The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [73]
But it was too late. Gould had seen his shadow against the door lintel and jerked his head up. His face froze.
Monk walked forward slowly. “You had better leave,” he told Crow. “I’ll talk with Mr. Gould about the ivory and what should happen to it.”
Crow shrugged. His relief was almost palpable, and yet the darkness was still in his eyes. He looked at Monk as if he was trying to convey something he could not say in words. It might be a warning of some sort—but what? That they were watched? That Gould was armed? Time was short—there was no way back. Might there also be no way forward?
Help would only come from the river, when Scuff fetched Louvain.
“ ’Oo are yer?” Gould demanded, glaring at Monk. “I’ll sell yer one tusk each, but if yer think yer gonna rob me, yer stupider than yer got any right ter be an’ stay alive.” His eyes flickered from one to the other of them nervously.
“Who am I?” Monk was taking as long as he could. “I’m someone interested in ivory, especially that shipment from the Maude Idris.”
Gould’s face showed no added fear, no sudden change at the mention of what he must know was murder. Monk felt a stab of regret that it meant nothing to him; all he thought of was the money. Monk kept his back to the door, his ear straining to hear anything human among the rat feet, the dripping wood, and the slow subsidence of the fabric of the building into the mud of Jacob’s Island.
“ ’Ow d’yer know it’s from the Maude Idris?” Gould asked, his face puckered with suspicion.
“Get out!” Monk said again to Crow, hoping that now he would go and bring the nearest police, river or land.
“ ’Oo are yer tellin’ ter get out?” Gould said angrily. “Yer got money ter buy all this then, eh? An’ don’ think yer can rob me, ’cos yer can’t. I in’t alone ’ere. I in’t that daft!”
“Nor am I,” Monk said with a slight laugh he hoped was believable. “And I don’t want more than one tusk, and only that if the price is right.”
“Oh, yeah? An’ what price would that be, then?” Gould still had confidence.
“Twenty pounds,” Monk said rashly.
“Fifty!” Gould retorted with undisguised derision.
Monk pushed his hands into his pockets and stared at the pile of tusks thoughtfully, as if considering.
“Forty-five is the lowest I’ll go,” Gould offered.
Monk was disgusted, but he dared not show it. He thought of Hodge lying on the step above the hold, his head broken, his brain crushed.
“Twenty-five,” he said.
They argued back and forth, up a pound, down a pound. Monk realized that Crow had gone—please God to fetch help, though he owed Monk nothing, no friendship, no loyalty. But he prayed that Scuff had managed to get Louvain. Durban would not need to be asked more than once.
“It’s worth more than that!” Gould said angrily when Monk refused to go any higher, afraid of agreement and the end of the conversation. “I worked bleedin’ ’ard fer it!” Gould went on. “You any idea ’ow ’eavy them things are?”
“Too heavy for one man,” Monk responded. “Someone helped you. Where is he? Behind me? Or are you planning to cut him out of the deal?”
There was a faint movement in the passage ten or fifteen feet beyond the doorway. Now he wished Crow had not gone—although there was no guarantee of which side he would have been on. Perhaps a thieves’ quarrel was his best chance. “Were you the one that went into the hold of the Maude Idris?” he asked, his voice louder than he meant, and unsteady. He wanted to know who had killed Hodge then he would have no guilt in killing him in return, if he had to in order to escape with his own life. Where the hell was Louvain? He had had time to get there by now.
“Why d’you care?” Gould’s eyes narrowed.
“Were you?” Monk demanded, taking a step forward.
“Yeah! So wot of it?” Gould challenged.
“Then it was you who murdered Hodge!” Monk accused. “Perhaps your partner won