The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [25]
Monk took a last bite from the pie and handed it over. He drank the rest of the tea before his better nature lost him that as well.
The child sat down beside him on a stump of wood and ate all of the pie solemnly and with concentration, then he spoke. “Yer lookin’ fer work?” he said, watching Monk’s face. “Or yer a thief?” There was no malice or contempt in his voice, simply the enquiry one stranger might make of another, by way of introduction.
“I’m looking for work,” Monk replied. Then he added quickly, “Not that I’m sure I want to find any.”
“If yer don’t work, an’ yer in’t a thief, where’d yer get the pie?” the child said reasonably. “An’ the cake?” he added.
“Do you want half?” Monk asked. “When I say I don’t want work, I mean I don’t want to load or unload cargo,” he amended. “I don’t mind the odd message now and then.”
“Oh.” The child thought. “Reckon as I might ’elp yer wi’ that, now an’ then, like,” he said generously. “Yeah, I’ll ’ave a piece o’ yer cake. I don’t mind if I do.” He held out his hand, palm upward.
Monk carefully divided the cake and gave him half. “What’s your name?” he enquired.
“Scuff,” the boy replied. “Wot’s yours?”
“Monk.”
“Pleased ter meet yer,” Scuff said gravely. He looked at Monk, frowning a little. “Ye’re new ’ere, in’t yer?”
Monk decided to tell the truth. “Yes. How did you know?”
Scuff rolled his eyes, but a certain courtesy prevented him from replying. “Yer wanna be careful,” he said, pursing his lips. “I’ll learn yer a few things, or yer’ll end up in the water. Ter begin wif, yer needs to know ’oo ter speak ter an’ ’oo ter stay clear of.”
Monk listened attentively. At the moment all information was a gift, but more than that, he did not want to be discourteous to this child.
Scuff held up a dirty hand less than half the size of Monk’s. “Yer don’ wanna know the bad ones—more’n that, yer don’ want them ter know you. That’s the night plund’rers.”
“What?”
“Night plund’rers,” Scuff repeated. “Don’t you ’ear too good? Yer better watch it! Yer gotta keep yer wits, or yer’ll end up in the water, like I said! Night plund’rers is them wot works the river at night.” There was an expression of infinite patience in his face, as if he were dealing with a very small child in need of constant watching. “They’d kill yer for sixpence if yer got in their way. Like the river pirates used ter be, afore there was ever River P’lice special, like.”
Another string of coal barges passed, sending their wash slapping against the steps.
“I see,” Monk replied, his interest engaged.
Scuff shook his head, swallowing the last of the cake. “No, yer don’t. Yer don’t see nuffin’ yet. But if yer live long enough mebbe yer will.”
“Are there a lot of night plunderers?” Monk asked. “Do they work for themselves or for others? What kinds of things do they steal and what do they do with them?”
Scuff’s eyes opened wide. “What der you care? Yer in’t never goin’ ter even see none of ’em, if yer’ve any sense. Don’t yer go lookin’ into fings like that. Yer in’t got the wits fer it, nor the stomach neither. Yer stick ter wot yer can do—wotever that is.” He looked distinctly dubious that that was anything at all.
Monk bit back the reply that rose to his lips. It irritated him surprisingly deeply that this child’s opinion of him was so low. It took an effort not to justify himself. But he did need this information. The theft from the Maude Idris looked like exactly the sort of thing such men would do.
“I’m just curious,” he replied. “And yes, I mean to avoid them.”
“Then keep yer eyes shut—an’ yer mouf—all night,” Scuff retorted. “Come ter that, yer’d better keep yer mouf shut most o’ the day, an’ all.”
“So what do they take?” Monk persisted.
“Anyfink wot they can, o’ course!” Scuff snapped. “Why wouldn’t they? Take yer ’ole bleedin’ ship, if yer sloppy enough ter let ’em.”
“And what do they do with what they take?” Monk refused to be deterred. This was no time for delicate feelings.
“Sell it, o’ course.” Scuff looked at him narrowly to see if he could really