Execution Dock

chapter Five
Monk left home and walked down towards the ferry landing. He was also weighed down with anxiety, and even more with guilt. The view across the river was bright and busy. Heavily laden barges passed in both directions, dark against the sun on the water. All he could think of was that Phillips was free, not only from prison and execution, but from ever being charged again with the murder of Fig. No matter what proof Monk might find now, it could not be used against him. How could failure be more complete?

He crossed Rotherhithe Street and went down the narrow alley to Princes Stairs. The smells of salt and mud were heavy in the air. It was not yet nine in the morning, but at this time of the year the sun had been up for hours, and it was already hot. There was barely any wind to lift the heaviness, and he could hear the shouts of lightermen and stevedores from two hundred yards away. It was high tide; the water was slack and oily-looking. There was not enough current to move the ships at anchor, and the tangles of masts and rigging were motionless against the sky.

He had had the chance to kill Phillips, and it was his own arrogance that had made him so certain he had already won that he had let it go in order to vindicate Durban. And how badly he had wanted to be the one to do this so that all his men would know, and respect him for it. They would see that he had paid his debt to Durban, and earned some kind of right to take his place, instead of merely being given it.

Except, of course, that he had not. Instead he had guaranteed that Phillips was free from paying the price, not just now but forever. Free to go back to his boat with its children, who would be more than ever imprisoned in their wretched lives.

A ferry bumped against the steps and the ferryman called up, breaking Monk's train of thought.

Monk brought himself to attention and went down. He did not need to give directions; he made this journey every day, and most of the men knew him. A nod good morning was all he needed to give. Probably half the river knew the result of the trial. They might pity him for it, but they would despise him too. Phillips had made a fool of him. Or Rathbone had. Or more honestly, he had made a fool of himself. If he had been lucky, he would have gotten away with it, but it would not have altered the fact that he had taken too much on trust, allowed his emotions to cloud his intellect, and as a result made careless mistakes. There was nothing for him to say to the ferryman. There was not really anything to say to anyone, until he could rescue at least something from the ashes.

He paid his fare, got out at the other side at Wapping New Stairs, and climbed up the short way to the top.

There was a boy standing waiting. He was thin and wiry, his face keen. He had a cap jammed on his head, hiding most of his hair. His shirt was ragged and missing several buttons, and his trouser legs were uneven, which complemented his boots, one brown and one black. He appeared to be about ten or eleven. He was the mudlark Scuff, one of the boys who salvaged small items of value from the river to sell. He had helped Monk before, and chose to continue to help him with his knowledge of the dockside and its ways.

"Sorry sight you are," he said to Monk disparagingly. "Got a face like a burst boot. S'pose you got a right. Made a pig's ear of it, an' all." The boy fell into step behind him as Monk turned to walk along the dockside towards the police station. The boy sniffed. "But yer gonna do summink, in't yer?" There was a note of anxiety in his voice that was close to real fear.

Monk stopped. The ferryman was not worth the effort of pretense, but Scuff deserved both honesty and the courage not to disappoint him. He looked at the boy and saw the vulnerability bright in his eyes.

"Yes, of course I'm going to do something," he said firmly. "I just need to think very hard before I do it, so that I get it right-this time."

Scuff shook his head, drawing his breath in through his teeth, but some of the fear in him eased. "Yer gotta be careful, Mr. Monk. Yer may 'ave been the cat's whiskers wi' villains on shore, but yer in't much use wi' river folk. Though come ter think on it, that lawyer's sharp, all right. Pretty as new paint, 'e is, all striped trousers and shiny shoes." For a moment his face was full of sympathy. "For all that 'e's bent as a dog's ' ind leg." He kept pace with Monk across the stones.

"He's not bent," Monk corrected him. "It's his job to get people off a charge, if he can. It's my fault that I made it possible for him."

Scuff was skeptical. "Someone twistin' 'is arm ter do it, then?"

"Possibly. It might just be that he felt that the principle of the law required that even the worst of us deserve a fair hearing."

Scuff pulled his face into an expression of deep disgust. "The worst of us deserves ter dance on the end of a rope, an' if yer don't know that, then yer in't fit ter be out o' the 'ouse by yerself."

"It doesn't make any difference, Scuff," Monk told him miserably. "Phillips is free, and it's up to me to clear up the mess and nail him for something else."

"I'll 'elp yer," Scuff said immediately. "Yer need me."

"I'd like your help, but I don't need it," Monk said as gently as he could. "I have no very clear idea yet where to begin, except by going over what I already know and seeing where the holes are, then pursuing it until I can at least nail him on pornography or extortion. It's dangerous, and I don't want to risk you getting hurt."

Scuff thought about it for a moment or two. He was trying to keep up with Monk, but his legs were not long enough, and every third or fourth stride he had to put in an extra little skip.

"I in't afraid," he said at length. "Leastways not enough ter stop me."

Monk halted and Scuff halted half a step later.

"I don't doubt your courage," Monk said clearly, meeting Scuffs eyes. "In fact, if you had a trifle less you might be safer."

"Yer want me ter be scaredy-cat?" Scuff asked incredulously.

Monk made a quick decision. "If it will keep you out of the hands of men like Phillips, yes I do."

Scuff stood still on the spot, the stubbornness in his face slowly revealing the hurt. "Yer think I in't no use, don't yer?" he asked, sniffing very slightly.

Monk was furious with himself for having put them both into such a position. Now he was caught between denying the fact that he cared about the boy, which would be a wounding lie whose damage he might never undo, or admitting that his decision was based on emotion rather than reason. Or the alternative, perhaps crueler still, was to suggest that he really did think Scuff was no use. That one he could not even consider.

He started to walk again.

"I think you're a lot of use," he said quietly, falling back a bit to keep step with the boy, rather than letting him skip to keep up. "For knowledge and brains, not for fighting, and this could become very unpleasant. If I have to get out very quickly, I don't want to have to stop to make sure you are all right. Have you ever heard the expression, 'hostage to fortune'?"

"No, I in't," Scuff said dubiously, but there was a spark of hope in his eyes.

"It means caring enough about something that you can't afford to lose it, so people can make you do what they want," Monk explained. "Because you think it's worth a lot, or it's bad that it should be destroyed," he added, in case Scuff should be embarrassed.

Scuff turned the idea over in his mind, examining it. "Oh," he said at last. "So you wouldn't want Phillips ter drown me, take a fr'instance, or cut me throat, like? So you might leave 'im alone. But if it don't bother yer, yer'd tell 'im ter get on with it, an' yer'd nab 'im?"

"Something like that," Monk agreed, thinking that he had made his point rather well.

"I see." Scuff nodded very slightly. "Well, if we get someone as is daft enough ter get caught, we'll 'ave ter make sure it's someone we don't care about... not too much. I s'pose Mrs. Monk is one o' them 'ostages, in't she? Yer'd let pretty well the devil 'isself go ter save 'er, wouldn't yer?"

There was no way out of the conclusion. "Yes," he admitted. "That's why she's staying away from Phillips, and the bad places on the river. I'm going there, and-before you argue anymore-you aren't."

"Yer can mebbe tell 'er wot ter do, 'cause she's a woman," Scuff observed, stopping, and standing very stiffly, feet slightly apart. "I in't." He took a deep breath. "An' you in't me pa. But I'll look after yer, anyway. Where are yer gonna start? I know-wi' fishin Fig's body out o' the river. We better get on wi' it. Don just stand there like yer grow-in' out o' the ground." And without waiting for a reply, he started to walk nonchalantly towards the edge of the embankment and the nearest steps where they might catch a ferry. He did not look back over his shoulder to see if Monk was following him.

Monk was irritated at being outmaneuvered, and yet underneath the surface, aware that Scuff was also trying to stay with him, without sacrificing his own dignity. He wanted desperately to belong, and he thought his only way was to be of use. What was the risk, really, compared with those he ran every day living on the river edge, cadging his food and shelter by picking up bits of coal or dropped brass screws from the mud when the tide went down?

He caught up with Scuff. "All right," he said, mock grudgingly. "You might help me find the lighterman. You're right; that's where I was going to start."

"'Course," Scuff said casually, as if he did not really care, but he shrugged his shoulders and then walked a little taller, avoiding Monk's eyes. He did not wish to be read, at this particular moment; he was too vulnerable. "We can get a ferry down a bit," he added. "Find the lightermen 'avin' a cup o' tea, like as not, at this hour."

Monk was uncertain whether to thank him. He decided against it; it might sound a little patronizing. "Hope so," he said instead. "I could do with one too."

Scuff grimaced. Monk knew he had great hopes of being given one himself, if he were lucky; possibly even a sandwich. It was unlikely that he had eaten today.

They took the ferry downstream, as suggested, and asked specifically after the lighterman they wanted. It took them more than an hour to find him, because he was already at work, first loading and then getting his lighter out into the traffic. They made some of their inquiries of a group of men standing around a brazier with boiling water, and Monk purchased a mug of tea and a thick slice of bread. He offered the same to Scuff, who thought about it as long as he dared, then said with practiced indifference that he didn't mind if he did. All the while he watched Monk out of the corner of his eye to make sure he did not miss his chance.

Monk affected not to notice.

"I already told yer," the lighterman said wearily. "Yer let the bastard orff! There in't no more I can say!"

They were sitting on the canvas bales as the flat-bottomed craft made its slow, heavy way downstream towards Greenwich.

"I know what you said," Monk assured him. "And all the evidence bears it out. But we didn't ask you what Mr. Durban said, or if he asked you anything that you didn't mention before."

The lighterman screwed up his face in thought, moving his eyes as if looking at the hard, glittering reflections off the water. "'E were upset," he replied slowly. "All bent over 'isself like someone'd 'it 'im in the belly. Tell yer the truth, I liked 'im better fer it."

So did Monk, but it was not the answer he needed. He had already asked Orme these questions, but Orme was so defensive of Durban that his answers were no longer useful; they had become simply a repetition that Durban had done the right thing. Monk was hoping the lighterman would remember some other information that Durban had let slip, some word, or even omission, that might lead in a new direction. He was fumbling, and he knew it. The lighterman's face showed his disappointment. He had expected more, and he had not received it. He had endangered himself to testify, and Monk had let him down.

"Are you afraid of Phillips?" Monk asked suddenly.

The lighterman was caught off guard. "No!" he said indignantly. "Why should I be? I never said he done nothin'. In't got no cause ter come after me."

"And if he had cause, would he?" Monk asked, trying to keep all expression out of his voice.

The lighterman stared at him. "Wot's the matter with yer? Yer simple, or summink? 'E'd bloody carve out me guts an' 'ang ' em on Execution Dock ter dry in the wind!"

Monk continued to look skeptical.

Scuff looked from Monk to the lighterman and back again, waiting, his eyes wide.

"An' yer won't catch 'im fer it neither," the lighterman added. "Not that you bleedin' lot could catch a cold soppin' wet in winter. Mr. Durban knew wot 'e were about. Reckon if 'e'd 'a lived, 'e'd a swung the bastard by 'is neck, all right."

Monk felt the words land like a blow, the harder because it was the one case Durban had not solved, and he did not want to admit it. But there was a thread in what the lighterman had said that was worth following. "So he was still working on it?" he asked.

The lighterman looked at him witheringly.

"'Course 'e were. I reckon 'e'd never 'ave given up." He squinted a little in the hard light, and leaned very slightly on his long oar to steer a few degrees to port.

"What is there to follow?" Monk found the words hard to say, placing himself so vulnerably, as if he were asking a bargee how to do his own job.

The lighterman shrugged. "Ow the 'ell do I know? 'E said sum-mink about money, an' making them fat bastards pay for their pleasures twice over. But I dunno wot 'e meant."

"Extortion," Monk replied.

"Yeah? Well, you in't gonna get any o' them exactly ter complain, now are yer?" the lighterman sneered.

Monk kept his voice level and his face as expressionless as he could. "Unlikely," he agreed. "At least not to me."

The lighterman turned slowly from his position holding the oar. He was a lean, angular man, but the movement was unconsciously graceful. For a moment surprise caught him off guard. "Yer not so daft, are yer! Gawd 'elp yer if 'e catches yer is all I can say."

Monk could wrest no more out of him, and twenty minutes later he and Scuff were back on the dockside.

"Yer gonna set 'is customers agin' 'im?" Scuff said in awe. "Ow yer gonna do that?" He looked worried.

"I'm not sure what I'm going to do," Monk answered, starting to walk along the dockside. They were on the north bank, back near the Wapping Police Station. "For now I'll settle for learning a great deal more about him."

"If yer can prove for sure that 'e killed Fig, will they 'ang 'im?" Scuff asked hopefully.

"No." Monk kept his pace even, though he was not yet certain where he was going. He did not want Scuff to realize that, although he was beginning to appreciate that Scuff was a far sharper judge of character than he had previously given him credit for. It was disconcerting to be read so well by an eleven-year-old. "No," he said again. "He's been found not guilty. We can't try him again, no matter what we find. In fact, even if he confessed, there'd still be nothing we could do."

Scuff was silent. He turned towards Monk, looking him up and down, his lips tight.

Monk was unpleasantly aware that Scuff was being tactful. He was touched by it, and at the same time he was hurt. Scuff was sorry for him, because he had made a mistake he did not know how to mend. This was a far cry from the brilliant, angry man he had been in the main Metropolitan Police onshore, where criminals and slipshod police alike were frightened of him.

"So we gotta get 'im for summink else, then," Scuff deduced. "Wot like? Thievin'? Forgin'? 'E don't do that, far as I know. Sellin' stuff wot was nicked? 'E don't do that neither. An' 'e don't smuggle nothin' so 'e don't pay the revenue men be'ind 'is back, like." He screwed up his face in an unspoken question.

"I don't know," Monk said frankly. "That's what I need to find out. He does lots of things. Maybe Fig isn't the only boy he's killed, but I need something I can prove."

Scuff grunted in sympathy and walked beside Monk, trying very hard to keep in step with him. Monk wondered whether to shorten his stride. He decided not to; he did not want Scuff to know that he had noticed.

The police surgeon was busy and short-tempered. He met them in one of the stone-floored and utilitarian outer rooms of the mortuary. He had just finished an autopsy and his rolled-up sleeves were still splashed with blood.

"Made a mess of it, didn't you," he said bitterly. It was an accusation, not a question. He glanced at Scuff once, then disregarded him. "If you expect me to rescue you, or excuse you, for that matter, then you're wasting your time."

Scuff let out a wail of fury, and stifled it immediately, terrified Monk would make him go away, and then he would be no use at all. He stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his odd boots, and glaring at the surgeon.

Monk controlled his own temper with difficulty, only because his need to find some new charge against Phillips was greater than his impulse for self-defense. "You deal with most of the bodies taken out of this stretch of the river," he replied, his voice tight. "Figgis can't have been the only boy of that age and general type. I'd like to hear about the others."

"You wouldn't," the surgeon contradicted him. "Especially not in front of this one." He indicated Scuff briefly. "Won't give you anything useful, anyway. If we could've tied any of them to Jericho Phillips, don't you think we would have?" His dark face was creased with an inner pain that perhaps he did not realize showed so clearly.

Monk's anger vanished. Suddenly they had everything that mattered in common. The retort that apparently the surgeon had been no cleverer than anyone else died on his tongue.

"I want to get him for anything I can," he said quietly. "Loitering with intent or being a public nuisance, if it would put him away long enough to start on the rest."

"I want to see him hang for what he does to these boys," the surgeon replied. His voice shook very slightly.

"So do I, but I'll settle for what I can get," Monk replied.

The surgeon looked up at him, his eyes hard, then very slowly the disgust seeped out of him and he relaxed.

Scuff stopped fidgeting.

"I've had a few boys I think were his," the surgeon said. "And if I could have proved it I would have. One he acknowledged. Police asked him, and he came in here, brass-faced as the Lord Mayor, and said he knew the boy. Said he'd taken him in, but he'd run away. He knew I couldn't prove anything different. I'd have happily dissected him alive, and he knew it. He enjoyed looking at me and seeing me know that I couldn't." He winced. "But I'd have taken you apart when that verdict came in. You so bloody nearly had him! I've no right. I didn't get him myself."

"How sure are you that he's done it before?" Monk asked. "I mean sure, not just instinct."

"Absolutely, but I can't prove a damn thing. If you can get him, I'll be in your debt for life, and I'll pay it. I don't care whether he's on the end of a rope or knifed to death by one of his rivals. Just take him off our river." For a moment it was a plea, the urgency in him undisguised. Then he hid it again, rolling up his sleeves even higher and turning away. "All I can tell you is that he's fond of torturing them with burning cigars, but you probably know that. And when he finishes them it's with a knife." His body was rigid and he kept his back to them. "Now get out of here and do something bloody useful!" He stalked away, leaving them alone in the damp room with its smells of carbolic and death.

Outside, Monk breathed in the air deeply. Scuff said nothing, looking away from him. Perhaps he was frightened at last, not just aware of dangers that he must live with every day, but of something so large and so dark it stripped away all bravado and pretense. His fear was out of his control, and he did not want Monk to see it.

They walked side by side near the edge of the water, both lost in their own thoughts on the reality of death, and its pedestrian, physical immediacy. They were barely aware of the slap of the tide on the wall of the steps, and the shouts of the lightermen and stevedores a hundred yards away unloading a schooner from the Indies.

"This is worse than I thought," Monk said after a while. He stopped walking and looked out over the water. He must be careful how he phrased it or Scuff would know he was being protected, and would resent it. "I don't like to involve you, because it's dangerous," he went on. "But I don't think Orme and I can do it without your help. There are boys who will trust you who won't even speak to us, unless you're there to persuade them."

Scuffs narrow shoulders were tight, as if he were waiting to be struck; it was his only outward sign of fear. Now he stopped, hands in his pockets, and turned slowly to face Monk. His eyes were dark, hollow, and embarrassed by what he saw as his own weakness. "Yeah?" He wanted desperately to meet expectations.

"I think we'll need you all the time, to help with the questioning, until we get him," Monk said casually, starting to walk again. "It would be a sacrifice, I know. But we'd find you a proper place to sleep, where you could shut the door and be alone. And there'd be food, of course."

Scuff was too startled to move. He stood rooted to the spot. "Food?" he repeated.

Monk stopped and turned back. "Well, I can't come looking for you every day. I haven't time."

Suddenly Scuff understood. Joy filled his face, then very quickly he sobered up to a proper dignity. "I reckon I could," he said generously. "Just until yer get 'im, like."

"Thank you," Monk replied, almost certain that Hester would see the necessity of keeping Scuff safe as long as Jericho Phillips was free, however long that might be. "Well, come on then! The first boy we need to find is the one who identified Fig from Durban 's drawings. He might know something else, if we ask him the right questions."

"Yeah," Scuff said, as if he thoroughly agreed. "'E might, an' all."

However, it took them the rest of the day to find the boy, and he was clearly very unhappy about speaking with Monk about anything. They stood where the narrow entrance of an alley opened into the Shadwell Dock. The tide was ebbing and slapping over the stairs a few yards away, leaving the higher steps slimy as it retreated. There was a large ship in the New Basin behind them, its spars and yards black against the fading sky.

"I dunno nothin' more," the boy said urgently. "I told yer 'oo 'e were, same like I told Mr. Durban. I dunno 'oo done 'im, an I can't 'elp yer."

"'E won't leave yer alone 'til yer tell 'im." Scuff gestured towards Monk. "So yer might as well get on wif it. It don't do ter be seen talkin ter the cops, if yer can 'elp it." He gave a philosophical shrug. "It's a bit late for me, but you could save yerself."

The boy gave him a filthy look.

Scuff was impervious. "Wot else did Mr. Durban ask yer?" He looked at Monk, then back at the boy. "Yer don't want 'im as an enemy, believe me. If yer like, 'e'll pretend 'e never 'eard of yer."

The boy knew when to give up. "'E were askin' fer a woman called Mary Webster, Walker... Webber! Summink like that," he said. "Like a dog wif a bone, 'e were. Where was she? 'Ad I seen 'er? 'Ad anybody said anything, even 'er name? I told 'im I'd never 'eard of 'er, but 'e wouldn't leave it. I told 'im I'd ask me sister, just ter shut 'im up, like. 'E said as 'e'd be back. This Mary whatever were 'bout 'is age, 'e said, but 'e dint know much more about 'er 'n that."

Scuff looked across at Monk.

There was a pleasure boat passing down the river, hurdy-gurdy music playing. The sound drifted on the air, loud and then soft, loud and then soft, as the wind carried it.

"So did you ask your sister?" Monk said, curious to know what Durban was looking for. There had been no mention of a middle-aged woman before.

"Not the first time," the boy answered, sucking in his breath. "But Mr. Durban come back an' 'e wouldn't let it go. I seen pit bull terriers as couldn't 'ang on to a thing and worry it like 'e did. So I told 'im ter ask Biddie 'isself, an' told 'im where ter find 'er."

"Where can we find Biddie?"

The boy rolled his eyes, but he told him.

Monk had no desire to take Scuff with him to a brothel, but the alternative was to leave him alone. He could have told him to go to Paradise Place, but it would be bitterly unfair to oblige him to explain to Hester that he had come to stay. And anyway, she might not even be there if they had had some crisis at Portpool Lane. There was nothing to do but allow him to come.

It was completely dark, even on this clear summer night, by the time they found Biddie. She had apparently been plying her trade earlier in the evening, but was now cheerfully available to take a glass of ale and merely talk, for a couple of shillings. She was a plain girl, but buxomly built and relatively clean in a blue dress disturbingly low cut, which did not bother Scuff as much as Monk thought it should have.

"Yeah, Mary Webber," Biddie said, nodding, keeping both hands around her glass as if she feared having it taken from her. "Lookin' fer 'er summink fierce, 'e were. I kep' tellin' 'im I dint know no Mary Webber, which I din't! I never 'eard of 'er." She managed to look aggrieved, even while wiping the foam off her upper lip. "'E got a temper on 'im, that one. Right paddy 'e were in. Clocked Mr. 'Opkins summink awful. 'It 'im on the side o' the 'ead an' near sent 'im inter the middle o' next week. An 'e's a nasty sod, too, but 'e never 'eard o' Mary Webber no more'n I 'ad."

Monk felt an acute sense of dismay. It sounded nothing like the man he had known. "What did he look like?" he asked. Perhaps this was a case of mistaken identity.

Biddie had a good eye for faces. Perhaps it was part of her trade. It might be the way to remember certain people it would be advisable to avoid. "'Bout your 'eight, bit less, but more solid. Nice-lookin', specially fer a cop. Nice eyes, dark they were. Grayish 'air, wi' sort o' little waves in it. Walked easy, but a bit like mebbe 'e'd once been a sailor."

That was Durban. Monk swallowed. "Did he say why he wanted to find Mary Webber?"

A couple wove their way past them, talking loudly and bumping into people.

"No, an' I din't ask," Biddie said vehemently. "I 'eard 'e went ter old Jetsam, the pawnbroker, an' gave 'im an 'ell of a time. Duffed 'im up summink rotten. Still got the scars, 'e 'as. Not that 'e were ever much ter look at, but 'is own ma wouldn't take ter 'im now." She finished her ale with relish. "Wouldn't mind if yer got me another," she remarked.

Monk dispatched Scuff with the empty glass and threepence. He took a breath. There was no escaping now, whatever the truth was.

"Do you mean that Durban beat the pawnbroker?" She must be lying. Why would he believe her, rather than everything he knew of Durban? And yet he could not leave it alone. In his own past people had been frightened of him. Was he violent too? It was so easy. "Who told you that?" he asked.

"I saw 'im," she said simply. "Told yer. 'Orrible 'e looked."

"But how do you know it was Durban who struck him, or that it was deliberate? Perhaps Jetsam hit him first?"

She gave him a look of incredulity. "Ol' Jetsam? Get on wi' yer. Jetsam's as big a coward as ever were born. 'E wouldn't go 'ittin' a cop even if 'e were soused as an 'erring. Lie 'is way out of a paper bag, cheat 'is own mother out o' sixpence, but 'e wouldn't never 'it nobody face-ter-face."

Monk's stomach clenched and he felt a coldness through him. "Why would Durban hit him?"

"Probably lost 'is temper 'cause Jetsam lied ter 'im," she answered reasonably.

"If Jetsam is that kind of a liar, how do you know it wasn't some customer he cheated who hit him?"

Scuff came back with the ale and gave it to Biddie, and the change to Monk, who thanked him.

"Look," Biddie said patiently. "Yer been fair ter me. I in't gonna lie to yer. The local cop on the beat 'ad ter pull 'em apart, an' 'e were gonna charge Durban, 'cause ol' Jetsam got more'n the worst of it. 'E were near 'avin' 'is 'ead stove in. I reckon Durban 'd 'ave been charged if 'e 'adn't bin a cop 'isself, an' put the twist on."

"That shouldn't make any difference," Monk said, then immediately knew it was a mistake. He saw the contempt in her eyes. He knew what she was going to say before she started, and yet the words still hurt like a fresh cut.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah? Well, the cop wot caught 'im were just the local constable, and Durban were a commander in the River Police. Yer can't be daft enough not ter work that out fer yerself Constable might 'a grumbled, but 'e din't do nothing, nor Jetsam neither. If any of us 'ad known 'oo Mary Webber were, we'd 'a told 'im."

Monk did not pursue it any further. It was too late today to see if he could substantiate any of it. He walked in silence with Scuff to the nearest steps where there was a light and he could hire a ferry to take them back across the river to Rotherhithe. It was slack tide now and the long stretch of mud and stones gleamed in the yellow glare from the lamps. In its own way it was both sinister and beautiful. The slick surface of the river barely moved. Even the ships at anchor lay still, their spars lumpy with furled sails. The blur of smoke hung above some still-burning factory chimney where industry never slept.

Did he believe Biddie? Who was Mary Webber? Nothing he had learned about Durban had made any mention of a woman. Why such passion? Who was she that Durban would so lose control of himself, and of all the beliefs he had so clearly lived by, that he would attack a man to beat information out of him? And perhaps even worse, he had apparently then coerced a junior officer into ignoring his duty and overlooking the whole episode!

Monk could not imagine Durban doing either of these things. But then, how much had he really known him? He had liked him. They had shared food, warmth, and exhaustion of body and mind in the relentless search to find men who could unknowingly destroy half the world. They had found them. He still relived the horror of it in dreams.

But in the end it had caught up with Durban himself. He had gone nobly, willingly, to death by fire in order to save others, and take the threat with him. And he had gone alone, refusing to allow Monk to share his fate. He had physically thrown him off the stern of the ship into the boiling wake rather than let him also perish, and had not had time to save himself before the magazines exploded.

What kind of friendship or loyalty can you give to someone who is so supremely brave, and yet also desperately flawed? What do you owe to promises made, or understood? What if the other person is gone, and no more explanations can be asked for or given, and still you have to act, and believe something?

Scuff was watching him, waiting to see what he did because of this latest revelation, and Monk was intensely aware of it.

"Mebbe she could 'ave put Phillips away." Scuff said hopefully. "D'yer think that were why 'e were after 'er? Or mebbe Phillips did 'er in too, d'yer think? An' that's why nobody found 'er?"

Monk had to answer him. "No, not really."

"She might 'ave." Scuff raised his voice to sound more positive, even trying to be cheerful. Monk knew it was for his sake. "She's 'iding 'cause she's scared stiff o' Phillips. She could 'ave seen wot 'appened. Mebbe she's somebody's ma wot Phillips done."

"Perhaps," Monk conceded, although he did not believe it. " Durban never mentioned her in his notes, and surely he would have, if that's who she was."

Scuff thought about that for quite a long time. They had hailed a ferry and were more than halfway across the river, weaving in and out of the great ships at anchor, before he found a solution.

"Mebbe that were to keep 'er safe. If she saw summink Phillips'd kill 'er fer. An' 'e would," he suggested.

Hank could not see Scuffs face in the darkness of the river, but he could see the hunch of his narrow shoulders and the way he held himself when he was hurt.

The oars splashed in and out. The ferryman had a good rhythm, probably from years of practice.

"An' like you said," Scuff replied unhappily, "there's gentlemen in it up ter their necks. Gentlemen wot got enough money ter pay yer friend the lawyer wot spoke up fer Phillips. And yer don't know 'oo they are, 'cause they don't exactly go round tellin people they go in fer wot 'e does."

"You're right, Scuff," Monk said decisively. "I should have thought of that for myself. Of course you are."

He could see Scuffs grin, even in the dark.

When a bed had been made up for Scuff and he was sound asleep in it, Hester and Monk sat in the kitchen over a very late supper-really no more than two large pieces of fruitcake and two cups of tea.

"I can't let him go back until Phillips is arrested and locked up," he said anxiously, watching her face.

"It's as much my responsibility as yours," she answered. Then she smiled. "Of course we can't. And that might be quite a while, so you had better get him some clean clothes. I'm much too busy to wash these every night, even supposing I could dry them. You might even get a pair of boots that fit him-and really are a pair."

She wanted to talk about something that was worrying her. He could see it in her eyes, in a kind of hesitation, as though she were still looking for a way to avoid saying it at all.

He told her about hearing of Mary Webber, but not of Durban 's violence towards the pawnbroker, or his use of rank to prevent the constable from charging him. He realized with surprise that it was not Hester he was protecting-it was Durban. Because he himself cared so intensely what Hester thought of him, he was imagining that Durban would too.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked him, puzzled and a little off balance.

"I don't know," he admitted. "At Scuffs help, I suppose."

Suddenly she was profoundly serious.

"Be careful, William," she warned. "Please? I know he's looked after himself for years, but he's only a child. Lots of people die on the river..." She left the rest unsaid. There were more like Fig than like Scuff, and they both knew that.

He looked down at her hands on the table. They were very slender, like a girl's, but strong. Their beauty lay not in soft, white skin or delicate nails, but in grace; they were quick and gentle, and their touch was light. They would be broken before they would let a drowning man go, but they would allow a butterfly to leave as simply as it had come. He loved her hands. He wanted to reach out and touch them, but he felt self-conscious when there was so much more urgent business at hand.

" Durban was being blackmailed," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "I don't yet know what for. Could that be to do with this Mary Webber, whoever she is?"

"I don't know," he confessed. He wished he did not have to know. He was overburdened with knowledge already, and the more there was of it, the more it hurt. What was it that drove people on and on to seek the truth, to unravel every knot, even when it was the ignorance and the peace of heart that made it all endurable? Was truth going to heal anything? How much of it could any one person grasp?

She stood up. "That's enough for today. Let's go to bed." She said it gently, but she was not going to accept an argument, and he had no wish to offer any.

Hester was concerned for Durban 's reputation too, not so much for himself as for what the discoveries could do to Monk. Her husband had had few friends, at least that he could remember. At one time he and Runcorn had been more than allies. They had shared the involvement and the tragedy of police work, and the dangers.

But Monk's abrasive tongue and his ambition had driven Runcorn to a bitter jealousy He was a narrower man in both his vision and his ability. The rivalry had brought out the meanest spirit in him. Friendship had eventually become enmity.

Of course she did not explain any of this to Sutton when she met him to take up the search again. He would think their purpose was to find some evidence to prove Phillips guilty of something for which they could try him. He must know that the death of Fig was closed to them now, even if he had been tactful enough to refrain from saying so.

They rode the bus in companionable silence, Snoot by Sutton's feet as always.

Hester sat in the top of the bus watching the narrow, closely crammed houses with the stained walls and sagging roofs as they moved closer to Limehouse and the printer Sutton had told her they were going to. He had helped in many things, and she knew he would do all he could now. He would call in favors, incur more, spend all day away from his own work to help her find what she was seeking.

But Sutton could not tell her what it was that she wanted to find, or what she hoped it would prove. They could not undo the failure of Phillips's trial, nor the fact that Rathbone had defended him. They might find out the reason for that choice-if indeed it had been choice, and not some kind of necessity. But it might be confidential and something they could never learn. Did it matter? Could they not trust Rathbone, after all the battles they had fought together?

In framing the question, she realized with a jolt of cold surprise that the answer must be that she did not, or she would not have asked. She would not have said the same a year ago. Had his marriage to Margaret really changed him so much? Or was it simply that it had brought to the fore a different, weaker part of his character?

Or was it a different part of hers? She had never been in love with him; it had always been Monk, even if she had doubted at times that he would ever love her, or make her happy. In fact, she had considered it impossible that he would even wish to try. But she had liked Rathbone deeply, and she had trusted a decency in him. If this were a lapse, for whatever reason, could she not forgive him? Was her loyalty so shallow that one mistake ended it? Loyalty had to be worth more than that or it was little more than convenience.

The bus stopped again and more people climbed on, standing packed together in the aisle.

And Monk's loyalty to Durban, she thought. That also had to be strong enough to handle the truth. She wanted desperately to protect him from the disillusion she feared was coming. There were moments when she did not want to know why Rathbone had defended Phillips. But they passed. Her better self despised the weakness that preferred ignorance, or worse, lies. She would not want anyone she cared for to love a false reflection of her. After all, could there be a greater loneliness than that?

They reached the terminus and alighted. It was a walk of about half a mile along the busy street, and she had to go behind Sutton and Snoot because the way was so narrow they could not pass together without bumping into the traffic going the other way. Every few moments Sutton would look back to make sure she was still on his heels.

Sutton stopped at a small door next to an alley no more than ten feet long, and ending in a blind wall. Snoot instantly sat at his heels. Sutton knocked, and several moments passed before it was opened by a small hunchbacked man with an extraordinarily sweet expression on his face. He nodded when he recognized Sutton and his dog, then he glanced at Hester, more questioning whether she were with them than for her name or business. Satisfied by Sutton's nod, he led them inside to a room so cluttered with books and papers he had to clear two chairs for them to sit down. There were reams of blank paper stacked against the wall; the smell of ink was sharp in the air. The little man hitched himself back with some difficulty into what was obviously his own chair.

"I dint print it," he said without any preamble. His voice was deep and chesty, and his diction remarkably clear.

Sutton nodded. "I know that. It was Pinky Jones, but he's dead, and he'd lie about the time of day. Just tell Mrs. Monk what it said, if you please, Mr. Palk."

"It's not nice," Palk warned.

"Is it true?" Hester asked, although she had not yet been included in the conversation.

"Oh, yes, it's true. Lots of folks around here know that."

"Then please tell me."

He looked at her, for the first time, curiosity sharp in his face.

"You have to understand, Durban was a man of strong passions," he began. "Nice on the surface, funny when he wanted to be. I've seen him set the whole room laughing. And generous, he could be. But he felt some things hard, and it seems this Mary Webber was one o' them. Never heard why. Never heard who or what she was that made him care."

"He never found her?"

"Don't know, Miss, but if he didn't, it wasn't for want of trying. This all started when he went to Ma Wardlop's house. Brothel it is-mebbe a dozen girls or so. Asking her if she'd seen Mary Webber." He shook his head. "Wouldn't let it drop, no matter what. Finally Ma Wardlop told him one of the girls knew something, and took him to her room. He questioned her in there for more than an hour, until she was screaming at him. That point Ma went an' fetched a revenue man who lived a couple o' doors away. Big man, he was." He pulled his lips into a thin line, an expression of great sadness. "Punched the door in and said he found Durban in a position no policeman should be with a whore, but didn't say what it was, exactly. She claimed he'd forced himself on her. He said he never touched her."

Hester did not reply. Her mind raced from one ugly scene to another, trying to find an answer that would not disgust Monk.

Palk's face was screwed up in revulsion, but it was impossible to say whether it was for Durban, or the lie the prostitute might have told. "Ma Wardlop said she'd keep her mouth shut about it all if Durban would be wise enough to do the same. Only she meant about anything he might see in the future, and he knew that."

"Blackmail," Hester said succinctly.

He nodded again. "He told her to go to hell, and take the revenue man with her." Palk said it with some satisfaction, curling back his lips in a smile that showed surprisingly strong white teeth. "They said they'd not just spread it around the streets, they'd put it in the papers too. He told them he agreed with the Duke of Wellington-'publish and be damned.' He wasn't going to keep his mouth shut about anything he didn't want to."

"And what happened?" she asked, fear and admiration tightening inside her, her stomach knotted, her breath slow, as if the noise of it might stop her hearing what he would say next. It was stupid. Durban was dead and could not be hurt anymore. And yet she cared painfully that he had had the courage and the honor to defy them.

"Nothing, until the next time he caught them robbing a customer," the little man answered. "And put the girl in prison for it. Then they published it all right." His eyes did not move from hers. "Very embarrassing it was for Durban, but he weathered it. Lost a good few he'd thought were friends. Hard way to find out they weren't. Got laughed at in places where they used to call him 'sir.' It hurt him, but I only seen him show it once, and then just for a moment. He took it like a man, never complained, and never, far as I know, looked the other way on anything they did."

"What happened to the girl?" She felt a flood of warmth inside her, an easing of the ache of tension, then the chill again, and fear of the next answer.

"Nothing," Palk told her, his eyes reading her emotions like print on the page. "That wasn't Durban 's way. He knew she was only doing what she had to, to get by. He had a hot temper, but he never took it out on women or kids. Soft, he was, in his own fashion, as if he knew what it was like to be poor, or hungry, or alone." He smiled at the memory. "Beat the hell out of Willy Lyme for knocking his wife around, but gentle as a woman with old Bert when 'e got daft and didn't even know who he was anymore. Went into the canal after the poor old sod drowned himself, and cried when he couldn't save him. Poor old Bert. Came to his funeral, Durban did. Never knew for sure, but I reckoned he paid for most of it. Bert hadn't sixpence to his name."

He looked narrowly at Hester. "I don't know why yer want to know, Miss. You can't hurt Durban now, but there's a lot of folk won't take it kindly if you speak ill of him. Wouldn't be a good thing."

"I'm trying to stop those who would," she replied.

He looked puzzled, searching her face.

She smiled at him. "My husband took his place in the River Police, because Durban suggested him. We tried to solve Durban 's last case, and we failed so badly we can't go back and do it again. I want to show that the court was wrong and we were right, Durban and my husband and I."

"Won't do any good," Palk told her.

"Yes, it will. We'll know it, and that matters."

"Is Monk the new fellow at Wapping?"

"Yes."

"Won't be easy to follow Durban."

"Depends where he was going."

He looked at her without blinking. "Right and wrong," he said. "No man's right all the time, but he was more than most."

She stood up. "I hope so. But I need the truth, whatever it is."

"And then you'll tell everybody?"

"Depends. I don't know what it is yet."

He nodded. "That'll do. But be careful. There's plenty that'd kill to make sure you don't."

"I know that."

He hitched himself down off his chair, awkward, one shoulder almost half a foot higher than the other, and made his way to the door to show them out.

***

Unaware of Hester's mission, Monk started out again in the morning, with Scuff beside him, dressed as yesterday in the old boots. Very soon Monk would get him something better, but now he was compelled to go back to tracing Durban 's search for Mary Webber. He would rather have been alone. The effort of concealing his emotions and keeping up a civil conversation was more than the value of any help Scuff could give. But he had left himself no choice. Apart from wounding him by rejection, he dare not allow Scuff to wander around by himself now. He had endangered him, and he must do what he could to protect him from the consequences.

By midmorning, after several failed attempts, he was almost robbed by the very scuffle-hunter he was actually looking for. They were at the Black Eagle Wharf, between a cargo of timber and lightermen unloading tobacco, raw sugar, and rum. There was no breeze off the river to move the smell of it in the air. The tide was low again, and the water slurped over the weed on the steps and the lighters bumped against the stones.

An argument between a lighterman and a docker spread until it involved half a dozen men shouting and pushing. It was a form of robbery Monk had seen many times. Bystanders watched, a crowd gradually gathered, and while their attention was on the fighting, pickpockets did their silent job.

Monk felt the jolt, swung around, and came face-to-face with an old woman who grinned at him toothlessly, and at the same moment there was a touch behind him so light, the thief was a couple of yards away before Monk lunged after him and missed. It was Scuff who brought him down with a swift kick to the shins, which left him sprawling on the ground, yelling indignantly and hugging his left leg.

Monk yanked him to his feet without sympathy. Ten minutes later they were sitting on the top of the steps, the scuffle-hunter between them, looking uncomfortable, but willing to talk.

"I didn't tell 'im nowt 'cause I don't know nuffin'," he said aggrievedly "I never 'eard o' Mary Webber. I said I'd ask around, an' I did, I swear."

"Why did he want her?" Monk answered. "What kind of woman was she supposed to be? When did he first ask? He must have told you something more than her name. How old was she? What did she look like? What did he want her for? Why ask you? Was she a pawnbroker, a money lender, a receiver, a brothel keeper, an abortionist, a whore, a procuress? What was she?"

The man squirmed. "Gawd! I don't know! 'E said she were about fifty, or summink like that, so she weren't no 'ore. Not any longer, anyway. She could 'a been any o' them other things. All 'e said were 'er name an' that she 'ad goldy-brown eyes an' curly 'air, little fine curls."

"Why did he want her? When did he first ask you?"

"I dunno!" The man shivered and moved an inch or two away from Monk, shrinking into himself. "D'yer think I wouldn't 'a told 'im if I'd 'a known?"

Monk felt the fear eat inside him also, for an utterly different reason. "When?" he insisted. "When did he first ask you about Mary Webber? What else did he ask?"

"Nuffin'! Were about two year ago, mebbe less. Winter. I mind because 'e stood out in the cold an' I were near freezin'. Me 'ands were blue."

"Did he ever find her?"

"I dunno! Nobody round 'ere never 'eard of 'er. An' I know all the fences and receivers, all the 'ock shops an' moneylenders from Wappin' ter Blackwall, an' back."

Monk swiveled to face him and the man flinched again.

"Stop it!" Monk snapped. "I'm not going to hit you!" He heard the anger in his voice, almost out of control. The names of Durban and Mary Webber were enough to cause fear.

But the man either could not or would not tell him any more.

He tried other contacts along the water that he had made in the six months since he had been in the River Police, and names that had been in Durban 's notes, people Orme or any of the other men had mentioned.

"'E were lookin' for fat Tilda's boy," an old woman told him with a shake of her head that set her battered straw hat swiveling on her head. They were on the corner of an alley a hundred feet from the dockside. It was noisy, dusty, and hot. She had a basket of shoelaces on her arm, and so far did not seem to have sold many. "Gorn missin', 'e 'ad. Told 'er 'e'd possibly gone thievin' an' been caught, but she were 'fraid that Phillips'd got 'im. Could 'ave. Daft as a brush 'e is, an' all."

"What happened?" Monk asked patiently.

"Stupid little sod fell in the water an' got fished out by a lighterman who took 'im all the way down ter Gravesend. Come back three days later, right as rain." She grinned at the memory as if she found acute satisfaction in it.

"But Mr. Durban looked for the boy?"

"Yeah, I said so. It were 'im as found 'im at Gravesend an' brought 'im back. Otherwise 'e could 'a been took ter sea an' ended up dinner for some cannibal in the South Seas. That's wot I told my boys: do as I tell yer, or yer'll get run off an' be boiled an' ate up."

Monk cringed inwardly at the thought.

"Reckon 'e thought Phillips could 'a got 'im right enough," the old woman said dourly, her smile vanished. "It's a bad shame Mr. Durban is dead. 'E were the one as mebbe could 'a done for Phillips. Didn't take no nonsense from no one, 'e din't, but 'e were fair, an' nothin' weren't too much trouble if yer was down."

Scuff stood suddenly upright.

Monk swallowed. " Durban?"

"'Course, Durban," she snapped, glaring at him. "'Oo d'yer think I was talkin' about, the Lord Mayor o' London? 'Ard man if yer was bad, but soft as muck if yer was sick or poor, or old, like me. 'E wouldn't 'ave stood 'ere in the sun leavin' me on me feet, an' me mouth dry as a wooden boot. 'E'd 'a gave me a cup o' tea, an' bought a couple o' pairs o' shoelaces an' all."

"Why was he looking for Tilda's son?" Monk had to examine the moment of kindness, so it would not later fade and slip out of his grasp.

"'Cause 'e were afraid Phillips might 'ave got 'im, yer fool!" she said in disgust.

"Was that likely?"

"'E knew. Tried 'is 'ardest ter get the bastard, then 'e got killed 'isself. Now them stupid sods o' the river police in't good for nothin' 'cept smugglers, pickpockets, an' a few 'eavy 'orsemen." She was referring to the thieves who stole goods from the ships and brought them ashore in specially designed pockets inside their coats. The reproof stung less than Monk would have expected, and he shot a glance at Scuff to prevent him from leaping to his defense.

"Then he was going to catch Phillips?" he asked mildly.

She looked him up and down. "Yer want a pair o' laces?" she asked.

He fished tuppence out of his pocket and passed it to her.

She gave him the laces. "Yer in't man enough to do it," she responded. "Yer gotter ask an old woman like me the way?"

Scuff could take it no more. "You mind yer gob, yer ol' mare!" he said furiously. "Mr. Monk's strung up more murderers than yer've 'ad 'ot dinners or like ter 'ave! Mr. Durban never got Phillips neither, an' you in't no 'elp. Where's 'is boat, eh? 'Oo goes on an' off it? 'Oo puts burns on them boys when they get out o' line? 'Oo kills 'em, an' why, eh? D'yer even know wot yer talkin' about, yer ol' bag o' bones?"

She darted her hand out and gave him a swift, hard slap around the ear. Monk winced as he heard the crack of skin on skin.

Scuff let out a howl.

"Wot'd I tell you lot fer?" the old woman demanded furiously. "Yer wouldn't do nothin'. Yer wouldn't take no risks ter keep the little bastards safe, not like 'e did."

"Risks?" Monk asked, gulping down hope and trying to keep his voice steady. He must not let her know it mattered. She would play every advantage. He even tried to invest his tone with some skepticism.

She was still angry. Her contempt was bitter in the deep lines around her eyes and mouth. "'E got Melcher, dint 'e?" She gave a toothless sneer. "Real clever sod 'e were, when 'e wanted. And 'e conned Melcher every time, if 'e din't keep an eye on other boys, an' Phillips knew it. Pearly Boy too. Weren't till after Durban were dead that Reilly went. But wot'd yer know? Bloody useless." She spat on the dusty ground. "Yer don't make me laugh like 'e did. An' don't give me nothin' ter eat."

He walked away with Scuff, thinking deeply. The insults did not bother him, it was the information whirling in his head that he needed to order. Melcher he knew was a heavy horseman, one of the roughest. According to the old woman, Durban had held something over him. Pearly Boy was an opulent receiver, a fence of the more elegant and expensive goods stolen and resold along the river, a man whose reputation for ruthlessness and greed was well enough known to keep him insulated from the usual dangers and irritations of rivalry in his particular trade. It seemed Durban had somehow manipulated him too. Phillips would not have liked that.

But who was Reilly? Or if the old woman was right, who had he been, and what had happened to him?

Scuff was worried. He glanced at Monk now and again, then away quickly.

"What is it?" Monk asked eventually as they crossed the narrow bridge on the Wapping Basin and moved west.

"She dint ought ter 'ave talked to yer like that," Scuff replied. "Yer shouldn't 'a let 'er get by wi' it. Takes 'erself liberties, she does."

Scuff was right. Monk had been too relieved to hear someone speak so well of Durban that he had ignored the fact that he had allowed her to disparage him, and done nothing to assert his authority. It was an error that would have to be corrected, or he would pay the price later. He conceded the point to Scuff, who was satisfied, but took no pleasure in his victory. In his own way, he was worrying about Monk, afraid he was not fit to do the job, or to look after himself in the dangerous alleys and docksides of his new beat. There was a very strict hierarchy, and Monk was letting his place in it slip.

"I'll deal with her," Monk repeated firmly.

"You watch Pearly Boy." Scuff looked up at him. "I in't never met 'im meself, careful not ter. But I 'eard 'e's real nice to yer face, an' tear yer gizzard open the moment yer in't lookin'."

Monk smiled. "You haven't heard what they used to say about me when I was in the regular shore police."

"Yeah?" But the anxiety in his manner did not diminish at all. Was he being tactful? Afraid for him, a little pitying? It hurt. Monk was allowing his concern for Durban to erode his skill at his own job. It was past time he amended that.

"I will be very careful of Pearly Boy," he assured Scuff. "But I need to find information about him, and at the same time let him know that I am no easier to deal with than Durban was, and no pleasanter."

Scuffs shoulders straightened a little, and his step became a trifle cockier, but he did not answer.