The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [76]
Monk turned and led Durban back into the far building, going slowly, partly because he was uncertain of the way, but mostly because he wanted to be sure that Louvain had had sufficient time to move all the tusks and leave no trace for Durban to find. It also crossed his mind to wonder if now that he had his ivory back he would cheat on the payment, but Monk refused to dwell on that. If Louvain did, then Monk would open up the Hodge murder case in such a way that Durban would plague Louvain until he’d wish he had not paid Monk to retrieve the ivory in the beginning. But even as he thought that, he knew what a dangerous thing it would be to do. It would be a last resort, only to be adopted in order to save his own reputation; not for the money, but for all future work.
They were inside the long corridor again, and the gloom closed in on them. Monk walked slowly, picking his way by touch as well as sight, stepping carefully to avoid the rotted boards, the refuse, and the weeds which had grown up through the floor and died, their stems slimy.
He found the place where he had left the one tusk, recognizing it by the newly broken wood. He pointed to it, and allowed Durban to dislodge the ivory and pull it out.
“I see,” Durban said expressionlessly. “So who does it belong to then, when we’ve finished with it? I assume he’s going to press charges, apart from the murder of the watchman?”
“Clement Louvain,” Monk replied. He wished he could be more open with Durban. Every lie scraped at him like an abrasion to the skin, but he had left himself no room to maneuver.
At Durban’s instruction, Sergeant Orme hoisted the tusk onto his shoulder, and Durban turned to walk back again. Monk followed him, wanting to say something, anything to let Durban understand, and knowing he could not.
He found Louvain in his office after dark that evening. The room was warm. A fire was burning briskly in the grate under the ornate mantel, the light of the flames dancing on the polished wood of the desk. Louvain was standing by the window with his back to the somber view of the river. It was too dark to see anything but the yellow eyes of other windows and the riding lights of ships at anchor.
He was smiling. He had a decanter of brandy on the small table—and two glasses out, polished to burn like crystals in the reflected fire. A small leather purse sat beside them, its soft fabric distorted out of shape by the weight of coins inside.
“Sit down,” he invited as soon as Monk had closed the door. “Have some brandy. You’ve done well, Monk. I admit, I had doubts at times; I thought you weren’t up to it. But this is excellent. I have my ivory back, bar one tusk for evidence.” He nodded, smiling, and there was no curb or evasion in it. “You couldn’t have done better. If I get another problem I’ll send for you. As it is, I’ll recommend you to everyone I like.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “And I’ll hope my enemies never find you.” He poured a generous brandy for Monk and passed it to him, then one for himself. He raised the glass. “To your continued prosperity—and mine!” He drank with relish. “There’s an extra ten guineas in the purse for you. I like you, Monk. You’re a man like myself.”
It was a generous compliment, and honest.
“Thank you.” Monk picked up the purse and put it in his pocket. Quite apart from the money in it, it was a beautiful piece of leather. It was a generous gesture. He picked up his brandy and took a mouthful. It was exquisite, old, mellow, and full of warmth.
EIGHT
Squeaky Robinson staggered into the kitchen at Portpool Lane and heaved two baskets of shopping onto the table. His fingers were still bent from the weight of them.
“ ’ave yer got any idea ’ow ’eavy that lot is?” he demanded, looking at Hester indignantly.
“Of course I have,” she replied, barely turning from the stove, where she was straining beef tea. “I usually carry it myself. I just haven’t had time to go out lately.