made his living from pornography and blackmail; he would know just how far to push before he drove any of his victims to despair. And after Jericho Phillips’s death, wouldn’t he have been even more careful, erring on the side of caution rather than ruthlessness? A blackmail victim driven to either murder or suicide is of no use.
Monk was quiet and sunk in his own thoughts over their late supper. He mentioned only that he was still trying to examine the trade on the boat and see if there were any other witnesses who would be useful. Under Orme’s supervision, the Foundling Hospital matron had spoken to the boys from the boat, but they were too frightened and bewildered to say anything of use, and she had very quickly drawn the interviews to a close. The matron understood what was in the balance, but her first care was to the children she had there, not future victims. White-faced and holding a child in her arms, she had told Orme to leave.
He had understood and had gone out silently, sick with grief.
Now Hester cleared away the dishes and said nothing. Scuff looked from one to the other of them, troubled, but he asked no questions. He went upstairs to bed early.
Monk had already gone the next morning by the time Hester served breakfast for Scuff and herself. She had made porridge because she knew he liked it, and it kept him from being hungry, well up to midday.
“Did ’e do it, then?” he asked when his bowl was empty and he was ready for the toast, jam, and tea. His face was earnest. His eyes searched hers, trying to understand, looking for something to stop the fear growing inside him.
She hung up the striped dish towel she had been drying the dishes with and came back to the table. She sat down and poured herself a cup of tea.
“You know, I’m still not sure,” she said honestly. “It’s very difficult to be certain that you know all the things you need to in order to be right.”
Scuff nodded slowly, as if he understood, but she could see from the trouble in his eyes that he didn’t.
“Wot’s Mr. Monk doin’? Why’s ’e all angry?” His voice dropped. “Did I do summink?”
“No,” Hester said, keeping her voice level with difficulty, trying to swallow back the emotion. “We’re all upset because we like Rupert, and we don’t want him to have done it, but we can’t help thinking that he did.”
“Oh!” His face cleared only slightly. “Would yer still like ’im, even if it turns out ye’re right, an’ ’e did?”
“Yes, of course we would. You don’t stop caring about people because they make mistakes. But that wouldn’t save him from the law.”
“They’ll ’ang ’im?”
“Probably.” The idea was so horrible, she found her throat tight and the tears stinging hard behind her eyes. She tried to force the picture out of her head, and failed.
Scuff took a deep breath. “Then we’d better do summink, eh?” he said, his eyes steady on her face.
“Yes. I’d intended to start this morning.”
He stuffed the rest of his toast into his mouth and stood up.
She started to say that he shouldn’t come because it could be dangerous, and because he really couldn’t help. Then she knew that both were wrong. Instead she took the last swallow of her tea and stood up as well. He needed to be part of this.
She already knew all she could learn of Rupert, and none of it helped. Now she needed to know more of Mickey Parfitt, the business in general and his part in it in particular. Her first instinct was to protect Scuff from the details of such a trade. Then she remembered with misery that he was already more familiar with them than she was. The only question was how much reminding him of them might increase his nightmares.
Or would he ever get over them if he always looked the other way? Might they even grow larger and larger, fed by her belief that they were too terrible to be faced?
“Where are we gonna begin?” he asked, standing by the front door.
“That’s the problem,” Hester admitted. “There are a lot of ‘maybes’ and not much certainty. It might be useful to speak to Rupert’s friends, but I doubt they would say anything to me if it made them look bad, which most of it would.”
Scuff’s face was creased up with disgust.
“We can try other prostitutes,” she suggested. “There may have been talk that we could follow up, but I think that could take a long time. Squeaky Robinson gave me a few names we can begin with.”
Scuff looked at her guardedly. “Wot kind o’ people?”
“People who owe Squeaky a favor or two. And I know some like that myself-a couple of brothel-keepers, an abortionist, an apothecary.”
“I could go an’ ask Mr. Crow? If yer like?” he offered.
“We could go and ask,” she corrected him. “I think that’s an excellent idea. But do you know where to find him?”
“Course I do, but it in’t no decent place fer a lady ter come.” Now he looked worried.
“Scuff,” she said seriously, “I’ll make a bargain with you …”
He stared at her dubiously.
“I’ll look out for you, but not look after you, if you do the same for me.” She held out her hand to shake on it.
He considered for a moment or two, then gripped it in his small, thin fingers and shook. “Deal,” he confirmed.
They went straight from Paradise Place to Princes Stairs and took the ferry across to Wapping, past the police station that Monk commanded. Then they turned west along the High Street, at Scuff’s direction, toward the Pool of London and the biggest docks.
They did not talk. Scuff seemed to be watching and listening. His jacket was buttoned right up to his chin, and his cap was jammed hard onto his head. He had on new boots, his first that were actually a pair. Hester was sunk in her own contemplation of what she needed to learn and how much she could ask without endangering both of them. Pornography and prostitution were vast trades, and there was a great deal of money to be made in either of them. And of course there was a corresponding danger from the law. Not only profit but survival depended on knowing what not to say, and particularly who not to say it to.
It took them most of the morning amid the noise and traffic, the wagons and cranes and piles of cargo and timber, before they eventually found Crow in a tenement building on Jacob Street. It was just inland from St. Saviour’s Wharf, on the south side of the river.
Crow was a lanky man in his midthirties, with coal-black hair, which he wore thick, swept back off his high forehead, and long enough for it to sit on his collar at the back. He had a lugubrious face until he smiled-a broad, flashing grin showing excellent teeth.
They had only just caught him. He was coming down the steps with his black gladstone bag in his hands. He was dressed in a shabby frock coat and black trousers barely adequate to cover his long legs. He was clearly delighted to see Scuff, and his eyes went to him first, before he greeted Hester.
“Hello, Mrs. Monk! What are you doing in these parts? Trouble?”
“Of course,” she replied, holding out her hand.
He spread his own lean fingers and looked at them in distaste. “I’m filthy,” he said, shaking his head. His glance went to Scuff again, as if to reassure himself as to his well-being. Crow had dropped every other business to help search for Scuff when the boy had been kidnapped by Jericho Phillips.
Hester dropped her hand, smiling back at him. “You heard about the murder of Mickey Parfitt?” she asked, falling in step beside him as they walked back along the narrow street toward the river, stepping carefully to avoid the gutter.
“Of course,” Crow acknowledged. “No ill will, Mrs. Monk, but I hope you don’t find the poor sod that did for him. If you’ve come to ask me to help you, sorry but I’m too busy. You’d be surprised the number of sick people there are around here.” He looked up at the dense tenement buildings to the left and right of them, grimed with smoke and constantly dripping water from the eaves.
She glanced at him. His face was set in hard lines, the easy smile vanished. She had known him off and on since Monk’s first case on the river, nearly a year ago now, but she realized she had seen only the thinnest surface of his character. He was a man who never spoke of his background, but he had had a good deal of medical training and used it to help those on the edge of the law-animal or human-or in the iron grip of poverty. He took his payment in whatever form was offered-a debt in hand, if necessary, and kindness in return when it was needed.
