The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [27]
About mid-afternoon, as his legs seemed frozen immobile and he realized he was shivering and all his muscles were locked, he saw a man walk up to another and accost him in an obvious bad temper. The first man answered him fiercely. Within moments they were shouting. Two of three bystanders joined in, taking one side or the other. The quarrel swayed backwards and forwards and looked like it was developing into an ugly incident. More than half a dozen men became involved, and the crowd swirled around a group of laborers unloading brassware.
Monk moved forward, mostly to stretch his limbs and get the feeling back in his feet. No one noticed him; they were all watching the quarrel. One of the men took a wild swing at another and connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards to knock over a third man. A fourth let fly his own punch, and then it was a melee. It was by chance that Monk saw two men detach themselves and with remarkable speed and skill pick up four of the brass ornaments and slip them sideways to a youth and an old woman among the bystanders, who promptly turned and walked away.
Monk left as well, before the police could come to part the combatants and restore peace. He could not afford to be caught on the outskirts of the crowd. Scuffle-hunting was a trade he had seen a hundred times before, and the brass would never be found. But as he walked back along the quayside towards Louvain’s offices, he resented the fact that he was in effect running away from the band of men he used to be one of—indeed, used to command. It was a bitter taste to swallow.
He was acutely mindful of the fact that he had to report to Louvain today, and he had nothing remotely useful to tell him. The search for evidence of barges unloading surreptitiously had been fruitless. He had no facts at all, and not a great deal of deduction. He walked slowly as he thought about it, the sounds of the riverside all about him, the clang of metal, creak of wood, hiss and slurp of water. The tide was turning, sweeping in again upriver, driving the mudlarks up the shore and lifting the ships higher at anchor. The dusk seemed later this afternoon because the sky was streaked with clear, pale strips to the west, and the water was all grays and silvers, dotted by riding lights burning yellow.
What had he deduced? That the ivory could have been taken by any of the thieves on the river, and almost certainly ended up with a receiver who would sell it on to . . . whom? Who would buy ivory? A dealer, to pass it on to jewelers, carvers of ornaments or chess pieces, makers of piano keys, any of a dozen artists or artisans.
That led him to the crux of the question: Was it a theft of opportunity or a planned crime with a particular receiver in mind? The hour it must have happened, according to Hodge’s death, indicated the former. If the latter, then Monk had very little chance of recovering the ivory, because it was almost certainly well beyond the river by now.
He crossed the street and walked along the narrow footpath as a cart rattled over the cobbles. The lamplighter was busy, tipping his long pole to touch the wicks and bring the gift of sudden vision and the illusion of warmth. There was no mist off the water, just the customary driving wind and the faint haze of smoke. To the east, where it was darkest and the river wound beyond Greenwich and the Estuary to the sea, a few stars glittered sharp and brittle.
Monk turned the corner into the wind again, pulled his coat