why did people drown? Because the tide was fast, and the eddies pulled you away. Clothes soaked with water were too heavy to move in, and they pulled you under, no matter what you did.

He had to fight now or not at all. And Ollie knew that, too. He gave another stiff prod and Monk stumbled forward onto his knees and rolled over rapidly, in a single movement, just as Ollie flung himself into the place where he had been, knife blade arcing in the air and stabbing downward.

Monk scrambled to get up as a board cracked under his weight and swung for a moment, then plunged into the water below.

Ollie was on his feet again. He grunted with satisfaction. He knew the pier, where the rotten planks were, 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.

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