all sense of proportion. More than once it had endangered her.
He looked at the choppy water, dark, turgid, and filthy. Perhaps if he could remember all his youth, his other experiences of women, of love, he would be more realistic. But he remembered nothing, and he wanted Hester as she was: naive, rash, stubborn, vulnerable, passionate, opinionated, loyal, sometimes foolish, always honest-too honest-never mean of spirit, and never, ever a coward. But he wanted her alive, and if she did not have the sense to protect herself, then he must do it for her.
He would find out what happened to Mary Havilland, and to her father, because Hester would despise him if he did not.
How had she felt seven years ago over her own father's suicide? He had only just met her then, and they had scraped each other raw to begin with. She had found him cold and arrogant. Perhaps he had been, but he had also been bewildered by the unknown world around him because of his memory loss, increasingly aware he was disliked. It was Hester's strength and courage that had constantly buoyed him.
Had she felt guilty that she was not in England and at home when her parents both so desperately needed her? Was that at least in part why she was determined now to fight for Mary Havilland and, through her, for her father?
He had not even thought of that before.
They were at the Wapping shore. He paid the ferryman, climbed the steps up into the harsher wind, and strode over to the door. It was warm inside, but it took several minutes before the heat thawed his numb flesh. It made his hands tingle as the blood circulated again, and he was aware of the men putting on heavy overcoats and then caps as they went out to begin the next patrol.
He spoke to them briefly, listening to the report of the night's events: a couple of robberies and several fights, one ending in a knifing. The victim had died, but they had the man who had done it, and apparently it was the culmination of a long feud.
'Anyone else involved?' he asked.
Clacton gave him a sideways look eloquent of contempt, and Monk realized his mistake. He was treating Clacton as an equal, as he would Orme. Clacton was spoiling for a fight, inching around and around to find a weakness to jab. Monk held his temper with an effort. A man who loses his temper at a subordinate's rudeness isn't fit to command. No one must manipulate him. Nor must he be seen to need Orme's help. He was alone. Orme wanted him to succeed. Clacton wanted him to fail. For none of them would he ever take Durban 's place. He did not mind that. He must make his own place, and none of them could admire Durban more than he did, for it was Monk who understood what he had done better than they, and who carried a far greater burden of guilt for it.
He would not correct himself and rephrase the question. He must retrieve the station another way. He turned to Butterworth. 'Mr. Clacton seems unwilling to reveal their names. Friends of his, perhaps. Or informants. Perhaps you can be more enlightening?'
Clacton moved his mouth to protest, then looked at Monk's face and decided better of it.
'Yes, sir!' Butterworth said, barely concealing his smile. 'No one else injured, sir, far as we know. No witnesses admittin', but we know 'oo they worked for. It was more likely personal. Been grumblin' on for a couple o' months since a scrap downriver a bit. Drink an' bad temper, most like.'
'Do you expect any revenge?' Monk asked.
'No, sir, but we'll keep an eye.'
'Good. Anything else?'
He dealt with a few other details and then the men went out- Butterworth with a grin, Clacton scowling, the other two noncommittal.
Monk found Orme in one of the small offices. He closed the door as Orme looked up from the ledger he was writing in. 'Mornin', sir,' he said, regarding Monk solemnly. 'Got the doctors reports on Miss 'Avilland and Mr. Argyll. Nothin' we din't know about, 'ceptin' for sure she couldn't've bin with child. She was just like she should've bin. No man 'ad touched 'or.' There was a deep sadness in his eyes. 'They're gonna bury 'er this mornin'. 'Er sister din't even ask the church to 'elp, let alone give 'er a place. I s'pose she knows it din't do no good for 'er pa, poor soul.'
Monk sat down at the other side of the small wooden table. Suddenly he felt sick. It was no use raging against the blindness, the arrogance to judge, or the lack of human pity that had ruled Mary unfit for a decent burial. None of it would do any good.
'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'Where?'
'On the land outside St. Mary's Church on Princes Road. It's just opposite the Lambeth work'ouse.' He added nothing, but his voice was thick and he lowered his eyes.
'Thank you,' Monk repeated.
'Eleven o'clock,' Orme added. 'You'll 'ave time ter see Mr. Farnham an' then go.'
'No, I won't-not if I go tell the butler and Superintendent Runcorn.'
Orme looked at him gravely.
'Please tell Mr. Farnham I'll see him when I return.'
'Yes, sir. Would that be Superintendent Runcorn o' the Metropolitan Police?'
'Yes. He was the one who investigated James Havilland's death.' He told him what Runcorn had said, and about the superintendent's clear sadness over Mary's death as well, including his reluctance to believe it was suicide.
'But there weren't no doubt 'er father killed 'isself,' Orme said quietly. His round blue eyes held no hope that Monk could be wrong, but he did not hide his disappointment.
'Couldn't find any,' Monk admitted. 'Except that she didn't believe it. She was certain that he was a fighter and would never have given up.'
Orme's mouth tightened. 'Well, she wouldn't easy think 'er own pa were the kind ter shoot 'isself, would she!' It was not a question. 'Mebbe she 'eld out as long as she could, and when somethin' turned it fer 'er so she couldn't kid 'erself any longer, that was what broke 'er. Poor creature. Poor little soul.'
'At the time, did you think she jumped?' Monk asked.
Orme blinked. 'Funny way ter go over, backwards, like. But she was strugglin' wi' young Argyll. You mean was 'e tryin' to stop 'er, or ter make sure as she went? Why? 'Cos she turned 'im down? That's a bit…' He spread his hands, not able to find the right word.
'No,' Monk said. 'Because she was looking for the proof of danger that she thought her father was on the brink of finding.'
'Why'd they do that? Seems daft. Nob'dy wants a cave-in,' Orme pointed out. 'Costs a fortune to repair. An' Argyll stands out as a man 'oo likes his pennies, every one of 'em.'
'You think so?'
'Yes, Mr. Monk, I do. I done a bit of askin' about 'im. Just 'cos o' that poor girl. Does very well fer 'isself, Mr. Argyll, but all proper and careful.'
'You found nothing ugly?'
'No. An I looked.' He did not need to explain why. 'Yer gonna go on a bit longer, sir?'
'A bit.' Monk forced himself to trust Orme, hoping he was not going to regret it later. Orme might even prefer not to know the reason Monk was going to continue; keeping the distance between them might be more comfortable. But Monk disregarded it. 'My wife was approached by someone concerned about the chances of a really bad cave-in.' Orme did not need to know about Hester's involvement with the clinic at Port-pool Lane, or that the friend was a ratcatcher. 'He took her to see one of the big tunnels, very deep. The man knew all the underground rivers and wells, and he's afraid the tunnelers are going too fast.'
Orme was watching him with anxiety now, his attention complete.
'She promised to help if she could,' Monk went on. 'She found the member of Parliament chiefly concerned, and went to see him.' He ignored Orme's amazement. 'It seems Mary Havilland had been there already and had impressed both him and his wife most favorably. They were distressed about her death and keen to do all they can to assist in reform, if anyone can find proof that there is a real danger.'
'Well, well.' Orme sat back in his chair. 'So she was really doin' summink.' His face filled with a sudden pity so sharp he became conscious of it. He blinked and turned away, as if needing to shelter himself from Monk's eyes.
'I'm going to pursue it at least another day or two,' Monk said tersely. 'See if I can find out exactly what
