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Her hair was thick; indeed, it was very handsome, a dark brown with heavy wave, and when she was well it probably had a gloss to it. Her features were regular and pleasing. What kind of a man would have cast her off like this, simply because she was ill? It was certainly not chronic! If she recovered she would again be a healthy, vital woman; she was not beyond her mid-thirties.
    Was she some shipowner’s mistress whose circumstances made it impossible for him to give her the care she needed? Was he afraid she was going to die, and he would be unable to explain the presence of her body in his house?
    Or was she Louvain’s own mistress, and for some reason he was unwilling to admit that?
    Had the reputation of the clinic spread so far that even on the dockside Louvain had heard of it? Or had Monk mentioned something of it when accepting his new job?
    Perhaps none of that mattered now. She did not ask questions of the others in her care. Their recovery was all that concerned her. Why should this woman be different?
    Bessie came with the tea, and between them they propped Ruth up. A teaspoonful at a time, they managed to persuade her to take it. Finally they eased her down again, put the covers right up to her chin, and left her to sink into a sleep so profound she seemed close to unconsciousness.
    Outside the room Hester fished in her pocket and took out the money. She gave one of the sovereigns and the fourteen shillings to Bessie. “Go and get food, coal, carbolic, vinegar, brandy, and quinine,” she ordered. She added another sovereign. “Enough for the rest of the week. Thank God there isn’t rent to pay! I’ll give this to Squeaky. That should make him smile!” And with a lift of hope she followed down the corridor after Bessie.

 

THREE
    Monk left the house before daylight, so he was on the wharfside by sunrise just before eight o’clock. It was a blustery day with a sharp wind from the fast-flowing tide. The barges going slowly upstream were dark. Grays, silvers, and looming shadows were cut by the dense blackness of masts sweeping the sky lazily, barely in motion, yardarms lumpy with sails lashed to them. The hulls of the ships were indistinguishable except for size, no features clear, just a shape: no gun ports, no figureheads, no timbers.
    He had learned a little yesterday, but most of it only emphasized how different the river was from the city—and that he was a stranger with no old debts or favors to call on.
    People stole for many reasons, he realized. Where Louvain’s ivory was concerned, Monk assumed the thief could sell it for profit—or he had some personal quarrel with Louvain and took it merely to make him suffer, possibly knowing that he had already committed it to a particular buyer.
    Monk needed to know more about the receiving of stolen goods on the river, and even more than that: about Louvain himself, his friends, his enemies, his debtors and creditors, his rivals.
    He had realized yesterday that he could not spend time around the dockside without a reason that would occasion no comment, so he had come dressed as if he were a gentleman fallen on times hard enough to drive him to seek work. He had noticed several such men the day before, and studied their manner and speech well enough to imitate them. He had good boots to keep his feet dry, old trousers, and a heavy jacket against the wind. He had bought a secondhand cap, both to protect his head and to disguise his appearance, a woollen muffler, and the kind of mittens that allowed a working man to use his fingers.
    He found a cart selling hot tea and bought a mugful. He contrived to fall into conversation with a couple of other men who appeared to be hoping for a day’s work when unloading began shortly. He was careful not to let them think he had any plans to jump his place in their queue.
    “What’s the cargo today?” he asked, sipping the hot tea and feeling it slide down his throat and warm him inside.
    The larger of the two men