The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [55]
He looked up to see a child about eight or nine years old, her hair tied up in a piece of string, her face grubby, her skirts down to the tops of her boots. But the fact that she had boots was unusual here. She must be Madge.
Behind her was a man of about thirty with sleek black hair almost to his shoulders, and a wide smile. He looked relentlessly cheerful.
“I’m the crow,” he announced, using the cant word for a doctor—or a thieves’ lookout. “Bin in a fight, ’ave yer? Let’s see it then. Can’t do nothin’ useful through all that cloth.” He regarded Monk’s jacket. “Pity, not a bad bit o’ stuff. Still, let’s ’ave it orff you.” He reached out to help Monk divest himself of it, taking it from him as Monk winced at moving his injured arm.
Madge turned and ran off, coming back seconds later with a bottle of brandy. She held on to it, cradling it in her arms like a doll until it should be needed.
The crow worked with some skill, pulling the cloth of the shirt away from the wound and screwing up his face as he peered at it.
Monk tried not to think about what training the man had, if any, or even what his charges might be. Perhaps he would have been wiser to have taken a hansom to Portpool Lane after all, whatever the time or the money concerned. In the end it would have been safer, and maybe cost no more. But it was too late now. The man was already reaching for the brandy and a cloth to clean away the blood.
The raw spirit stung so violently that Monk had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out.
“Sorry,” the doctor muttered with a wide smile, as if that would be reassuring. “Coulda bin worse.” He peered closely at the wound, which was still bleeding fairly freely. “Wot’ve yer got worth puttin’ up that kind o’ fight fer, eh?” He was making conversation to keep Monk’s mind off the pain, and possibly the blood as well.
Monk thought of Callandra’s watch, and was glad that he had put it away in the top drawer of the tallboy in the bedroom. He smiled back at the doctor, though it was rather more a baring of teeth than an expression of good humor. “Nothing,” he replied. “I made him angry.”
The doctor looked up and met his gaze, curiosity bright in his face. “Make an ’abit o’ that, do yer? I could make me livin’ orff you, an’ that’s a fact. O’ course that’s only if you din’t go an’ die on me. Don’ make nob’dy angry enough ter stick it in yer throat next time.” He was pressing hard to stop the bleeding as he spoke. “Put yer other ’and on that,” he ordered, directing Monk to a pad of cloth above the wound. “ ’old it.” He pulled out of his pocket a fine needle and a length of catgut. He washed them in the brandy, then told Monk to release the pad. Quickly and deftly, he stitched first the inside of the wound, then the skin on the outside. He surveyed the result with satisfaction before winding a bandage around Monk’s arm and tying the ends. “Yer’ll ’ave ter ’ave that changed termorrer, an’ every day till it’s ’ealed,” he said. “But it’ll do yer.”
“My wife will do it,” Monk replied. He was beginning to feel cold and a little shivery. “Thank you.”
“She don’t come all over faint at the sight o’ blood then?”
“She nursed in the Crimea,” Monk replied with a fierce welling up of pride. “She could amputate a leg if she had to.”
“Jeez! Not my bleedin’ leg!” the doctor said, but his eyes were wide with admiration. “Really? Yer ’avin’ me on!”
“No, I’m not. I’ve seen her do something like it on the battlefield in the American War.”
The doctor pulled a face. “Poor sods,” he said simply. “ ’Oo did yer get across, then? Yer must ’ave done it good ter make ’im do this to yer.”
“I don’t know. Some scuffle-hunter.”
The doctor squinted at him, studying him with interest. “Yer in’t from ’round ’ere.” It was a statement. “Down on yer luck, eh? Yer speak like yer come from up west, wi’ a plum in yer mouth.” He regarded Monk’s shirt, ignoring the torn and bloody sleeve. “Cardsharp, are yer? Ye in’t no receiver; yer in’t ’alf fly enough. Daft as a brush ter get sliced like that.”
“No,” Monk said stiffly. The wound was painful