The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [60]
They were only a few yards from the shore now, and Monk saw the steep bank rise ahead of them and heard the water slapping on the steps. A moment later they were alongside, and with an expert turn of the oar, Gould bumped the boat gently against the stone so Monk could get out.
“Wot yer done ter yer arm, then?” he asked curiously, watching Monk wince as he fished in his pocket for money to pay his fare.
Monk raised his eyes to meet Gould’s. “Knife fight,” he said candidly, then he passed the money over, plus an extra sixpence. “Same for the way back, if you’re here in a couple of hours.”
Gould grinned. “Don’ slit nobody’s throat,” he said cheerfully.
Monk stepped out onto the stairs and began to climb upward, keeping his balance on the wet stone with difficulty. Once on the embankment, he walked to the nearest street lamp and looked around. He could not afford the time to explore; he needed to ask, and within a matter of minutes he found someone. Everybody was familiar with the need to pawn things now and then, and an enquiry for a pawnbroker was nothing to raise interest.
He was back at the stairs an hour and three-quarters later, and within ten minutes he saw Gould’s boat emerge from the mist and the now-total darkness of the river. He did not realize how relieved he was until he was seated in the boat again, rocking gently with its movement in the water, three gold watches in his pocket.
“Got wot yer wanted then, ’ave yer?” Gould asked him, dipping the oars and sending the boat out into the stream again. The mist closed around them and the shore disappeared. In a matter of moments the rest of the world vanished and there was nothing visible except Gould’s face opposite him and the outline of his body against the dark pall of the mist. Monk could hear the water, and now and again the boom of a foghorn, and smell the salt and mud of the fast-running tide. It was as if he and Gould were the only two men alive. If Gould robbed him and put him over the side, no one would ever know. It would be oblivion in every sense.
“I kept my word to someone,” he replied. He looked directly at Gould, staring at him with the hard, level iciness that had frozen constables, and even sergeants, when he had been in the police. It was the only weapon he had.
Gould might have nodded, but in the dark Monk could barely make out his figure. It was only the regular rhythmic movement of the boat that assured him the Gould was still rowing. For several moments they moved in silence except for the water, and far away the foghorns.
But Gould knew the river; Monk should not waste the opportunity to learn from him. “Are there boats on the water all night long, even shortly before dawn?” he asked.
Gould hesitated a moment or two before answering. “There’s always thieves on the lookout for a chance,” he replied. “But ’less yer know wot yer doin’, an’ can look arter yerself, better be in yer bed that hour.”
“How do you know that?” Monk said quickly.
Gould chuckled deep in his throat. “I ’eard,” he answered, but the laughter in his voice made the truth obvious.
“Thieves around? Dangerous ones,” Monk said thoughtfully.
Gould was still amused by Monk’s naÏveté.
“In their own boats, or borrowed?” Monk pursued. “Or stolen for the night? Anybody ever steal your boat?”
“Nah!” Gould was indignant. It was an insult to his ability and his worthiness on the river.
“How would you know if somebody’d had your boat at, say . . . three or four o’clock in the morning?” Monk said dubiously.
“I’d know if somebody’d ’ad me boat any time,” Gould said with complete confidence. “I leave it tied wi’ me own kind o’ knot, but at four in the mornin’ I’d be in it meself.”
“Would you.” It was an acknowledgment more than a question. “Every morning?”
“Yeah—jus’ about. Why? Some mornin’ yer got special, like?”
Monk knew he had gone far enough.