The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [70]
Scuff was still rapt in the awe of the moment.
Monk did not want to, but he understood why Louvain was obsessed with the passion to own such a ship. It was far more than money or success—it was a kind of enchantment; it captured the glory of a dream. It spoke to a hunger for greater space and light, a width of freedom impossible in any other way.
He shook himself from those feelings with difficulty. He could not lose himself in them any longer. “I need to find someone to help me—for nothing,” he said aloud.
“I’ll ’elp yer.” Scuff drew his eyes away from the river reluctantly. Reality had governed him too long to allow self-indulgence. “Wot d’yer want?”
“Unfortunately, I need a grown-up.”
“I can do a lot o’ things yer wouldn’t believe. An’ I’m nearly eleven—I think.”
Monk judged his age at probably closer to nine, but he did not say so. “I need size as well as brains,” he said to soften the blow. “I was thinking a man called Crow might help. Do you know where I could find him—without anyone else knowing?”
“The doc? Yeah, I reckon. Yer won’t get ’im in no trouble, will yer?” Scuff asked anxiously. “I don’ think ’e’s no fighter.”
“I don’t want him to fight, just to offer to buy something.”
“I know where ’e lives.” Scuff appeared to be turning something over in his mind. Loyalties were conflicting with one another, new friends against old, habit against adventure, someone who healed him when he was sick as opposed to someone who shared food with him.
“Tell him I’m here, and I’d like to see him, urgently,” Monk requested. “Then we’ll have breakfast before we go. I’ll fetch us some ham sandwiches and tea. Be back in an hour. Do you know an hour?”
Scuff gave him a filthy look, then turned and ran off.
Fifty minutes later he was back, and a highly curious Crow was with him. He was dressed in a heavy jacket, his black hair hidden by a cap, and had mitts on his hands. Monk had the sandwiches, but was waiting to buy the tea fresh and hot. He gave Scuff the money and sent him off to fetch it.
Crow looked him up and down with interest, his eyes bright. “ ’Ow’s the arm?” he asked. “Yer never came back to get the bandage changed.”
“I had my wife do it,” Monk replied. “It’s fine, a bit stiff, that’s all.”
Crow pursed his lips. In the clear morning light, no softness in its glare, the tiny lines were visible on his skin. He looked closer to forty than the thirty Monk had assumed, but there was still a fire of enthusiasm in his expression that made him uniquely alive. “So what is it you want me for?” he asked.
Monk had been thinking how to broach the subject, and how much to tell him. He knew nothing about this man; he had made his decision on a mixture of instinct and desperation. Would he take caution as an insult, or as a sign of intelligence?
“I need someone to make an offer for me,” Monk replied, watching Crow’s expression. “I can’t do it myself. They wouldn’t believe me.”
Crow raised an eyebrow. “Should they?”
“No. What I’m looking for was stolen from a . . . an associate of mine.” He could not bring himself to call Louvain a friend, and he was not yet willing to let Crow know that he was a client. It raised too many other questions.
“Associate . . .” Crow turned the word over. “An’ yer want ter buy it back? Now, what kind o’ a thing would yer buy back if it was yers in the first place? An’ what kind o’ people do yer associate with that are happy ter buy back things that were stolen? An’ then why use yer, why not do it thesselves? Yer don’t do it for nothin’, do yer?”
Monk grinned. “No, I don’t. And no, I’m not going to buy it back. When I know where he’s put it, I’m going to take it, but he’s got it well hidden. I need you to make an offer to buy some of it so he’ll go there.”
Crow looked dubious. “Doesn’t ’e ’ave a receiver for it ’isself? If yer threat’nin’ ter cross up one o’ the receivers along ’ere, yer daft, an’ yer won’t last long.”
“I think it was stolen to deprive the owner of its use, not to sell on,” Monk explained reluctantly. “I just want you to make an