The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [16]
She looked at his face and saw the awe of it in him. There was something in the elements of the river which had captured him already. Again the fear touched her that he was out of his depth. Might he be too occupied in seeing what was physical to be aware of the differences in the minds of thieves and receivers, the subtleties of deceit and violence whose warnings he might not recognize because he was unfamiliar?
“You aren’t listening,” he accused her.
“I’m trying to picture it,” she said quickly, meeting his eyes again. “It doesn’t sound like the city at all. Where do you start to look for the ivory? Can you trace where people have passed when there are no tracks, no footprints?” Then she wished she had not asked, because how could he know? It was too soon.
He looked rueful. “I learned that today. I spent most of the time just walking around the docks. I’ve lived in London for at least fifteen years, but I had no idea how separate a world the docks are. Thousands of tons of cargo go through them every week, from every part of the world. It’s amazing there isn’t more lost.” He leaned a little forward over the table towards her, his food temporarily forgotten, his voice rising in urgency. “It’s the gateway to the world, in and out. Ships have to wait to unload until they can find space at one of the wharves. Sometimes it’s days, sometimes weeks after they drop anchor. There are people on the water all the time—”
“How are you going to find out who took the ivory?” she interrupted.
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