Page 65 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

“He can’t have known what it was,” Monk said, keeping step with Durban as they walked towards the street. “No sane man would let that loose, whatever the profit. If it spreads, there’s nothing for anyone, no clippers, no cargoes, no trade, no life. Louvain’s a hard man, but he’s not mad.”

“He didn’t know,” Durban agreed. “Not at the time of paying them off, anyway. I agree, he’s clever, brutal at times, but he respects the laws of the sea; he knows no man wins against nature. He wouldn’t last long if he didn’t, and Louvain’s done more than last, he’s profited, built his own empire.” He came to the curb, hesitated, and crossed, turning south again. “He’d be perfectly happy to get rid of a mistress if she no longer interested him, more likely than look after another man’s cast-off woman. But I’d still wager he didn’t know what she had, or he’d have done something different, maybe even kill her and bury her with quicklime.”

Monk shuddered at the thought, and believed it. “We’ve got to find those men.”

“I know,” Durban agreed.

“Where would they go?”

Durban gave him a dry look. “That was ten days ago. Where would yer be if yer’d been at sea for half a year?”

“Eat well, drink deep, and find a woman,” Monk replied. “Unless I had family, in which case I’d go home.”

Durban’s face pinched tight. He nodded, something inside him too knotted with anger and grief to speak.

“How do we find out?” Monk went on. There was no time for feelings; they could come afterwards-if there was an afterwards.

“We’ll get their names,” Durban replied. ?

??That’ll be a start at least. Then we look for them.” His face was almost expressionless, just a faint, almost bruised sadness about his mouth, as if he understood the darkness ahead.

Neither of them spoke again as they made their way along the narrow pavement past pawnbrokers, shipwrights, chandlers, ropemakers, sailmakers, and ironmongers-representatives of all the heavy industries of the shore. They were forced to stop and wait while a man backed four magnificent shire horses out of a yard, with the dray turning a tight corner into the street, wheels bumping over the cobbles. He did it with intense concentration and care, all the while talking to his animals.

A cooper was complaining bitterly about a barrel not to his liking. Monk nursed his anger like a small ray of sanity, a glimpse of the world that seemed to be slipping out of his grasp no matter how hard he clung to it. He was on the edge of an abyss where plague destroyed everything; its spread or its containment was all he could think of. The cooper lived in a world where one badly made barrel mattered to him.

Monk glanced at Durban and saw a reflection of his own thoughts in the policeman’s eyes. It was a moment of perfect understanding.

Then the cart was clear of the gateway and Durban strode forward, Monk on his heels.

It was tedious finding the information they needed without arousing suspicion or, worse than that, fear that the police were seeking anyone in connection with a crime. A breath of that, and not only would the man disappear, but no one on the river would help them. All doors would be closed.

Durban was endlessly patient, sharing a fact here, a fact there, and it was dusk before they emerged from the last office with all the information they were likely to get: the names, physical descriptions, and what was known of the backgrounds and tastes of the three men they sought.

They began at Gravesend and worked upriver from one public house to another, drinking half a pint of ale or eating a pie, trying to blend in with the other men, talking of ships, voyages they’d known or heard of, always listening for a name, watching for a man who answered any of the descriptions. All signs of Durban’s police status had been removed. His hat was stuffed in his pocket, and his coat collar turned up and a little lopsided. He looked like a ship’s officer ashore a few months too long. They heard nothing of value. No one admitted to having seen any of the men from the Maude Idris.

The bright, hard light faded shortly after five, and the sun set in a sea of fire over the water, dazzling the eyes till it hurt to look westwards. Glittering shades of silver and gold edged the ruffles over the surface and marked the wakes of barges.

Monk and Durban stopped at another public house for something to eat, and were glad of the warmth. Outside the wind was rising. Neither of them said anything about the necessity to keep looking. Even the thought of home and sleep had to be pushed from the mind. Every hour counted, and they had no lead yet.

They ate in silence, glancing at one another every now and then, mostly listening, watching, trying to catch the odd snatch of conversation which might refer to a sailor by name, or to someone home from Africa and looking for another ship. They had been there three quarters of an hour and were getting ready to leave when Monk heard a man with a hacking cough, and realized that he had also been listening for word of anyone ill, or even of a death.

“Where do sick men go?” he asked Durban abruptly, just as they rose to their feet.

Durban swung around to face him, his eyes wide. “Sailors’ homes, the lucky ones. Doss-houses, the others-or worse than that, some pick a nethersken on the street.”

Monk did not need to ask what a nethersken was; he knew the cant names for all the different sorts of cheap lodging, anything to be in out of the rain and share the warmth of other bodies. However dirty they were, or lice-ridden, their shelter might be the difference between survival and freezing to death.

He made no comment, and neither did Durban. For these few hours, or days, they were both policemen with a single task. Their understanding and their unity of purpose formed a bond as deep as brotherhood.

They moved into the backstreets of the dockside, going from one house to another, always asking discreetly, following any word about a man who might be sick or one who was free with his money. They did not mention names; they could not afford to alarm anyone. Lies came as easily and inventively as the need arose.

By one in the morning they were cold and exhausted, and had pursued half a dozen dead ends. Durban stood in an alley where the wind moaned up the narrow crack between the buildings, his face half illuminated by the one lamp on the outside wall of a doss-house. His shoulders were hunched and he was shivering. He looked at Monk wordlessly.

“One more?” Monk suggested. “Could be lucky? Someone must have seen them.”

Durban’s eyes widened a little.

“Or we could sleep on it?” Monk smiled.

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