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  Scuff drew in a deep breath, understanding flooding his face, and then anger. “Yer gotter, Mr. Monk,” he agreed seriously. “Let ‘em get at it once, an’ yer'll ‘ave twice the trouble gettin’ ‘em back ter straight.”

  “Well, come on then!” Monk turned and went back to the front door. He heard Scuffs feet clattering down the stairs and running after him to the step. The door slammed, and then Scuff was beside him.

  Monk smiled.

  They worked for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, tracking down the name and fate of every boy, and what he said of Durban. The next day they started far earlier. By midafternoon, Scuff had been off by himself for several hours, and was late returning to the place they had agreed to meet. Monk was pacing from crate to embankment edge and back again, wishing he had not allowed the boy to go off alone. When Scuff finally showed up, his face was dirty, his shirt torn, and he looked apprehensive.

  Monk was too pleased to see him to care about the torn new shirt. Scuff was also unconcerned, and that worried him far more. Scuff was very aware that the clothes were a present, and he was half afraid he would have to give them back one day. If they were torn or stained he could be in a lot of trouble. Worse than that, Hester might think he was not grateful.

  Now he stood uncertainly, as if to deliver bad news.

  “What did you find out?” Monk asked him. No doubt Scuff was tired and hungry, but relief would have to wait.

  Scuff hesitated. He looked as if he had already been considering for some time how to tell Monk whatever it was. He drew in his breath, and then let it out again.

  “What did you find out?” Monk repeated, his voice sharper than he meant it to be.

  Scuff sniffed. “Mr. Durban. Sometimes ‘e caught boys thievin’— just little stuff, ‘andkerchiefs, sixpence, or a bob ‘ere an’ there—an’ ‘e'd let ‘em off. Give ‘em a clip round the ear, but also mebbe a cup o’ tea an’ a sandwich, or even a piece o’ cake. Other cops'd ‘ave ‘ad ‘em, locked ‘em up. Some folks thought ‘e were good for that, others said ‘e were doin’ it for ‘is own reasons. Some of ‘em boys weren't around anymore after that.” He frowned, searching Monk's face to watch how he took the news.

  “I see,” Monk said levelly. “How old were these boys, and how often did that happen? Were they talking about once or twice, or lots of times?”

  Scuff chewed his lip. “Lots o’ times. An’ one fat ol’ scuffle-'unter told me some o’ their crimes was worse than light fingers. ‘E said one boy Mr. Durban caught weren't five or six at all, ‘e were more like ten, an’ ‘e were a right thief, ‘alfway ter bein’ a fine wirer. That's someone as can pick a lady's pocket an’ she'll never even feel it.”

  “I know what a fine wirer is. Why did Durban not arrest him, if he stole valuable property? Was there some doubt about it?”

  Scuffs eyes lowered till he was staring at the ground. “‘E were a fine-lookin’ boy, wi’ fair ‘air. Some said Mr. Durban ‘ad another place fer ‘im.” He looked up again quickly. “Not that they got any proof, o’ course, seein’ as it in't true.”

  “Who said that sort of thing?” Monk asked him.

  “I dunno,” Scuff said too quickly.

  “Yes, you do. You know better than to come with stories out of nowhere. Who said it?”

  Scuff hesitated again.

  Monk was on the verge of shouting at him, then saw his misery and knew that it was not on his own behalf, but came from a powerful awareness of Monk's own vulnerability. He knew what it was to admire someone, to rely on them as your teacher and friend, and in some ways both your protector and your responsibility. That was how Scuff regarded Monk. Was he imagining that Monk regarded Durban the same way?

  “Scuff,” he said gently. “Whatever it is, I need to know. We'll find out if it's true or not, but we can't do that if I don't know what it is, and who said it.”

  Scuff sniffed again, and pulled his face into an expression of reluctant concentration. “Mudlarks I know,” he replied. “Taffy—I dunno ‘is last name ‘cause ‘e don't know it neither. Potter, an’ Jimmy Mac–summink An’ Mucker James. They all said they knew o’ Mr. Durban seein’ boys steal, sometimes something that'd ‘ave fetched ‘em two or three years in the Coldbath Fields, an’ tellin’ ‘em off. Mostly little kids.”

  “Little?” Monk asked, feeling the chill inside him, and his skin hot and then cold.

  “Five or six, mebbe.” Scuff looked miserable. “Most o’ them took ‘cause they was ‘ungry or scared o’ ‘oever it were put ‘em up to it.”

  “Are they still around, the little boys?”

  “I dunno. I dint find any.” Scuff looked defiant. “That don't mean they int there. They could be keepin’ out o’ the way. They're just the kind Phillips'd take.”

  “Yes. I know that. Thank you for telling me.”

  Scuff said nothing.

  But that evening, when Hester was in the kitchen, Scuff steeled his courage, stomach knotted, fingers digging into his palms, and went in to see her, hoping intensely that he would find the words before Monk should come, either to speak to Hester himself, or to see what he was doing there.

  Hester was bending over the sink, washing the supper dishes. He took a deep, shivering breath and plunged in. “Miss ‘Ester. Can I say summink?”

  She straightened her back slowly, hands dripping soapy water, but she did not turn to face him. He knew she was listening by the way she stood so still. He liked the smell in this room: warm food and cleanness. There were times when he did not want to ever leave it.

  “Yes, of course,” she answered. “What is it?”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets so that if she turned she would not see his white knuckles. “I did summink today that … that ‘urt Mr. Monk, but I dint mean ter.”

  Now she did look at him. “What did you do?”

  There was no help but to tell her the truth. “I asked some boys I knew about Mr. Durban, an’ I ‘eard some things that was pretty bad.” He stopped, afraid to tell her the rest. Would she know anyway? She often seemed to know what he was thinking, even when he did not say it. Sometimes that was very comfortable, and sometimes it wasn't.

  “I see. Did you tell him the truth as to what you heard?”

  “Yeah.” He gulped. She was going to say he shouldn't have. He knew it.

  She smiled, but her eyes were dark with worry, he could see that. He knew fear and recognized it with instant familiarity. He felt sick.

  “That was the right thing,” she told him. She moved her hand to touch him, then changed her mind. He wished she hadn't; it would be nice to be touched. But why should she? He did not really belong here.

  “They said Mr. Durban let kids off wot should ‘a gone ter prison fer stealin’,” he said quickly. “Little kids, like Phillips takes. They said Mr. Durban weren't no better. They're wrong, int they?”

  Now she hesitated, then seemed to make her mind up. “I don't know. I hope so. But if they're right, we've got to face that. Mr. Monk will be all right, because we'll be here.”

  He stared at her, searching her face to know if she meant it, or if she was just being nice to him, thinking he was a child, and could not take anything worse. Gradually he became sure that she did mean it. She did not have children, and she was not treating him like one. He smiled at her.

  She smiled back, and, reaching out, touched him quickly and very gently on the cheek. He felt the warmth of it run right through him. He turned away and went back upstairs, before Monk could catch him and somehow take the moment away. It was private, just between him and Hester.

  He reached the top of the stairs and touched his cheek experimentally, to see if it was still warm.

  In the morning Hester went to see Oliver Rathbone at his office. She did not go to Portpool Lane first; she did not want to have to speak to Margaret. She felt guilty about that. They had been close friends, perhaps the closest woman friend Hester had known—at least in normal circumstances, away from the horror
s of war. To avoid her now, because of Rathbone's part in the trial, and the fear and confusion she felt, added to her unhappiness.

  Yet she could no longer put off facing Rathbone. She rode the bus along as far as London Bridge, then alighted and took a cab across the river to Rathbone's office near the Inns of Court. His clerk recognized her immediately and invited her in with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. She wondered what his own opinion was of the Phillips case, and Rathbone's part in it. Of course, it would be completely improper to ask him, and he could not possibly answer her.

  “I'm sorry, Mrs. Monk, but Sir Oliver has a gentleman in to see him,” the clerk apologized. “I can't say how long it will be before he is free.” He remained standing where he was. It was intended as a polite discouragement.

  “If I may, I will wait,” she replied, meeting his eyes squarely and not moving a step.

  “Of course, ma'am,” he conceded, reading her correctly that she intended to wait whatever he said, in the office, or even outside in the street, if that were forced upon her. “May I bring you a cup of tea, and perhaps a biscuit or two?”

  She beamed at him. “Thank you. That would be most kind of you.”

  He retreated, knowing well when he was beaten, and in this case not minding at all. She did wonder fleetingly if she might be about to fight this battle for him, as well as for herself.

  She had rather more than three-quarters of an hour to wait, because as soon as the first client left another arrived, and she had to wait for his departure also before being shown into Rathbone's office.

  “Good morning, Hester,” he said somewhat warily.

  “Good morning, Oliver,” she replied as the clerk closed the door behind her. She accepted the seat opposite his desk. “I am sure you are busy—in fact, I have already seen two clients come and go—so I shall not waste your time with polite conversation. You may take it for granted that I am interested in your health and happiness, and that I have assumed all the usual polite inquiries from you about mine.”

  He sighed very slightly and sat down behind his desk.

  “And that I have already had tea,” she added. “Most graciously served.”

  “Naturally.” There was the very faintest smile on his lips. “Should I apologize for keeping you waiting, or is that to be taken for granted as well?”

  “You did not keep me waiting,” she replied. “I have no appointment with you.”

  “Oh, dear. I see we are to be honest to the point of … I am not sure. What are we being honest about? Or am I going to regret asking such a question?”

  “I seem to remember you telling me, a long time ago, that a good lawyer—and you are extremely good—does not ask a question unless he already knows the answer,” she replied.

  He winced so slightly, she was not sure if she had seen it or imagined it. “You are not going to prompt me into assuming the answer, Hester,” he replied. “You are very good yourself, but I have had rather more practice.”

  She gave a very slight shrug. “A great deal more. The people you deal with are captive in quite a different way from those that I do. And though they do not always realize it, I also have their interests at heart.”

  “That is easy to do,” he rejoined. “Their interests do not conflict with each other.”

  “You are naive, Oliver. I have only so much money, so much medicine, so many beds. Of course they conflict with each other!”

  He was caught off guard.

  “I know that you were employed to defend Phillips,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “And that bound you to his interests, just as the prosecution was bound against them. Once you had accepted the case, unless he admitted his guilt, you had no choice but to defend him. Was that why you did not call him to the stand to deny that he killed Fig? You were certain in your own mind that he had?”

  “No, I was not!” he said with sudden vehemence. “He did deny it. I simply did not think that the jury would believe him. He is not an attractive character, and if he had spoken that would very definitely have shown. The jury should weigh only the evidence, but they are people—passionate, vulnerable, full of pity and outrage for the crime, and intensely afraid both of doing the wrong thing and of one day being victims of crime themselves.” He spoke so quickly he scarcely had time for breath. “They would have been led by dislike into believing him guilty. They could very easily have crossed the line from being convinced that he had committed other crimes, which I have no doubt he has, to believing that he had committed this one also. They do not have to give reasons for their verdict. I cannot argue with them and point out that their logic is flawed. Once they have spoken, I have to accept, unless there is a point of law on which I can argue. Illogic is not such a point.”

  “I know,” she said drily. “Tremayne could have used emotion to sway them against Phillips, and you would have had no recourse because they would not have realized what he had done. They would have imagined that the feelings were entirely their own, not manipulated by counsel.”

  He smiled very slightly. “Exactly. I am pleased you see it with such a fair mind.”

  It was her turn to smile with the same chilly humor. “Of course I do, now,” she replied. “Unfortunately, I didn't see it so plainly when you were manipulating me. Nor, I'm afraid, did Mr. Tremayne. You are better at it than either of us. But then I dare say you are right in that you are more practiced.”

  The color washed deep red up his face. “I had no choice, Hester. Should I have done less than my best for him, because you were the witness? If I had when defending someone you liked, you would have been the first to call me dishonorable. You can't have justice dealt one way for those you like and another for those you don't.”

  “Of course not,” she agreed, her voice tighter than she had meant it to be. It gave her away, and she knew he would hear it. “I followed the case because I believed passionately that Phillips was an evil man who tortured and murdered a child who had the courage to stand up against him. I still believe it. But I know that I let my emotions rule me instead of my intelligence. I was not impartial in my judgment, and it let me down. You took advantage of my weakness because you knew me well enough to do so.”

  She ignored the flare of anger, and perhaps shame in his eyes. “I am not sure whether I know you well enough or not, Oliver. I used to think I did, but people change, and those closest to them do not always see it. Was it love of justice, or emotion that caused you to take up the defense of Jericho Phillips?”

  He was startled.

  She did not stop to allow him the chance to interrupt her. “Did you defend him because you thought no one else would do it adequately or even at all? Perhaps you are right if you think no one else would have done it as well. Or did you do it to pay a debt to some friend to whom you owe a loyalty a pity, or a matter of honor, past or future?” She swallowed. “Or to show off, because it seemed impossible, and yet you accomplished it?”

  He was very pale now. “Is that what you think of me, Hester?”

  She did not flinch.

  “It is not what I wish to think. Before the trial I would have stood in that witness box and sworn that you would not.” She thought of mentioning money, and decided against that ultimate insult. “Do you even know who actually paid you?” she said instead. “Are you certain it was not Phillips himself? Isn't he clever enough to have done it through so many other avenues you could not trace it back to him? Then the question is, if he had come to you directly, not through a client, and a friend, would you still have taken the case?”

  “I don't know. That is not how it happened,” he replied. “I cannot explain it to you because it is in confidence, as are all legal consultations. You know that, and you knew it when you came here. You are not usually impractical enough to waste time and energy railing against the past. What is it you want?” It was blunt. His eyes were hard and hurt. He was also surprised that she had outmaneuvered him.

  “I would like to know who paid you …” she began.r />
  “Don't be foolish,” he said sharply. “You know I cannot possibly tell you that!”

  “I didn't ask you that!” she answered equally sharply. “I know you cannot. If either you or they were willing to own up to it you would have done so already.” She allowed her fear to show through, brittle and bright. “I wanted you to know that because of the doubt cast on Commander Durban's honor, now the whole of the Thames River Police is under suspicion to the degree that they may even be taken over completely, as a separate arm of the Metropolitan Police. All their specialist experience will be lost. And don't bother to tell me that that is as much my fault as yours. I know it is. I am not concerned with blame. As you said, it is a waste of time to cry over the past, which cannot be changed. I am concerned for the future.”

  She leaned towards him. “Oliver, between us we have come close to destroying something that is good. You can help us save Durban's reputation without damaging your own.”

  “And Monk's, of course,” he said cruelly.

  Again she did not flinch. “Of course. And mine too, for that matter. Is helping us a reason for not doing it?”

  “Hester, for … no, of course it isn't!” he protested. “I didn't expose any of you because I wanted to. You left yourselves wide open. I did what I had to do, to uphold the law.”

  “So now do what you can to uphold justice,” she returned. “Jericho Phillips killed Fig, although it is pointless to prove that now, even if we could. He killed others too, and we'll be a lot more careful about our evidence next time. But in order to do that, the River Police have to survive with their own command, not broken up into a dozen different entities, each just part of their local station.”

  She stood up slowly, careful to straighten her skirt—something with which she did not usually bother. “We have all done something ugly, all three of us. I am asking you to help us mend it, as much as it can be mended. We may never catch Phillips, but we can do all that is possible to prove to London that the River Police need and deserve to remain a separate department, with their own command.”