The Dark Assassin

chapter Eight
It was three days before Monk had time to consider the Havilland's case again. There was a large fire in one of the warehouses in the Pool of London, and the arsonists had attempted to escape by water. It was brought to a successful conclusion, but by the end of the second day Monk and his men were exhausted, filthy, and cold to the bone.

At half past eight, with the wind howling outside and the woodstove smelling of smoke, Monk was sitting in his office and finishing the last of his report when there was a knock on the door. He answered, and Clacton walked in, closing the door behind him. He came over to stand in front of the desk, looking casual and more elegant than perhaps he was aware.

"What is it?" Monk asked.

"Worked pretty 'ard the last couple o' days," Clacton observed.

"We all did," Monk replied. If Clacton was expecting any leave, he would be disappointed.

"Yeah," Clacton agreed. "You most of all... sir."

Monk was uncomfortable. He saw the gleam of anticipation in Clacton 's eyes. "You didn't come in here to tell me that."

"Oh, but I did, sir," Clacton responded. "I know 'ow 'ard it must 'a bin for you, wot with your own business on the side an' all. Can't 'ave 'ad much time for that."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Monk demanded.

Clacton blinked and smiled. "Yer bit o' private work. For Mr. Argyll, is it? Findin' out 'oo killed 'is pa-in-law, and get 'em off the 'ook? Worth a bit, I shouldn't wonder." He left the added suggestion hanging in the air.

Monk's mind raced. He had envisioned all kinds of attack from Clacton, even the remote possibility of physical violence. He had not foreseen this insinuation. How should he deal with it? Laughter, anger, honesty? What would Clacton 's next move be?

"Din't think I knew, did yer?" Clacton said with satisfaction. "Look down on the rest of us like we're beneath you. Not as clever as the great Mr. Monk! 'Oo don't know a damn thing when it comes ter the river. Come to 'ave Orme 'old yer 'and or yer'd fall in! Well, the rest of 'em might be stupid, but I'm not. I know wot yer doin, an' if yer don't want Farnham ter know as well, yer'd be wise ter let me 'ave a bit o' the price."

There was no time to weigh the consequences.

"I doubt Mr. Argyll will pay me for anything I've found out so far," Monk said dryly. "It looks like he's responsible for Havilland's death."

"Yeah?" Clacton 's fair eyebrows rose. "But it's Sixsmith they've arrested. Now why would that be, d'yer think? A bit o' shiftin' around of evidence, mebbe?"

Monk was cold and tired, and his bones ached, but now he was assailed by fear also. He recognized both cunning and hatred in the young man in front of him. There was no loyalty to Durban or anyone else, just pure self-interest. Monk had no time to care why. Clacton was dangerous.

"Do you think you can find this supposed evidence?" he asked bluntly.

Clacton 's eyes were bright and narrow. "Yer bettin' I can't?"

"I'll be happy if you can," Monk replied. "It's Argyll I want!"

For the first time Clacton was thrown off balance. "That's stupid! 'Oo'll pay yer?"

"Her Majesty," Monk replied. "There's a conspiracy behind Havilland's death. Thousands of pounds in the construction business, and a lot of power to be gained. Go and tell Mr. Farnham what you think, by all means. But you'd be better to go and get on with your job, and be glad you still have one."

Clacton was confused. Now he was the one needing to weigh his chances, and it angered him. The tables had turned, and he had barely even seen it happen.

"I still know yer crooked!" he said between his teeth. "An' I'll catch yer one day!"

"No," Monk told him, "you won't. You'll fall over yourself. Now get out!"

Slowly, as if still unsure whether he had another weapon left, Clacton turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Monk could see that as soon as he was in the main room his swagger returned.

Monk's tea was cold, but he did not want to go and get more. His hand was trembling, and the breath caught in his throat. Clacton 's accusation had been worse than he expected.

The following morning he went to Sir Oliver Rathbone's office. Monk was prepared to wait as long as necessary, but it proved to be no more than an hour. Rathbone came in elegantly dressed in a wool overcoat against the biting east wind. He looked surprised to see Monk, but pleased. Since he had realized how much he loved Margaret Ballinger his rivalry with Monk had softened considerably. It was as if he had reached a kind of inner safety at last, and was now open to a gentler range of emotions.

"Monk! How are you?" Rathbone was very different from Monk, a man of excellent education, comfortable with himself. His elegance was entirely natural.

Monk smiled. In the beginning Rathbone had discomfited him, but time and experience had shown Monk the humanity beneath the veneer. "I need your help in a case."

"Of course-why else would you be here in the middle of the morning?" Rathbone made no attempt to conceal his amusement or his interest. If Monk was out of his depth legally, then it offered an interesting problem, which was exactly what he craved. "Sit down and tell me."

Monk obeyed. Very briefly he described Mary Havilland's fall from the bridge with Toby Argyll, then his discovery of James Havilland's earlier death and the course of the investigation that had led to the arrest of Aston Sixsmith.

"Surely you don't want me to defend Sixsmith," Rathbone said incredulously.

"No... at least not to act as defense for him," Monk replied. He was beginning to wonder if what he was intending to ask was impossible. Again, fury at Argyll washed over him, and a sense of helplessness in the face of the skill with which Argyll had manipulated both Sixsmith and the police into the position he wanted them in. Monk could picture Argyll's angry, slightly arrogant face marred by grief as if he had seen him only moments ago. "I want you to prosecute Sixsmith, but in such a way that we get the man behind him," he answered Rathbone. "I don't think Sixsmith had any idea what the money was for. Argyll told him what to do and he did it, either blindly or out of loyalty to the Argylls, believing it was for some legitimate purpose."

Rathbone's fair eyebrows rose. "Such as what, for example?"

"Tunneling is a hard trade. I don't say he wouldn't cut corners or pay bribes to some of the more violent of those who know the sewers and the underground rivers and wells. I don't know."

Rathbone thought for a moment or two. Clearly his interest was caught. He looked at Monk. "You believe the elder Argyll brother used Sixsmith to pay an assassin to kill Havilland, because Havilland was a threat to him. Who found this assassin, if not Sixsmith?"

Monk felt as if he were on the witness stand. It was more uncomfortable than he had anticipated. It would be impossible to escape with inaccurate or incomplete answers. "Alan Argyll himself, or perhaps Toby," he answered. "Alan has taken great care to account for all his own time before and after Havilland's death, but Toby was several years younger and spent more time on the sites and knew some of the tougher navvies."

"According to whom?" Rathbone said quickly.

Monk smiled, but without pleasure. "According to Sixsmith. But it can be easily verified."

"You'll need to do it," Rathbone warned. "The money came from Argyll, you say?"

"Yes."

"If he says it was for wages, or a new machine, and that Sixsmith misappropriated it, can you prove he's lying?"

Monk felt his muscles tighten defensively. "No, not beyond a doubt."

"Reasonable doubt?"

"I don't know what doubt is reasonable. I'm certain myself."

"Not exactly relevant," Rathbone said dryly. "Why would Argyll want Havilland dead so much that he would be prepared to use Sixsmith to hire an assassin?"

"Knowledge that the tunnels were dangerous and work should be stopped," Monk replied.

"Isn't all such work dangerous? The Fleet sewer collapse was appalling."

"That's cut-and-cover," Monk told him. "Imagine that underground, possibly collapsing at both ends, with water, or worse-gas."

"Is gas worse? I would have thought water would be pretty dreadful."

"The gas would be methane. That's flammable. It would only need one spark and the whole thing would be ablaze. If it came up through the sewers, it could start another Great Fire of London."

Rathbone paled. "Yes, I have the idea, Monk. Why do you think that is anything more than a madman's nightmare? Surely Argyll wouldn't want that any more than Havilland or anyone else. If it were a real danger, he'd stop the work himself. What was he afraid of-that Havilland would frighten the workforce and they'd strike? Why not just bar him from the site? Isn't murder excessive, not to mention dangerous and expensive?"

"If it wasn't the navvies Havilland was going to, but the authorities, that would be different. He couldn't stop that so easily. And even an unfounded fear could close the excavations for enough time to delay the work seriously and cost a great deal of money. To a ruthless man, one perhaps running rather close to the edge of profit and loss, or with an over-large investment, that could be motive for murder."

Rathbone frowned. "But motive is not enough, Monk, which you know as well as I. Why not suppose it was Sixsmith, exactly as it appears to be?"

"Because it was Argyll's wife who sent the letter to her father asking him to be in the stable after midnight," Monk answered decisively. "At Argyll's request."

"And if Argyll says he did not ask her to write it?" Rathbone asked. "You cannot force her to incriminate him. It would be profoundly against her interest."

"Others will swear it is her handwriting."

"You have the letter?"

"I don't. I have the envelope."

"The envelope! For God's sake, Monk! Anything could have been in it! Did anyone see the letter? Is the envelope postmarked?"

Monk felt the argument slipping out of his grasp. "The envelope was hand delivered," he replied levelly. "But it is beyond reasonable doubt that it was the one he received that evening, because he made notes on it in his own hand, and it was in the pocket of the jacket he was wearing. That's where we found it."

"Could it have belonged to another letter sent at an earlier time?"

"There were notes on it relating to events that happened that evening," Monk replied with satisfaction.

"Good. So Mrs. Argyll sent him a note. If she swears it was an invitation to dinner in a week's time, and she is willing to, what have we?"

"A woman prepared to lie to two police officers, under oath."

"To save her husband, her home, her source of income, and her position in society-and thus also her children." Rathbone puckered his mouth into a tight, bleak smile. "Not an unusual phenomenon, Monk. And not one you would find it easy, or popular, to destroy. You would not win the jury's favor with that."

"I want their belief, not their favor!" Monk snapped.

"Juries are driven by emotion as well as reason," Rathbone pointed out. "You're playing a dangerous game. I can see about charging Sixsmith as an accessory, possibly an unknowing one as far as murder is concerned, and hope to draw out enough to implicate Argyll, but you'd have to come up with a lot more than you have so far." His face pinched a little. "It happens sometimes. You can catch everyone but the real culprit. It looks as if Argyll's protected himself pretty well. To reach him you'll have to destroy this man Sixsmith, who may be completely innocent of anything except a fairly usual business bribe. You'll also destroy Argyll's wife, who is doing what any woman would do to protect her children, perhaps even to protect her belief in her husband as a decent man. And she may need that to survive with any kind of sanity."

Monk hesitated. Was it worth it? Should he destroy the slightly tarnished, those culpable only of ordinary human weakness, in order to reach the truly guilty? For what-vengeance? Or to protect future victims?

"You don't have a choice now," Rathbone said quietly. "At least not as far as Sixsmith is concerned. I'll prosecute, by all means, and uncover everything I can. Meanwhile, you find out more about this mysterious assassin. Show who contacted him, if he ever took the second payment, if he knows who employed him. Above all, you need to show what Havilland was going to do that was sufficient to make Argyll want to kill him. So far all you have is an engineer who lost his nerve and became a nuisance. Sane men don't commit murder for that. Give me chapter and verse of what Argyll would lose, and connect it to him, not just to Sixsmith."

Monk stood up. "I'll find it! How long have I?"

"Till it comes to trial? Three weeks."

"Then I'd better start." He moved towards the door.

"Monk!"

He turned back. "Yes?"

"If you're right and it is Argyll, be careful. He's a very powerful man and you work in a dangerous job."

Monk stared at Rathbone with sudden surprise. There was a gentleness in his face he had not expected to see. "I will," he promised. "I have good men around me."

Monk began by going back to speak with Runcorn. The superintendent was probably as aware as Rathbone of the thinness of the case; nevertheless, Monk outlined it in legal terms while Runcorn sat behind his desk and listened grimly.

"Need to know more about this man in the mews," he said when Monk had finished. "Might get a better description of him if we ask the cabbie again. And we'll have to ask Mrs. Ewart to see if she can say anything more."

She was surprised to see them again, but it was apparent that she was not displeased. She was wearing a woollen dress of a dark, rich wine color, and she looked less tense than she had the previous time. Monk wondered if that was in any part related to the fact that her brother was not at home at this hour.

She received them in the withdrawing room, where there was a bright fire sending its heat into the air. The room was not what Monk would have expected. There was a pretentiousness about it that took away something of the comfort. The paintings on the walls were big and heavily framed, the kind of art one chooses to impress rather than because one likes it. There was an impersonal feel to them, as there was to the carved ivory ornaments on the mantelpiece and the few leather-bound books in a case against the wall. The volumes sat together uniform in size and color, immaculate, as though no one ever read them. Then he remembered that Mrs. Ewart was a widow and this was Barclay's house, not hers. He wondered for a moment what her own choice would have been.

She was looking at Runcorn. Her face in the morning light was less tired than the first time they had seen her, but it still held the same sadness at the edge of her smile and behind the intelligence in her eyes.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, ma'am," Runcorn apologized, looking back at her steadily. "But we've looked into the matter further, and it seems very much like the man you saw could have shot Mr. Havilland. There's a man arrested for hiring him coming to trial soon, but if we don't find a good deal more information, he might get off."

"Of course," she said quickly. "You must catch the man who did it, for every reason. I have no idea where he went, except towards the main road. I imagine he would find a hansom and leave the area as fast as he could."

"Oh, he did, ma'am. We traced him as far as Piccadilly, and the East End after that," Runcorn agreed. Not once did he glance at Monk. "It's just that the cabbie didn't look at him except for an instant, and he isn't all that good at description. If you could remember anything else at all about him, it could help."

She thought for several moments, withdrawing into herself. She gave a little shiver, as if thinking not only of the cold of that night but now also of what had taken place less than a hundred yards from where she had stood. Runcorn's admiration of her was clear in his eyes, but it was the vulnerability in her, the sadness, that held him. Monk knew that because he had seen a flash of it before, and knew Runcorn better than he realized. There was a softness in Runcorn he had never before allowed, a capacity for pity he was only now daring to acknowledge.

Or was it Monk who had only just developed the generosity of spirit to see it?

Mrs. Ewart was answering the question as carefully and with as much detail as she could. "He had a long face," she began. "A narrow bridge to his nose, but his eyes were not small, and they were heavy-lidded." Suddenly she opened her own eyes very wide, as if startled. "They were light! His skin was sallow and his hair was black, at least it looked black in the streetlights. And his brows, too. But his eyes were light-blue, or gray. Blue, I think. And... his teeth..." Then she shivered, and there was a look of apology in her face, as if what she was going to say was foolish. "His eyeteeth were unusually pointed. He smiled when he explained the... the stain. I..." She gulped. "I suppose that was poor Mr. Havilland's blood?" She looked at Runcorn, waiting for his reaction, although it was inconceivable that it should matter to her. Yet Monk could not help but believe that it did. Had she seen that gentleness in Runcorn? Or was it just that she needed someone to understand the horror she felt?

Runcorn continued to probe. What about the man's clothes? Had he worn gloves? No. Had she noticed his hands? Strong and thin. Boots? She had no idea.

If she thought of anything else, he told her, she should send for him, and he gave her his card. Then they thanked her and left. Monk had barely spoken a word.

Even outside in the bright air, wind ice-edged off the river, Runcorn kept his face forward, refusing to meet Monk's eyes. There was no purpose in forcing communication where none was needed. Later they could discuss what each would do next. They walked side by side, heads down a little, collars high against the cold.

The only place Monk could begin was with the nature and opportunities of the man who had paid the assassin.

Was it Alan Argyll who had found him, or Toby? Or perhaps Six-smith had actually contacted him first, for the task he had claimed?

That was an obvious place to start. He could speak to toshers, who combed the sewers for lost valuables, or to gangers, who led the men who cleared the worst buildups of detritus and silt that blocked the narrower channels. They were all displaced. It would take a while before their services were needed, and there was no trade in which to earn their way in the meantime.

He was walking from the Wapping station towards one of the cut-and-cover excavations when Scuff caught up with him. The boy still had his new odd boots on and the coat that came to his shins, but now he also had a brimmed cloth cap that sat uncomfortably on his ears. The hat needed something inside the band to make it a little smaller. Monk wondered how he could tell Scuff this without hurting his feelings.

"Good morning," Monk said.

Scuff looked at him. "Yer doin' all right?"

Monk smiled. "Improving, thank you." He knew the enquiry was nothing to do with his health; it was his competence in the job that Scuff was concerned about. "Mr. Orme is a good man."

Scuff appeared unsure whether he would go so far as to call any policeman good, but he did not argue. " Clacton 's a bad 'un," he said instead. "You watch 'im, or 'e'll 'ave yer."

"I know," Monk agreed, but was startled that Scuff knew so much.

Scuff was not impressed. "Do yer? Yer don' look ter me like yer know much at all. Yer in't got them thieves yet, 'ave yer!" That was a challenge, not a question. "An don' let 'em talk yer inter takin' on the Fat Man. Nob'dy never done that an' come out of it." He looked anxious, his thin face pinched with anxiety.

Perhaps it was enlightened self-interest, given all the hot pies they had shared, but Monk still felt a twist of pleasure inside him, and guilt. "Actually I've been busy on something else," he answered, to divert Scuffs attention. He and Orme had agreed on some preliminary plans, which Orme had been carrying out, but there was no point in frightening Scuff needlessly. "Right now I'm busy trying to find out about a man who was killed just over a couple of months ago."

"In't yer a bit late?" Scuff was concerned, his young face puckered. Monk's incompetence clearly puzzled and worried him. For some reason or other he seemed to feel responsible.

Monk was both touched and stung. He found himself defending his position, trying to regain respect. "The police thought at the time that it was suicide," he explained. "Then his daughter fell off the bridge, and that was my case. In looking back at that, I found out about the father, and it began to look as if it wasn't suicide after all."

"Wotcher mean, fell orff the bridge?" Scuff demanded. "Nobody falls orff bridges. Yer can't. There's rails an' things. Someb'dy kill 'er too, or she jump?"

"I'm not sure about that, either." Monk smiled ruefully. "And I saw it happen. But when two people are struggling a distance away, in the half-light just before the lamps go on, it's difficult to tell."

"But 'er pa were killed by someone else?" Scuff persisted.

"Yes. The man was seen leaving. I know pretty well what he looks like, and that he went east beyond Piccadilly."

Scuff let out a sigh of despair. "That all yer got? I dunno wot ter do wi' yer.'" He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Monk hid his smile with difficulty. Scuff had apparently adopted him, and felt every parent's exasperation with an impossible child. Monk found himself ridiculously caught in an emotion that all but choked him. "Well, you might give me a little advice," he suggested tactfully.

"Forget about it," Scuff replied.

"You won't give me any advice?" Monk was surprised.

Scuff gave him a widening look. "That's me advice! Yer in't gonna find 'im."

"Maybe not, but I'm going to try," Monk said firmly. "He murdered a man and made it look like suicide, so the man was buried outside Christian ground, and all his family believed he was a coward and a sinner. It nearly broke his younger daughters heart, so she spent all her time trying to prove that it wasn't so. And now it looks as if she might have been killed for it too. Only they buried her outside Christian ground as well, and marked her as a suicide."

Scuff skipped a step or two to keep up with Monk. "Yer daft, you are." But there was admiration in his voice. "Well, if you won't be told, I s'pose I'd better 'elp yer. Wots 'e like, this man wot killed the girl's pa?"

Monk thought for a moment. What risk was there in telling Scuff? If he kept it vague, none at all. "Thin, dark hair," he replied.

Scuff looked at him, his eyes hurt, his mouth pinched. "Yer don' trust me," he accused.

Monk felt a twist of guilt knot inside him. How could he undo the insult, the rejection? "I don't want you to get involved," he admitted. "If he kills people for money, he won't think twice about getting rid of you if you get anywhere near him."

"Me?" Scuff was indignant. "I'm not 'alf as green as you are! I can look arter meself! Yer don' think I got no brains!"

"I think you've got plenty of brains-quite enough to get close to him and get hurt!" Monk retorted. "Leave it alone, Scuff! It's police business. And you're right," he added. "I'll probably never find him. But it's the man who paid him I want most."

Scuff walked in silence for fifty yards or so. They crossed the road and started along the next stretch.

"Will they bury that girl proper then?" he asked finally.

"I'll see that they do," Monk answered, pleased that Scuff had seen the heart of the matter so quickly. "I'm cold. Do you want a hot drink?"

"Don mind if I do," Scuff said, but grudgingly. He was still hurt. "If this man weren't killed on the river, why in't the reg'lar rozzers doin' it?"

"They are, as well." They turned the corner, away from the river and out of the worst of the wind. The pavements were slick with ice. A coal cart rattled sharply over the stones, the horse's breath steam in the air.

"S'pose yer don' trust 'em neither," Scuff said dourly.

"It isn't a matter of trust," Monk told him. "We need all the help we can find. We're searching for one man in all London, who makes a living killing people! I know what he looks like, but that's all. He shot one man and caused the death of the man's daughter. An innocent man may go to prison for the murder, and the one who paid him is going to get away with it. Worse than that, we'll never prove the real reason for it, and there could be a cave-in in one of the new sewer tunnels that would kill scores of men. So no matter how difficult it is, I've got to try. Now, let's get a hot cup of tea and a hot pie each, and stop sulking!"

Scuff digested that in silence for a few minutes as they walked.

"Don' yer know nothin' 'cept 'e's thin an' got black 'air?" he asked finally, giving Monk a sunny smile. "Someb'dy saw 'im, so yer gotta know more'n that!"

"He had a narrow nose and quite big eyes," Monk replied. "Blue or gray. And his teeth were unusually pointed."

Scuff shrugged. "Oh, well, mebbe you'll find suffink then. There's a man wi' real good pies round there, on the other side o' the road."

"And tea?"

Scuff rolled his eyes in exasperation. "O course 'e's got tea! Pies in't no good wi'out tea!"

In the afternoon Monk went back to his river patrol duties, forcing the Havilland case and all its implications out of his mind. The thefts had to be dealt with. He owed that to Durban, but more than that, to Orme. There was also the question of Clacton. He was very well aware that he had dealt with him only temporarily. Clacton was watching, awaiting his chance to catch Monk in another weakness or error. It was about more than money. His own promotion? To please someone else? Simply to gain another commander, one he could manipulate more easily?

The reason mattered little. It could not wait much longer. Orme, at least, was expecting him to act. Maybe they all were. Had Runcorn dreaded Monk the same way, as one of the burdens that comes with leadership, to be endured until it can be dealt with? He winced at the thought.

The river was cold, the incoming tide swift and choppy, and he was kept very fully occupied dealing with a warehouse theft. At half past six it was solved and he stood alone on an old pier beyond King Edward's Stairs. It was totally dark in the shelter of a half-burned warehouse. Across the water the shore lights glittered as the wind blurred them. Lightermen were calling out to each other below him on the river, gusts of wind snatching their voices and distorting their words.

He heard the boat bump against the steps and someone's feet climbing up, then Orme's solid figure was silhouetted against the faint light on the water.

Monk moved forward. "Found the cargo," he said quietly. "Did you get the boat they used?"

"Yes, sir. Butterworth's gone to assist 'em now." Orme paused, then said, "I 'ear as the Mets arrested Sixsmith. That true?" At Monk's nod, he sighed. "Must say I believed it were Argyll. Not as clever as I thought I were." His voice was rueful.

"I thought it was Argyll too," Monk agreed. "I still do." He told Orme briefly of his intention to find the assassin.

Orme was dubious. "Yer'll be lucky ter see 'ide or 'air of 'im, Mr. Monk. But I'll 'elp you all I can. If anyone'd know 'im, it'd be river men, or folks that live in the tunnels, or Jacob's Island. 'E could be just a passing seaman, off to Burma, the fever jungles o' Panama, or the Cape o' Good 'Ope by now."

"He wasn't a seaman," Monk said with conviction. "Pale face, thin, and he used a gun. In fact, he used Havilland's own gun. There was a good deal of careful planning in this. I think he kills for a living."

"There's 'im as do," Orme agreed.

The subject turned to the careful laying of the trap that would not only catch the actual thieves on the passenger boats, but would lead, with proof, to the hand behind them. Monk and Orme sincerely hoped that that was the Fat Man.

"It'll be dangerous," Orme warned. "It could turn ugly."

Monk smiled. "Yes, I'm sure it could. There's been something ugly about it from the beginning."

Monk expected Orme to respond, perhaps to deny it, but he remained silent. Why? Did he not understand what Monk was alluding to, or did he already know the answer? Why should he trust Monk, a newcomer to the river police? He barely knew him. They had never faced a real danger together-nothing more than choppy weather, the odd barge out of control, or night work, when a ship in the dark could be lethal. It was not enough to test a man's courage or loyalty to his fellows. Trust needed to be earned, and only a fool placed his life in another man's hands blindly.

Or was he protecting someone? Could he want Monk to fail, spectacularly, so Orme could take his place? Orme deserved it. The men trusted him. Durban had. Which brought Monk back to the old question: Why had Durban recommended Monk for the post? It made no sense, and standing here in the dark on the windy embankment with the constant slap of the water against the stones, he felt as exposed as if he had been naked in the lights.

Still he asked the question. "Who put out the word that we are corrupt? It came from someone."

"I dunno, sir." Orme's voice was low and hard. "But certain as death, I mean ter find out."

They heard the boat bump against the steps. It was time to go on patrol. Neither said anything more. The plan would begin the following afternoon. There was much to go over and prepare before then.

In order to catch the Fat Man himself they needed the thieves to steal one article of such value that they could neither divide it, as they would a haul of money, nor break it up, as they would a piece of jewelry, selling the separate stones. It had to be something that was of worth only if it remained whole, yet too specialized and too valuable to sell themselves.

Monk and Orme had obtained Farnham's permission to borrow an exquisite carving of ivory and gold. Intact, it was worth a fortune; broken, its only value was in the weight of the gold, which wasn't much. Even at a glance, a pickpocket would know that such a carving, in good condition, was worth enough to keep him for a decade, if fenced successfully.

Farnham had insisted that Monk himself carry it.

"You can look the part," he said with a curl of his mouth as he passed over the figure, wrapped in a soft chamois leather cloth. He surveyed Monk's beautifully cut jacket and white shirt with its silk cravat, and then his trousers and polished boots. Such clothes were a legacy from Monk's earlier years, before the accident, when most of his money went to his tailor. They were not the fashion of a season, as a woman's gown would have been, but timeless elegance. They spoke of old money, the kind of taste that is innate, not put on to impress others. Farnham might not have been able to describe it, but he knew what it meant. It was inappropriate in a subordinate, which was why Farnham's smile troubled Monk. He remembered how Runcorn had hated his attire, and it made him even more uneasy.

"Thank you, sir." He took the carving and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. It made a slight bump, pulling it out of shape.

"Take care of it, Monk," Farnham warned. "The River Police will go out of business if you lose that! With the word going around now, no one will believe we didn't take it ourselves."

Monk felt odd. Was he walking straight into a trap, knowing it and yet still stupid enough to step in? Or caught tightly enough to have no choice?

"Yes, sir." His voice was rasping, as if the night air off the river had caught in his throat already.

"Orme will give you a cutlass later," Farnham added. "Can't let you have a weapon yet. Even a knife a thief would feel and know there was something wrong. It's a shame. Leaves you a bit vulnerable, but can't be helped." He was still smiling, thin-lipped, barely showing his teeth. "Good luck."

"Thank you." Monk turned and left, going to the outer room where the other men were waiting. Two of them were dressed as passengers, in order to keep a firsthand watch on the thieves. The rest were to remain in their own police boats close at hand, so they could follow anyone easily if they were to escape by water.

Orme nodded and signaled the men to go. Monk noticed with a chill and an anxious dryness in his mouth that they all carried cutlasses in their belts. Three of them carried extra weapons as well, to arm those who were disguised, should the whole operation end in violence. Monk had no idea if he had ever fought hand to hand in his years before the accident, and certainly he had not since then. He was a detective, not a uniformed officer. It was too late now to wonder if he was up to it-strong enough, quick enough, even if he had any skill with a cutlass.

He followed the men out into the hard, cold wind. Each was prepared, knowing his duty, the main plan, and the contingency. There was nothing more to say.

Outside on the quay, Orme divided his armed men into three boats, and they pulled out and headed upriver. Monk and the two others who were dressed as passengers took a hansom up to Westminster, where they boarded the next ferry down towards Greenwich.

The tide was slack, but the wind was raw. As they pulled out into the river, Monk was glad to go with the other passengers below deck into the cramped cabin, where there was some shelter. There were at least fifty other people on board: men and women and several children. Everyone was wrapped up in winter coats that offered a host of places easy enough to hide the proceeds from picked pockets. One obese gentleman wore a fur-collared coat that flapped as he walked. He could have hidden half a dozen one-pound bags of sugar without causing any further bulges on his person.

A thin woman with voluminous shawls scolded three children who trailed after her. She looked like an ordinary housewife, but Monk knew perfectly well that she could also be a passer of stolen goods, one to whom the pickpocket gave them until he was safely free of suspicion and could take them back. She would get her cut, in time.

The plan was that if no one robbed him on the way down to Greenwich, he was to meet with one of the other policemen who was dressed as a passenger and show him the carving, as if intending to sell it to him. The policeman would pretend to decline and Monk would return to Westminster. He refused even to imagine the possibility of the thieves taking it and not being caught. On the other hand, if they were arrested too soon, then the whole operation was abortive. The police would have the thief-the fingers of the crime-but not the brain or the heart.

A man bumped against him, apologized, and moved on.

Monk's hands went to his pocket. The carving was still there.

It happened again, and again. He was so nervous his fingers were stiff and trembling.

Butterworth bumped into him and apologized, using the password to let him know that he had been robbed. Why was the carving not gone? Without the theft they would not need to find the Fat Man.

They were past the Surrey Docks and heading down the Limehouse Reach.

Ten minutes later Monk's pocket was empty, and he had not even felt it. Panic broke over him in a wave, the sweat hot and then cold on his skin. He had no idea who had taken it, not even whether it was man or woman. He spun around. Where was Butterworth?

"Thin man, mustache, sad face like a rat," Constable Jones said almost at his elbow. "Over there, by the way up to the deck."

Monk found himself gasping with relief, barely able to draw enough air into his lungs. Should he say he knew who had taken the statue? The lie died on his lips. Jones would see in his reaction that he had not. "Thank you," he said instead. "He's the one we have to watch, never mind the others."

Butterworth was almost six feet from the man with the mustache. He was pretending to look for something in his coat pocket, but his eyes were on the man. He had seen, too. He and Jones were good, quicker than Monk.

The boat reached the Dog and Duck Stairs, and the man with the carving got off. Monk, Jones, and Butterworth got off behind him, as did half a dozen others.

The man walked down the quay back towards the Greenland Dock. It was dark, and there was a smell of rain in the wind. Here and there the streetlamps were lit. It was in some ways the most difficult time to keep anyone in sight. The shadows were deceptive; you thought you saw someone, and suddenly you didn't. There were pools of light, and long stretches of gloom. The sound and movement and shifting reflections of water were everywhere.

Monk, Jones, and Butterworth moved separately, trying to give themselves three chances not to lose him. It would be better to arrest him and catch no one else than lose the carving. But then the whole exercise would have been a failure. One thief was hardly here or there. They would have betrayed their hand for nothing.

They were moving south again. Orme and his men should be keeping pace with them along the river.

There was another man in the shadows. Monk stopped abruptly, afraid of catching up and being seen. Then he realized he should not have stopped. It drew attention to him. It was years since he had done this sort of thing. He retraced his steps a couple of yards and bent down as if to pick up something he had dropped, then went forward again. The new man had caught up with the thief. His outline under the lamppost looked familiar. He was short and fat with a long overcoat and a brimless hat. He had been on that boat-another thief?

A third man had joined them by the time they turned right and reached another ancient set of steps down to the water. A boat was waiting for them, and almost immediately the darkness swallowed them.

Monk stood alone, shifting from foot to foot, desperately searching the darkness for Orme. Where the devil was he? There were barges moving upstream, their riding lights glittering. An ice-cold wind was whining among the broken pier stakes.

There was a noise behind him. He spun around. A man stood ten feet away. He had not even heard him coming; the slurp of the water masked his footsteps. Monk had no weapon, and his back was to the river.

A boat scraped against the steps. He strode over and saw several men in it-randan, police formation. There was room for two more, which would be cramped although not dangerous. Orme was in the stern. Monk could not see his face, but he recognized the way he stood, outlined solid black against the shifting, dimly reflecting surface of the water.

Monk went down the steps as fast as he could, his feet slithering on the wet, slime-coated stone. Orme put out his hand and steadied him as he all but pitched forward on the last step. He landed clumsily in the boat and scrambled to take one of the seats. The next moment his hands closed over an oar and he made ready to throw his weight against it on the order.

Butterworth came down the steps, boarded, and crouched in the stern. The word was given, and they pulled out into the stream. They heaved hard to catch up with the thieves' boat.

No one spoke; each man was listening to the beat of the oars. In the stern, Orme was straining to see ahead and to steady them against the wash of barges going up- or downstream and to avoid any anchored boats waiting to unload on the wharves at daylight.

Where were they going? Monk guessed Jacob's Island. He tried to distinguish through the gloom the chaotic shapes of the shore. There were cranes black against the skyline, and the masts of a few ships. There was a break in the roofs, signaling the inlet to a dock, then more warehouses again, this time jagged, some open to the sky, walls askew as they sank into the mud. He was right-Jacob's Island.

Ten minutes later they were all on the soggy, rubble-strewn shore, creeping forward a few inches at a time, feet testing the ground for litter, traps where the planking had rotted and given way under the weight and broken timbers protruded through. Somewhere ahead of them the thieves were gathering; from the thefts they had counted ten.

Monk had a cutlass in his hand, given him by Orme. The weight of it was unfamiliar but deeply reassuring. Please God, he would know how to use it if he should have to.

They continued forward, ten river police surrounding an unknown number of thieves, and perhaps their receivers as well. They were inside the first buildings now, the remnants of abandoned warehouses, cellars already flooded. The sour stench of tidal mud and sewage, refuse, and dead rats was thick in the throat. Everything seemed to be moving, dripping, creaking, as if the whole edifice were slipping lower into the ooze, drowning inch by inch.

A rat scuttled by, its feet scraping on the boards. Then it plopped into a puddle of water, and the empty sounds of the night closed in again. There was no living slap of the tide here, only the groan of timber settling and breaking and sagging lower.

There were voices ahead, and lights. Monk, cutlass ready, stood half behind a doorway and watched. He could see the squat shapes of the men, now no more than humps, a deepening of the shadows, but the man with the ivory carving was there.

He froze, barely breathing. He did not catch the words they said, but flight actions were plain. They were dividing the spoils of the day. His stomach knotted at the sight of how much they had. It was far more than he had known about.

He waited. Orme was somewhere to the left of him, Butterworth to the right; Jones and the others had gone around behind the chairs to encircle them.

The thieves were arguing over how to sell the ivory carving. It seemed to go on interminably. There were nine of them, not ten. Monk must have miscounted earlier. He was cold to the bone, his feet numb, his teeth chattering. The odds were against them. But the statue was what mattered; above all he must get that back, that and the Fat Man.

The stench of the mud almost choked him.

Why didn't they agree with the obvious and take the carving to the Fat Man? He was the king of the opulent receivers. He would give them the best price for it because he would be able to find a buyer.

They weren't going to! They knew he would take half, so they were going to try to sell it themselves. Then all Monk would get would be the carving back, and a handful of petty thieves. It would stop the robberies for perhaps a week or two, but what was that worth? Instinctively he turned towards Orme and saw his face for an instant in the faintest light from the thieves' candles. The defeat in him twisted inside Monk as if he himself were responsible for the failure.

Another rat squeaked and ran, claws rattling on the wood. Then there was a different sound: softer, heavier. Monk's heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry. Orme turned the same instant as he did, and both saw the shadow of a man blend into the sagging walls and disappear.

Monk swiveled around the other way. To his right Butterworth was rigid, listening. He too had heard something and was straining his eyes, but not to where Monk had seen the man disappear. Butterworth was staring at least fifteen feet away.

Monk was freezing. His hand clenched on the hilt of the cutlass was like ice, clumsy, all thumbs. His body was shaking.

He had been right the first time. There had been ten, but one of them had left, betraying his fellows. To whom?

The answer was already emerging into the pool of candlelight in what remained of the room. A grotesquely fat man stepped forward, his distended stomach swathed in a satin waistcoat, his bloated face wreathed in smiles, his eyes like bullet holes in white plaster.

Silence gripped the thieves as if by the throat.

"Well!" said the Fat Man in a voice little more than a whisper. "What a pretty piece of work." Monk was not certain if he meant the betrayal or the ivory.

One man squeaked half a word, then stifled it instantly.

The Fat Man ignored him. "Discipline, discipline." He shook his head and his massive jowls wobbled. "Without order we perish. How many times have I told you that? If you had given that to me, openly and honestly as we agreed, I would have sold it and given you half." His mouth hardened. He stood motionless. "But as I have had to take the trouble of coming for it myself, and bringing my men with me, I shall have to keep all of it. Expenses, you see?"

No one moved.

"And discipline... always discipline. Can't have things getting out of control. No!" He barked the last word as one of the thieves made to stand up, his hand going to his waist for a weapon. "Very foolish, Doyle. Very foolish indeed. Do you imagine I have come unarmed? Now, you know me better than that! Or perhaps you don't, or you would not have tried such a stupid piece of duplicity."

But the man was too angry to heed a warning. He drew a dagger out of his belt and lunged forward.

The Fat Man shouted, and the next moment the shadows came alive. There was a melee of heaving bodies, flying arms and legs, and the candlelight on the sudden, bright arcs of knives and cutlasses. It took less than a minute to realize that the Fat Man's followers were getting the better of it. There were more of them and they were better armed.

Orme was staring at Monk, waiting for the word.

For a sick, blinding instant Monk wanted to escape. How many men could he lose in a swordfight in the candlelight, with the thieves and the Fat Man's men against them?

Then his mind cleared. What were the odds to do with anything? They were policemen. They wore the queen's uniform. The Fat Man would take the carving and the police would have stood by like cowards and watched. Monk knew exactly how many men he would lose then-all of them.

"Forward!" he said, and charged, heading for the Fat Man.

The next moments were violent, painful, and terrifying. Monk was in the thick of it, and at first the cutlass felt strange in his hand. He was not sure whether to stab with it or hack. A thin man, scrawny but surprisingly powerful, swung at him with a cudgel and caught him a glancing blow on the arm. The pain of it jerked him into reality and hot anger. He swung back with the cutlass and missed. A knife tore the flesh of his right shoulder, and he felt the hot blood. This time his cutlass did not miss and the jar of its blade on bone rocked him.

But beyond the first taste of bile in his mouth, there was no time to think what he might have done. Orme was to his right, in trouble, and Clacton beyond was struggling. Jones came to his rescue. Where was the Fat Man?

Monk turned and slashed at Orme's attacker, catching only his sleeve. Then again and again the metallic clash of steel, the smells of sweat and blood fresh over the stink of slime.

He was hit from behind and fell forward, managing at the last moment to hold his blade clear. He rolled over and scrambled up again. He lashed back and this time struck flesh. There was a yell, and curses all around him. At least his own men were easier to recognize by the outline of their uniform tunics, although most of their hats had been lost in the battle.

Some memory within his own muscles brought back the skill to balance and lunge, to duck, keep upright, push forward and strike. His blood was hot and in some wild way he was almost enjoying it. He barely felt his own pain.

Then suddenly he was backed into a corner. There were two men in front of him, not one, and then a third. Fear was sick and real. He could not fight three men. How had he been so careless?

A blade arced up. He saw it gleam in the candlelight, and beyond it, for an instant, Clacton 's face a couple of yards away, smiling. He could see him, and Clacton was not going to help.

There was nowhere for Monk to run, no room to step left or right. He'd take on one of them at least, two if possible. He dared not raise his arm to slash. There was no space to swing. He checked and lunged forward, skewering the man to his left, expecting any second to feel the blade through his own chest and then darkness, oblivion.

He tried to yank his blade out but there was someone on top of it, heavy, lifeless, pinning his arm down. Then he saw Orme pulling his own blade free, and understood what had happened.

"Better be quick, sir," Orme said urgently. "We've done a good job. One of the Fat Man's men killed the thief with the carving and now the Fat Man's got it himself. We've got to get back to the boats."

Monk responded without hesitation. The thieves could fight it out among themselves. He must get the Fat Man and the carving. They could still win, perhaps more swiftly and completely than in the original plan. He snatched up the thief's cutlass that moments ago would have meant his own death. Shuddering and stumbling, he went back through the wreckage of the building after Orme. He blundered into wreckage and tripped, falling headlong more than once, but when he emerged into the winter night, which was clear-mooned and stinging with frost, Orme was a couple of yards in front of him. Twenty feet beyond, the Fat Man floundered, coat waving like broken wings, his right fist held high with something clenched in it. It had to be the carving.

Orme was gaining on him. Monk forced himself to run faster. He almost caught up with them just as they reached the edge of the rotted pier jutting twenty feet out into the river. The boat was already waiting for the Fat Man, and Orme's men were beyond sight.

The Fat Man turned with a wave of triumph. "Good night, gentlemen!" he said with glee, his voice rich and soft with laughter. "Thank you for the ivory!" He pushed it into his pocket and swiveled. There was a crack as the last whole piece of timber snapped under his vast weight. For a hideous instant he did not understand what had happened. Then, as it caved in, he screamed and flailed his arms wildly. But there was nothing to grasp, only rotting, crumbling edges. The black water sucked and squelched below, swallowing him with one immense gulp. The moment after there was only the rhythmic slurp again, as if he had never existed. His heavy boots and his immense body weight had dragged him down, and the mud beneath had held him, as if in cement.

Orme and Monk both stopped abruptly.

The Fat Man's boatman saw them and scrabbled for the oars, sending the craft back into the night. In the moon's glow, the water was silver-flecked, and they were easily visible. One of the police boats appeared from around the stakes of the next pier and went after them. A second came for Monk and Orme, and then a third.

"He's got the ivory," Monk said. It made the victory hollow. Farnham would consider it too high a price to pay for the evening's triumph, and he would not let Monk forget it.

"We'll get 'im up," Orme assured him quietly.

"Up? How? We can't go down there. A diver would be lost in minutes. It's mud!"

"Grapples," Orme answered. "Get 'em this tide, we'll find 'im. 'E's got it in 'is pocket. It'll be safe enough." He looked Monk up and down with concern. "You got a nasty cut, sir. Best get it attended to. You know a doctor?"

Now that he thought about it, Monk was aware that his arm hurt with a steady, pounding ache and that his sleeve was soaked with blood. Damn! It was an extremely good coat. Or it had been.

"Yes," he said absently. It would be the sensible thing to do. "But what about the Fat Man? That ooze could pull him down pretty far."

"Don't worry, sir. I'll get a crew with grapples straightaway. I know what that carving's worth." He gave a grin so wide his teeth gleamed in the moonlight. "An' it'd be nice to pull the old bastard up an' show 'im off. Better'n just tellin' folk."

"Be careful," Monk warned. "Sodden wet and covered in mud, he'll weigh half a ton!"

"Oh, at least!" Orme started to laugh. It was a rich, happy sound, a little high, as if he was now realizing how close they had all come to defeat, and he still did not know how badly any of the rest of his own men had been injured, or even whether any had been killed.

Then Monk remembered Clacton. Did Orme know that he had deliberately held back? If he did, would he do anything about it? Would he expect Monk to? Even as the thought came to him, Monk half made up his mind to face Clacton, not as a betrayer but as a coward. It might be the better way.

He held out his left hand. "A good night," he said warmly.

"Yes, sir," Orme agreed, taking it with his own left. "Very good. Better'n I thought."

"Thank you." It was not a formality; he meant it.

Orme caught the inflection. "Yer welcome, sir. We done good. But yer'd best get that arm seen to. It's a nasty one."

Monk obeyed and got into the waiting boat, a little awkwardly. His arm was stiffening already.

It was nearly an hour later, on the north bank again and close to midnight, when he finally sat on a wooden chair in the small back room of a young doctor known as Crow. Monk had met him through Scuff when Durban was alive and they were working on the Louvain case.

Crow shook his head. He had a high forehead and black hair that he wore long and cut straight around. His smile was wide and bright, showing remarkably good teeth.

"So you got 'em," he said, examining the gash in Monk's arm while Monk studiously looked away from it, concentrating his anger on the wreck of his jacket.

"Yes," Monk agreed, gritting his teeth. "And the Fat Man."

"You'll be clever if you get to jail him," Crow said, pulling a face.

"Very," Monk agreed, wincing. "He's dead."

"Dead?" Without meaning to, Crow pulled on the thread with which he was stitching Monk's arm. "Sorry," he apologized. "Really? Are you sure? The Fat Man?"

"Absolutely." Monk clenched his teeth tighter. "He fell through a rotted pier on Jacob's Island. Went straight down into the slime and never came back up."

Crow sighed with profound satisfaction. "How very fitting. I'll tell Scuff. He'll be glad at least you got that sorted. Hold still, this is going to hurt."

Monk gasped and felt a wave of nausea engulf him for several moments as the pain blotted out everything else. Then there was a sharp, acrid sting in his nose that brought tears to his eyes. "What the hell is that?" he demanded.

"Smelling salts," Crow replied. "You look a bit green."

"Smelling salts?" Monk was incredulous.

Crow grinned, all teeth and good humor. "That's right. Good stuff. So you got the Fat Man. That'll help your reputation no end. Nobody ever did that before."

"Our reputation was rather in need of help," Monk said, his eyes still stinging. "Somebody's been spreading the word that we were not only incompetent but very probably corrupt as well. I'd dearly like to know who that was. I don't suppose you've any idea?" He looked at Crow as steadily as his groggy condition would permit.

Crow shrugged and turned his mouth down at the corners. "You want the truth?"

"Of course I do!" Monk said tartly, but with a touch of fear. "Who was it? I can't survive blind."

"Actually, it wasn't so much the whole River Police as you personally," Crow answered. "Everybody that matters knows it was never Mr. Durban. And Mr. Orme s pretty good."

"Me?" Monk felt dizzy again, and the wound in his arm throbbed violently. It was hard to believe it was only a cut-nothing to worry about, Crow had insisted. It would heal up nicely if he gave it a chance.

"You've got enemies, Mr. Monk. You've upset somebody with a lot of power."

"Obviously!" Monk snapped. He clenched his fist, then wished he hadn't.

Crow gave him a sudden, dazzling smile. "But you've got friends as well. Mr. Orme made sure you all stood together."

"Crow...," Monk began.

Crow blinked, and the smile remained. "You look after Mr. Orme; he's a good one. Loyal. Worth a lot, loyalty. I'll get a cab to take you home. You'll only fall on your face, and you don't want to have to explain that- you a hero an' all."

Monk glared at him, but actually he was grateful-for the ministration, for the cab, but above all for knowing of Orme's loyalty. He made up his mind that from now on he would try harder to deserve it.

But who had spread the word that he was corrupt personally? Argyll again?