The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [58]
He stood up and went to the safe in the farther corner, unlocked it with his back to Monk, took out the money, and locked the safe again. He faced Monk and counted out the coins. His eyes were as hard as the winter wind off the Thames, but he did not repeat his warning.
“Thank you,” Monk accepted, turning on his heel and leaving.
Louvain was correct that there was no time to lose—also, that he would be far wiser to buy his watches on the south side of the river, perhaps as far down as Deptford, opposite the Isle of Dogs. He walked briskly back along the dockside, guarding his injured arm as well as he could. He should find a tailor to stitch up the gash in his coat, but he had no time to spare now. The cut was surprisingly small for the pain the knife had inflicted on his flesh.
It was growing dusk already, even though it was mid-afternoon. He had missed lunch, so he bought a couple of eel pies from a peddler on the curbside. Only when he bit into the first one did he realize how hungry he was. He stood on the embankment side near the stone steps down to the water, waiting until he saw a ferry that would take him across. It was half tide, and the smell of the mud was sour. It seemed to cling to skin, hair, cloth, and would probably be with him even when he left the river to go home.
The air was damp; the sound of water slapping against the stones was as rhythmic as the blood in a living thing. Faint veils of mist hung over the slick surface. The wind-ribbed shafts of silver were bright one moment, vanishing the next. Far to the south, along the curve of Limehouse Reach, a foghorn sounded, drifting like a cry of loss.
Monk shivered. As the wind dropped the mist would increase. He had no desire to be caught trying to cross back again if there was a real pea-souper. He must go as quickly as possible. Without reasoning the advantage to it, he walked to the edge of the steps and down the first two or three, parallel to the wall, railless, the black water swirling and slopping a dozen feet below him.
There was a boat twenty yards away, a man sitting idly at the oars. Monk cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to him.
The man half turned, saw where Monk was standing, and dug the oars in deep, pulling the boat towards him.
“Wanter cross?” he asked when he was close enough to be heard.
“Yes,” Monk shouted back.
The man drew the boat in, and Monk went down the rest of the steps. It was going to be less easy to board the boat with one stiff arm, but he had to move it in order to keep his balance. The man watched him with a certain sympathy, but he was obliged to keep both hands on his oars to control the boat.
“W’ere yer goin’?” he asked when Monk was seated and pulling his coat collar up around his ears.
“Just the other side,” Monk replied.
The man dug his oars into the water again and bent his back. He looked to be about thirty or so, with a bland, agreeable face, skin a little chapped by the weather, fair eyebrows, and a smear of freckles across his cheeks. He handled the boat with skill, as if doing so was second nature to him.
“Been on the river all your life?” Monk asked. A man like this might have seen something of use to him, as long as his questions were not so obvious as to make his purpose known.
“Most.” The man smiled, showing a broken front tooth. “But yer new ’ere. Least I never seen yer afore.”
“Not this stretch,” Monk prevaricated. “What’s your name?”
“Gould.”
“How late do you work?”
Gould shrugged. “Bad night, go ’ome early. Got a good job, stay late. Why? Yer wanter come back across late?”
“I might do. If I’m lucky I ought not to be long.” He must phrase his questions so as not to arouse suspicion; he could not afford word to spread that he was inquisitive. He had already