Blood on the Water Page 14

  Use it. The child was being practical, surviving. Without thinking about it Scuff put his hand in his pocket and felt to see how much money he had. It was mostly pennies, but he also had a threepenny bit and two or three sixpences. Sixpence was too much to give anyone! But for a really good piece of information he might share a cup of tea and even a sticky bun.

  He must be inventive, quickly.

  “You got anything off the Princess Mary?”

  The urchin looked at him as if he had crawled out of the mud. His small, dirt-stained face was a picture of disgust.

  “Not for you, I in’t. Why? Wot’s it worth?”

  Scuff changed tack instantly. “If you’d lost anyone on it you wouldn’t need to ask that,” he said tartly. “I’d get anything I could for me uncle Bert, but it would just hurt the more if it weren’t Aunt Lou’s at all, an’ he knew it.”

  “Yer aunt Lou got drownded?” The urchin’s expression was unreadable. It could well have been his version of embarrassment.

  Scuff did not hesitate. “Yeah. Why? You know people who fished stuff out o’ the river what might ’ave come from them?”

  “I could see,” the urchin said more carefully.

  “Like what?”

  The boy gave a shrug. “Combs, pins, bits o’ cloth, but they in’t much. What’s it worth?”

  “Help me find a few things, ask a few questions, an’ it’s worth a cup o’ tea and a sandwich,” Scuff answered, watching the child’s face. “Were you here?” he went on. “Did you see it blow up?”

  The urchin considered, looked Scuff up and down, and made his decision. “No, but I can take you to someone ’oo were! But it’ll cost yer an ’ot meat pie.” He was pushing his luck, and they both knew it.

  Scuff weighed his choices. His decision must be quick, or he would look weak. On the riverbank the weak did not survive.

  “We’ll have a pie for lunch,” he gave his verdict. “You’ll get half of it. If what you find is any good, you can have a whole one, and pudding an’ custard for dessert.”

  “Done,” the urchin said instantly.

  “What’s your name?” Scuff asked him.

  “Warren, but they call me Worm.”

  “All right, Worm. Start being useful. And don’t think you can play me for a fool. When I was your size, I was on the river just like you are, so I know all about mudlarking.”

  Worm looked at him with total disbelief.

  Scuff glanced down at Worm’s feet. “You got better boots than I had,” Scuff observed. “You can’t be as daft as you’re acting.”

  Worm shrugged. “I’m all right. C’mon then.”

  THEY SPENT MOST OF the day searching for information about the imaginary Aunt Lou, and mementos that did not exist. But along the way Scuff began to learn the things he had wanted to know about what had changed recently: who was afraid of whom, who was richer, who owed money, who had found things and sold them, because they had information about where they’d fetch up that other people didn’t. He had names now, specific debts paid off, people who had gone to ground, even if not yet the reason why.

  Scuff treated Worm to a jolly good pie for supper, and the pudding with custard.

  Early the next morning they began again. Worm was now fully expecting to be well fed, and Scuff had been forced to borrow money from Hester. He had managed to avoid telling her what he needed it for, but he didn’t think that would last long.

  By the middle of the day Scuff had stopped trying to base it all on Aunt Lou’s lost bracelet or pendant, and Worm knew perfectly well that they were trying to get information about the disaster itself.

  “Yer reckon as it weren’t the feller as they’ve got in prison, then?” he said, skipping a couple of steps to keep up with Scuff’s longer strides.

  “Yeah, I reckon not,” Scuff agreed, actually rather relieved it wasn’t the accused, even if he didn’t know how to explain it further. A good explanation eluded him; his mind was so burning with the truth.

  Worm was quiet for several minutes as they climbed up a long row of steps and across the uneven planks of a wharf. Scuff did not look down at the tide through the missing slats, but he could hear it suck and squelch beneath them.

  “Why’d you care?” Worm said at length as they went back up onto the stone dock again and passed a horse and cart standing patiently waiting to be loaded. Scuff wondered if horses were as bored as they looked. “ ’E were a bad one anyway. Even I know that.”

  “I don’t care about ’is being a bad one,” Scuff said with deep conviction. “You shouldn’t ’ang someone for something as they didn’t do. ’Ow’d you take it if they done you for something you didn’t do?” The moment he had said it he wondered if perhaps it was a bad question.

  “I’d be cross as hell,” Worm admitted. “Unless it were about right for summink I ’ad done? Mebbe!”

  “An’ what if it wasn’t?”

  “That in’t fair.” This time there was no doubt in Worm’s voice.

  “And who gets to decide?” Scuff went on.

  Worm thought about it for some time. “I guess it in’t right,” he conceded at length.

  “And what else?” Scuff added. “What about the feller what did do it? He needs putting away.”

  “ ’Anging?” Worm said thoughtfully. “Ye’re daft, you are. They’ll never get ’im now.”

  Scuff could think of no suitable reply to that, not one that would impress this dirty, hungry, opinionated little urchin.

  “I think I’m gonner be daft too,” Worm said at last, matching his step to Scuff’s. “Where are we goin’ ter next?”

  “To find out how Wally Scammell got to pay off all his debts just after the Princess Mary went down.

  “Ye’re not going ter Jacob’s Island?” Worm said anxiously, looking up at the sky, whose light was already fading.

  Scuff was not happy about it either, but that was where Wally was.

  “Wot about yer dinner?” Worm asked. “Won’t yer ma be cross if yer late?”

  That was another very sobering thought—not that Hester would be angry with him, but that she would be afraid for him. He did not miss meals. Sometimes she cooked something he especially liked. He thought of the look on her face when she watched him eat. She would tell him he was eating too quickly—it was bad manners—but he could see how pleased she was to be looking after him.

  Knowing that Hester cared for him raised a powerful—and very complicated—feeling in him. It was the best thing in his life to be loved, and yet it was also a fence around his freedom. There were things he could not do, and responsibilities.

  Worm would understand that.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “It wouldn’t be good if she made my supper an’ it didn’t get ate. And she’d worry.”

  The light went out of Worm’s face. “Then yer’d better go, eh?”

  “I think I’d better send you to go tell ’er I’ve got a job to do, an’ I’ll be late,” Scuff replied. “I got enough money to get a pie. I’ll be fine. But …” He hesitated. Was this the right thing to do? Well, whether it was or not, he was going to do it. “You’d better ask her to give you summink to eat, as well. ’Cos I promised, an’ I’m not going to be able to keep it, like I said. I live at number four, in Paradise Place. Over the river. You know it?”

  Worm shook his head.

  “Useless little article! Go ask!” Scuff said. “Get the ferry over the river from Wapping to Greenwich Pier, then go up the hill and ask! You can remember Paradise, can’t you?”

  Worm nodded, his eyes wide.

  “Yer looking for Mrs. Monk. Can you remember that?”

  “Like ’im wot’s in the River Police? Yer tryin’ ter get me locked up?”

  “I’m trying to get Hester not to worry ’erself I’m drownded, an’ throw away my dinner!” Scuff snapped at him. He fished in his pocket and came out with a threepenny bit. “Give that to the ferryman and get yerself off, then!”

  Worm took the coin, bit it automa
tically to make sure it wasn’t a wooden one, then turned tail and ran.

  Scuff swallowed hard, wondering if he’d lost his wits. Then as Worm disappeared, he went resolutely toward Jacob’s Island, his hands clenched and his stomach sinking.

  HESTER HEARD THE TAP on the door as she was staring out of the kitchen window at the gathering darkness. She was unable to concentrate because she was too anxious wondering where Scuff had got to.

  She flung the door open and saw on the step a small, very thin, and very dirty child with a cap too large for him and trousers held up by string.

  “This number four?” he asked, clearly frightened.

  “Yes, it is. Can I help you?”

  He took a deep breath. “Scuff sent me ter tell yer not ter throw away ’is dinner—’e’s got money for a pie, an’ ’e’ll be late.” It was out all in one breath.

  “Thank you,” Hester said with a wave of relief. “You look cold.”

  He pulled a face, and shrugged as if it were nothing.

  “Tell me what else Scuff said,” she asked. “Perhaps you had better do it inside, if you don’t mind?”

  “I don’ mind,” he agreed, stepping inside and following her down to the warm kitchen. He tried not to stare around, but he couldn’t help it. He had never seen a place like it before. It was warm and smelled of wonderful food. There were lots of pots and pans, shiny ones, and clean china. There was a jug with flowers in on a table.

  “So Scuff is going to have a pie?” she asked as if to clarify it.

  He nodded, his eyes wide.

  “So he won’t be waiting for supper?” she went on.

  He shook his head.

  “It would be a shame to waste it. Would you eat it?” she asked, as if she doubted his answer.

  He swallowed hard. “I don’t mind if I do …”

  “Good. Then you’d better wash your hands and sit down.” She turned on the tap and ran water for him, and it was straight out of the tap into a bowl. She gave him a towel to dry his hands. Washing left a little mark around his skinny wrists, but it was good enough.

  She served him fried potatoes and two fried eggs. Then she realized he probably did not know how to use a knife and fork, so she cut it up for him and gave him a spoon as well.

  She did the same for herself and ate quite slowly, knowing he was watching and copying her very, very carefully.

  “My name is Hester,” she said when they were both finished. “What’s yours?”

  “Worm …”

  “Good. Would you like a piece of cake, Worm? And perhaps a cup of tea?”

  He nodded, temporarily beyond speech.

  “Then we’ll have that. And you can tell me exactly what you and Scuff have been doing.”

  He froze.

  “Oh, that’s quite all right,” she assured him. “He has been asking people questions, hasn’t he?”

  Worm nodded.

  “Very good. So have I. I shall tell you what I have done, and you will tell me what he has done.”

  Worm nodded again and settled a little farther into his seat on the kitchen chair.

  CHAPTER

  10

  MONK ARRIVED HOME LATE to find Hester sitting in the kitchen talking to a very small urchin whose hands were immaculately clean, while the rest of him was remarkably filthy.

  Hester smiled up at him. “This is Worm,” she said, as if that in itself were an explanation. “He has come to tell us that Scuff is busy following clues on Jacob’s Island, and will be home too late to eat his dinner. He suggested that Worm eat it for him.” She kept her face perfectly straight, but Monk could see that it was an effort for her. She was so amused she could have laughed, so sorry for the child that she could have fed him permanently, but above all she was terrified for Scuff’s safety. With a sudden tightening of the chest, he understood perfectly.

  “Hello, Worm,” he replied, looking at the child and fearing he would find him here from now on. “Did Scuff say what he was going to Jacob’s Island for?”

  Worm shook his head. “ ’E were goin’ ter look for someone.” He took a deep breath. “But we found out about some real funny stuff goin’ on, like they knowed where the boat were goin’ ter go down, an’ it ’ad ter be there. But there weren’t nothing much stole. I dunno wot ’e’s after, but it’ll mean summink.” He looked at Monk with wide, bright blue eyes.

  “Thank you,” Monk said, swallowing his fear for Scuff as much as he could.

  “ ’S nothin’.” Worm stood up very slowly, glancing at the window and the darkness outside. “Can you lend me tuppence for the ferry? I only got a penny and I gotta get back ter the other side.” He looked hopeful, then frightened at the realization of his own temerity.

  “It’s a bit late,” Monk answered. “And there are a couple more things I’d like to know about what you found out. Perhaps you’d better sleep here by the fire. I’m sure we can find you a blanket, and a cushion for your head.”

  Hester gave him a beautiful smile. Monk refused to look back and meet her eyes. He suddenly felt absurdly vulnerable.

  Worm looked startled, then he smiled as well—not that he imagined this generosity was going to come cheap. He would have a lot of questions to answer, but maybe another cup of tea before bedtime. If he got all the answers right, he might even get another piece of cake!

  IN THE MORNING, MONK gave Scuff a stiff warning about staying out so late, but also thanked him for the consideration of sending Worm with the message. It turned out Scuff had found Wally, but that it had been a dead end—it was mere coincidence that he had come into some money right after the sinking of the ship.

  As he went to the front door, Monk saw Hester standing alone.

  “What are you going to do with Worm?” he asked, without any preamble.

  “Find out if he has a mother,” she answered. “He might belong to someone.”

  “Rubbish!” Monk said smartly. “He has nowhere to go …” He took a deep breath. “And we’re not housing half the orphans on the river! Scuff was fine … but—”

  “I know!” she said quickly. “I thought we could make use of him in the clinic. We need a permanent messenger.”

  “Hester!”

  “What?” She opened her eyes wide and seemed to look right inside him.

  “What a good idea,” he said meekly.

  MONK CROSSED THE RIVER and took a hansom cab to Lincoln’s Inn, where most of the top lawyers had their offices. He intended to see Alan Juniver, but was informed by his clerk that Mr. Juniver was in court at the Old Bailey and would not be available today. Monk had no intention of accepting such an answer, but the luncheon adjournment would be his first opportunity to force the issue. First he would see Sir Oswald Camborne, who had led the prosecution in the trial of Habib Beshara, before he went to see Beshara himself. He needed all the information he could obtain.

  It took a degree of pressure, and then a thirty-five-minute wait, but finally Monk was shown into Camborne’s somber and imposing office. The bookshelves towered up the walls, giving the impression that too heavy a tread on the floor might bring them crashing down. The gas brackets were ornate and someone kept them meticulously polished.

  Camborne rose from behind a large desk piled with papers. It was Monk’s instinct to catch a few and re-pile them less precariously, but he resisted with an effort. It would seem officious.

  “I don’t know what you think I can help you with,” Camborne said immediately. “I have very little time, and there really is nothing to add. It was regrettable that the case was not more secure, but that doesn’t mean that Beshara wasn’t involved, even if not exactly as it seemed at first.”

  Monk sat down, making himself as comfortable as he could in the chair facing the desk. He had the alarming feeling that one of the springs was about to break.

  “There is nothing to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Beshara was involved at all,” he pointed out.

  “Of course he was involved!” Camborne snapped. “You don’t kn
ow the history of the man as I do. In fact I dare say you’ve never even spoken to him, eh? No, I thought as much.” There was a flush in his face. He leaned forward. “You are meddling in things you know very little about, Mr. Monk. Stick to solving your petty little river thefts and stabbings and the things you understand.”

  Camborne’s arrogance was astonishing. Monk reminded himself that it was a measure of the man’s insecurity in his situation. He kept his temper with great difficulty.

  “And you understand the sabotage and sinking of ships, Sir Oswald?” he said very levelly.

  Camborne paled. “No, of course not!” he retorted. “I don’t know what you mean by that remark! But I understand politics and international finance. You have no idea the weight of the affairs you’re meddling in. Possibly Beshara’s part in this atrocity was different from the precise act he was charged with. Does it matter who actually lit the fuse? The intent was there. A conspirator is both legally and morally guilty.”

  “What conspiracy?” Monk asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “For God’s sake, man!” Camborne said with exasperation. “The conspiracy to blow up the Princess Mary and drown all aboard her. Don’t play the fool with me!”

  “Was there a conspiracy?” Monk affected innocence. “I was taken off the case almost immediately, and have only just been put back in charge. Clearly there is evidence I have not been given. A conspiracy requires a number of people to be involved. At the very least, more than one.”

  Camborne forced the words between his teeth. “Of course it’s a conspiracy! You don’t imagine he did all that without help, do you? He acquired the dynamite, got it on board the ship, and set it up in the bow. Then somehow he got off before it exploded, killing nearly two hundred people.”

  “Somehow?” Monk repeated the word carefully.

  “You don’t have to demonstrate how a thing was done to prove that it was,” Camborne pointed out.

  “Not exactly right,” Monk corrected him. “If you can prove that something couldn’t have been done, then you can infer that it was not.”