The Shifting Tide by Anne Perry Page A

and Monk was almost sure there was concern in his eyes.
    “I need to find some ivory,” Monk confided. He knew he was being rash telling this young mudlark information he could not afford to have spread everywhere, but the desperation was mounting inside him. His efforts of the morning had not so far led him to a single receiver. “Who’d sell it?”
    “Yer mean cheap?”
    “Of course I mean cheap!” Monk agreed witheringly. “If I don’t go to the Fat Man, who else?”
    Scuff considered for a few moments. “I could take yer ter Little Lil. She knows most o’ wot’s fer sale. But I can’t jus’ do it, like. I gotta make arrangements.”
    “How much?”
    Scuff was offended. “That in’t nice. I trust yer like a friend, an’ yer go an’ insult me!”
    “I’m sorry,” Monk apologized with genuine contrition. “I thought it might cost you something!”
    “I’ll ’ave another pie—termorrer, like. I can do a pie fer me lunch real nice. Come back ’ere at ’igh tide.”
    “Thank you. I shall be here.”
    Scuff nodded his satisfaction, and a moment later he was gone.
    Monk returned to his round of pawnshops, and saw at least three he was certain were receivers of one sort or another, but only of petty goods. He was followed for almost a mile by two youths he believed would have robbed him if they could have caught him alone in one of the narrow alleys, but he took care to see that they did not. He in turn took care to keep well away from the occasional police patrol that he saw. It riled him to do it, but he had no choice.
    By four o’clock he was back on the dockside again and found Scuff waiting for him. Wordlessly, the boy led the way along the wide street parallel with the river, up a flight of stone steps, and along an alley so tight Monk instinctively tucked his elbows in. The smells of old cooking, effluent, and soot almost choked him. They were twenty yards in from the river, and yet the damp seemed to be absorbed into the stones and breathed out again in a fog as the dusk settled and the few street lamps made yellow islands in the gloom. There was no sound but the steady dripping from the eaves.
    Finally they came to a doorway with a painted sign above it, and Scuff knocked. Monk noticed that his dirty, clenched fist was shaking, and realized with a stab of amazement that Scuff was afraid. Of what? Was he betraying Monk to be robbed? The thought of losing Callandra’s watch was suddenly acutely powerful. It made him so angry he would have lashed out at anyone who attempted such a thing. The gift was immeasurably precious, the token of a friendship that mattered more than any other, except Hester’s. It was also an emblem of success, elegance, the kind of man he wanted to be, who could face Oliver Rathbone as something like an equal. He stood stiffly, ready to fight.
    Or was Scuff afraid for himself? Was he doing something dangerous in order to cement his new friendship? Or perhaps as a matter of some obscure kind of honor to repay the man who had given him hot pies? Or even simply to keep his word?
    The door opened and a large woman stood just inside, her hands on her hips. Her red dress was brilliant in the light of the street lamp, and there was red paint on her mouth and cheeks.
    “I’nt yer a bit young fer this?” she said, eyeing Scuff wearily. “An’ if yer lookin’ ter sell yer sister, bring ’er an’ I’ll take a gander, but I in’t promisin’ nothin’.”
    “I in’t got no sister,” Scuff said immediately, but his voice rose into a squeak, and his face pinched with anger at himself. “An’ if I did ’ave . . .” he added, “it’d be Miss Lil ’erself as I’d wanna see. I got a gennelman as is lookin’ ter buy summink else.” He gestured to Monk, half obscured in the shadows behind him.
    The huge woman stared, screwing up her face in concentration.
    Monk stepped forward. He considered smiling at her and decided against it.
    “I’m looking for certain