Read Online Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Perry
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looks real bad. Reckon ’e must ’ave swallowed ’alf the river. Stupid sod.” He said it with disgust, but also some pity.
Monk’s sense of pity was for the whole wasted life of a man who turned to smuggling, was convicted, and escaped from custody only to die of his own panic in the water. He was powerfully built. Monk had felt some of his strength when he had tried to rescue him. If he had not succeeded in knocking him out, the man would have drowned both of them. Oddly enough, very few men who worked on the water, either the river or at sea, could swim. Sailors who spent their whole lives on the oceans could not swim, nor could dockers, ferrymen, bargees, or for that matter, most of the River Police. The water was both life and death.
Was it courage that sustained them, or ignorance, or the blind belief in their own immortality?
Monk went over to the man still lying motionless on the wooden planks of the wharf. What was visible of his skin was white.
“Is he breathing?” he asked Bert.
Bert shook his head minutely. “Think so. ’Ard ter tell. Could be foxing, like. Any moment ’e’ll get up, ’it someone, an’ be off again.”
Monk kneeled down and touched the cold, wet skin. “I don’t think so,” he answered grimly. He moved his hand to the man’s neck. He felt what he thought was a faint pulse. “Hope that doctor comes soon…”
He looked up as a shadow crossed him and he was aware of another presence.
“Can I help?” the new man asked quietly. He was tall, remarkably handsome with a refined, aquiline face and dark eyes. “My name’s Aaron Clive. That’s my warehouse just behind you down the river.” He looked at the docker. “Bert, did you send for a doctor for this man?”
“Yes, Mr. Clive, sir. Local one, pretty close.”
Clive nodded, then turned back to Monk, waiting for him to introduce himself. There was a calm in him, an air of authority he held without effort.
Monk stood up. He was still horribly cold under his dry pea coat. “Monk,” he responded. “Commander of the Thames River Police. How do you do, Mr. Clive?”
“Who is he?” Clive asked, looking at the man at their feet.
“Escaped custody on his way to prison,” Monk replied. “The customs or policeman chasing him made it as far as the schooner over there.” He inclined his head without looking at the ship still at anchor.
“Stupid devil,” Clive responded. “Still, I suppose we’d better do what we can for him.” He turned to look downriver toward his own warehouse and saw a man and a lanky boy of fifteen or sixteen now running along the water’s edge toward them. The man carried a black bag. There was no need to comment; it was obviously the doctor Bert had had his colleague send for.
Monk followed his gaze and recognized the boy immediately. He would have known him anywhere. It was Scuff, the riverside orphan who had adopted him and Hester several years ago when he was thin, undersize, hungry, and streetwise, guessing himself to be eleven, which was probably an overestimate. Which meant that the lean, black-haired, and long-legged man wearing black was Crow, to whom Scuff had, at his own insistence, become apprenticed. The name Crow was both the slang term for doctor, and a reasonably accurate description of his appearance.
They arrived, breathless, and Crow instantly kneeled down beside the big man on the wharf. He acknowledged the others only with a brief look to make sure they were not hurt. With expert hands he felt for a pulse in the man’s neck, then under his nose to sense for any breath at all.
Then, with Scuff’s assistance, which was more practiced than Monk would have expected, they turned the man over on his face, with his head to one side, and began with considerable pressure to try to force the water out of his lungs. The strokes were even and rhythmic. A little water dribbled from his mouth. Crow stopped for a moment and looked at him hopefully. The eyelids fluttered. Crow
Monk’s sense of pity was for the whole wasted life of a man who turned to smuggling, was convicted, and escaped from custody only to die of his own panic in the water. He was powerfully built. Monk had felt some of his strength when he had tried to rescue him. If he had not succeeded in knocking him out, the man would have drowned both of them. Oddly enough, very few men who worked on the water, either the river or at sea, could swim. Sailors who spent their whole lives on the oceans could not swim, nor could dockers, ferrymen, bargees, or for that matter, most of the River Police. The water was both life and death.
Was it courage that sustained them, or ignorance, or the blind belief in their own immortality?
Monk went over to the man still lying motionless on the wooden planks of the wharf. What was visible of his skin was white.
“Is he breathing?” he asked Bert.
Bert shook his head minutely. “Think so. ’Ard ter tell. Could be foxing, like. Any moment ’e’ll get up, ’it someone, an’ be off again.”
Monk kneeled down and touched the cold, wet skin. “I don’t think so,” he answered grimly. He moved his hand to the man’s neck. He felt what he thought was a faint pulse. “Hope that doctor comes soon…”
He looked up as a shadow crossed him and he was aware of another presence.
“Can I help?” the new man asked quietly. He was tall, remarkably handsome with a refined, aquiline face and dark eyes. “My name’s Aaron Clive. That’s my warehouse just behind you down the river.” He looked at the docker. “Bert, did you send for a doctor for this man?”
“Yes, Mr. Clive, sir. Local one, pretty close.”
Clive nodded, then turned back to Monk, waiting for him to introduce himself. There was a calm in him, an air of authority he held without effort.
Monk stood up. He was still horribly cold under his dry pea coat. “Monk,” he responded. “Commander of the Thames River Police. How do you do, Mr. Clive?”
“Who is he?” Clive asked, looking at the man at their feet.
“Escaped custody on his way to prison,” Monk replied. “The customs or policeman chasing him made it as far as the schooner over there.” He inclined his head without looking at the ship still at anchor.
“Stupid devil,” Clive responded. “Still, I suppose we’d better do what we can for him.” He turned to look downriver toward his own warehouse and saw a man and a lanky boy of fifteen or sixteen now running along the water’s edge toward them. The man carried a black bag. There was no need to comment; it was obviously the doctor Bert had had his colleague send for.
Monk followed his gaze and recognized the boy immediately. He would have known him anywhere. It was Scuff, the riverside orphan who had adopted him and Hester several years ago when he was thin, undersize, hungry, and streetwise, guessing himself to be eleven, which was probably an overestimate. Which meant that the lean, black-haired, and long-legged man wearing black was Crow, to whom Scuff had, at his own insistence, become apprenticed. The name Crow was both the slang term for doctor, and a reasonably accurate description of his appearance.
They arrived, breathless, and Crow instantly kneeled down beside the big man on the wharf. He acknowledged the others only with a brief look to make sure they were not hurt. With expert hands he felt for a pulse in the man’s neck, then under his nose to sense for any breath at all.
Then, with Scuff’s assistance, which was more practiced than Monk would have expected, they turned the man over on his face, with his head to one side, and began with considerable pressure to try to force the water out of his lungs. The strokes were even and rhythmic. A little water dribbled from his mouth. Crow stopped for a moment and looked at him hopefully. The eyelids fluttered. Crow
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