Page 7 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

“Report to me in three days, regardless of what you have,” Louvain reminded him. “Before, if you have the ivory, of course. I’ll pay you five pounds extra for every day short of ten that you recover it.”

“Good,” Monk said levelly, but he felt the money slip out of his grasp as he walked forward in the darkness and wondered how far he would have to go to find an omnibus back towards his home. He should not spend money on hansoms anymore.

It was nearly seven o’clock by the time he alighted from the final leg of his journey, with the two pounds that Louvain had given him still unbroken. He was in Tottenham Court Road with only a hundred yards or so to walk. The mist had settled, obscuring the distances. There were the smells of soot from the chimneys and of the horse manure which had not yet been cleared, but he knew the way almost to the step. It would be warm once he was inside.

There would be food prepared if Hester was in. He tried not to hope too fiercely that she was. Her work at the clinic was of intense importance to her. Before they had met seven years ago, she had nursed in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale. On her return to England she had worked occasionally in hospitals, but her independence on the battlefield had made her intolerant of being reduced to cleaning, stoking fires, and rolling bandages. Her temper had cost her more than one position.

As a private nurse caring for individual cases, Hester had been far more successful. More recently she had turned her attention to helping prostitutes who were injured and homeless in the course of their trade. Hester had first set up the clinic almost in the shadow of the Coldbath Prison-then, in a stroke of brilliant opportunism, moved it to a large house nearby in Portpool Lane. Monk’s only objection was that the very urgency of the need for such a place meant that Hester spent many late hours there.

He reached the front door and slipped his key into the lock. Inside the lights were on, only dimly, but it must mean she was at home. She would never have left them to burn otherwise.

He walked through quickly, a surge of pleasure welling up inside him. It was far more than simply the warmth of being protected from the wind and enclosed by his own home, or even knowing that a long, comfortable night lay ahead of him.

She was in the sitting room, which was always tidy, always heated because it was the room in which he saw clients. It was Hester, years before they were married, who had insisted it be so. It was she who had placed the chairs on either side of the fireplace and put the bowl with flowers on the table.

Now she dropped her book and stood up, her face full of pleasure. She came straight to him, expecting him to put his arms around her and to kiss her. The sheer certainty of it was almost as sweet to him as the act itself. He held her closely, kissing her mouth, her cheek, her closed eyes. Her hair was untidy. She smelled faintly of carbolic from the clinic. No matter how much she scrubbed, it never entirely went away. She was a little too thin to be womanly. He had always thought it was something he did not like, and yet he would not have changed her gangling grace or her fierce, tender emotion for the most beautiful woman he had ever seen or dreamed. The reality was always better, sharper, more surprising. In loving her, he had discovered a fire and delicacy within himself that he had not known existed. She infuriated him at times, exasperated him, excited him, but never, ever bored him. Above all-more precious than anything else-in her presence he could not be lonely.

“The shipowner gave me the job,” he told her, still with his arms around her. “His name is Louvain. He’s lost a cargo of ivory, and the thieves murdered the night watchman to get it.”

She pulled back to look at his face. “So why doesn’t he call in the River Police? Is it even legal not to?”

He saw the anxiety in her eyes. He understood it uncomfortably well.

“He needs the ivory back more quickly than they’ll be able to get it,” he explained. “There are thefts up and down the river all the time.”

“And murders?” she asked. There was no criticism in her, but there was fear. Did she know how narrow their finances were now? The bills were paid for this week, but what about next week, and the one after?

She loved the clinic. It would be a defeat of all they had tried to do if she had to give it up in order to earn money as a paid nurse again. The clinic would not survive without her. She was not only the one reliable person there with any medical experience; she had the will and the courage behind the whole venture.

They had managed through the harder, earlier times with the financial help of Lady Callandra Daviot, who had been a friend to Hester for years, and to both of them since long before their marriage. But Monk was loath to go back to Lady Callandra now-when she was no longer actively involved in his cases, and certainly could not help in this one-simply to ask her for money he knew perfectly well he would not be able to repay. And could Hester ever accept that either?

He touched his fingers gently to her hair. “Yes, of course, murders,” he answered. “And accidental deaths, which is what the authorities seem to be assuming this one is so far. Louvain has not told them otherwise. When I catch the thief and can prove his guilt, then I can prove the murder as well. I have signed statements from Louvain and the morgue attendant.” He hated the thought of working secretly from the River Police. He was not a lover of authority, nor did he take orders with ease or grace, but he was a policeman by training, and even if he despised some of them for lack of imagination or intellig

ence, he still respected the concept of an organized force, both to prevent and to detect crime.

“I’m hungry,” he said with a smile. “What is there to eat?”

TWO

In the morning the mist had blown away. Monk left the house by seven to begin his investigation, and his education concerning the river and its customs. Hester slept a little later, but by eight she, too, was on her way to the house in Portpool Lane almost under the shadow of Reid’s Brewery. It was over three miles, and necessitated the use of two omnibuses and then a walk, but she was too aware of the expense to waste money on a hansom, except in the middle of the night. She arrived just before nine to find Margaret already there, having made a note of the night’s work and busy considering what might best be done for the day.

Margaret was a slender woman in her late twenties. She had the confidence that goes with a degree of money and education, and the vulnerability of a woman who was not yet married and had therefore failed to fulfill her mother’s ambition for her-and indeed her own for her social and financial survival.

She was dressed in a plain wool skirt and jacket, and had a pencil and piece of paper in her hand. Her face lit when she saw Hester.

“Only one admission during the night,” she said. “A woman with a serious stomachache. I think it’s largely hunger. We gave her porridge and a bed, and she looks better already.” There was a shadow on her face, in spite of the harmlessness of the news.

Since the move from Coldbath Square there was no need for rent to be paid, so Hester knew it was not that which caused Margaret’s concern. This building was theirs-or more accurately, it belonged to Squeaky Robinson, who remained out of prison and with a roof over his head strictly on condition that they had the sole use of the house for as long as they should wish. It had allowed them to expand their work, and now a greater part of London was aware that here prostitutes who were injured or ill could find help, without religious conditions attached or any questions from police.

The building was a warren of rooms and corridors. Originally it had been two large houses with appropriate doors or walls knocked down to turn it into one, and it possessed an adequate kitchen and an excellent laundry. Its use in Squeaky Robinson’s time had been as a brothel; the laundry in particular was an inheritance from that time. Ideally if more walls were removed they could turn rooms into wards, which would make it far simpler to care for patients, but that would cost money they did not have.

As it was, it was getting more difficult to afford the necessities: coal, the raw materials for laundering, cleaning, lighting, and food. Too little money seemed to be available for medicines.

“Where did you put her?” Hester asked.

“Room three,” Margaret answered. “I looked in on her half an hour ago, and she was asleep.”

Hester went to see anyway. She opened the door softly, turning the handle with no noise, and stepped inside. The place was still well furnished from its original use, which had been only a matter of months before. There was quite a good rug, albeit made of bright rags, but it kept the warmth, and there was old paper on the walls, which was better than bare plaster. Now the bed was made up with sheets and blankets, and a young woman lay sound asleep, curled up sideways, her hair knotted loosely at the back of her neck, her thin shoulders easily discernible through the cotton nightgown. It was one belonging to the clinic. She had probably come in wearing her own gaudy street dress, which would show too much flesh and give no protection from the cold.

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