from prison. Telling tales is pretty mean-spirited, mostly, but it isn’t a crime.”
“Isn’t it? It ought ter be.”
“People have to tell, sometimes,” Monk pointed out. “You might need to, to see that justice is done, or even to save someone’s life.”
“ ’Who’s life did this save?” Scuff’s disbelief was sharp in his face.
“Nobody’s,” Monk conceded. “I promise we’ll find out if we can.”
Scuff nodded, clearly thinking about it deeply.
Monk would go back and explain it to him in more detail later. He must not forget. Right now there were other things that were much more urgent. He ate his breakfast, excused himself, and went outside to walk down to the ferry to Wapping.
It was a fine day as Monk went down the hill. The panorama of the river was spread before him, but he barely noticed it. Only the sun, bright on the water between the barges going up and down the river, dazzled his eyes for a moment. From this distance he could not see the barges gliding with unconscious grace as they found their way on the incoming tide.
He found a ferry almost immediately and set out into the flow. The air was cooler once they were away from the shore, and the salt and fish smell was keener. He exchanged a few words with the ferryman. He knew nearly all of them. He remembered their names and the few bits of personal information they offered. It was a good habit to cultivate, beyond his own personal interest. Long ago he used to want respect, even if it came with a measure of fear. Now he realized how much more people would do for someone they liked. Stupid that it had taken him so long. He should pass that message on to his men, especially the younger ones, save them the trouble of learning it the hard way.
He reached the north bank, paid and thanked the ferryman, then climbed up the wet stone steps to the dockside and walked across to the Thames River Police Station.
Orme was just inside, his stocky, solid figure blocking the way. He looked grim.
“What is it?” Monk said without preamble. He had learned to trust Orme as he had few other men in his life.
“Assistant Commissioner Byrne’s here, sir,” Orme replied. “Waiting to see you.” He did not need to say more; the warning was in his face and in the fact that he was here at all rather than out on the river, standing in for Monk during his too frequent absences.
“Thank you.” Monk walked into his office where Byrne was sitting waiting with ill-concealed impatience. Byrne was good-looking enough. He had strong features and retained a fine head of hair, but he was both shorter and stockier than Monk; he would never have Monk’s natural elegance.
“Good morning, Monk,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Good morning, sir,” Monk replied. He knew an apology was expected. It riled him, but he imagined it would be an unwise start to evade it. “I’m sorry to have kept you.”
The commissioner did not acknowledge it. “This business with Oliver Rathbone,” he said instead. “We cannot afford to be seen as partial, Monk. We talked about this before, but it’s only getting worse. I know you consider him a friend, but you cannot be seen to stand by him now; it looks bad for the entire force. If you are called to testify, be discreet. Do you understand me?”
Monk hesitated. He wanted to say that he heard and understood, but he would not obey an order he considered to be contemptible. He took several deep breaths to give himself time to think. It was a time to be clever, not bold.
“I believe so, sir,” he answered carefully. “You do not wish me to speak in any way that suggests that the police force has any interest in the matter other than to uphold the law and see justice served. I had not intended to do so, sir. And so far, I have not been called to testify, but of course that could change.”
The commissioner looked at him with a degree of disfavor. They stood perhaps a couple of yards apart, the sun shining through the window, casting rainbows on the wall as it passed through the glass paperweight on Monk’s desk.
The commissioner chewed his lip. “I don’t know whether to believe you, Monk. Your history suggests that loyalty to a friend runs deeper than obedience to orders. How can I make this crystal clear? Rathbone has made a mockery of the law by giving the prosecution this obscene photograph, while keeping it from the defense. It is inexcusable. Give me your word as an officer of the Crown that
Monk felt a wave of relief, and then the next instant warned himself that he was far from in the clear yet.
“I give you my word, sir, I have never had the photographs in my possession to give to anyone.”
“And if you did, you’d have damned well given it to the prosecution too, wouldn’t you?” the commissioner said drily. “It was your wife who got that disreputable bookkeeper of hers on to the Taft case in the first place, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. He was robbing his congregation.”
The commissioner sighed. “I know. None of that excuses Rathbone abusing his position as a judge to get the verdict he wanted.”
“No, sir,” Monk agreed, knowing as he said it that he could not-would not-let Rathbone suffer if there were any way he could prevent it.
The commissioner glared at Monk. “Keep your distance from Rathbone, do you hear me?” he ordered.
“Yes, sir, I hear you.” And he did. But he knew he would not listen. One did not abandon friends because they made mistakes. That was what he had promised Scuff, and obliquely, Hester as well.
If he lost his job in the police over this, that would be a blow. He had no idea where he would find another, or how he would support himself and his family. He loved the work. It was the only job he had ever done, as far as he knew. But Hester was certainly the only woman he had ever loved, the only person, really, apart from Scuff. To lose them was a price he was not prepared to pay, not for any job on earth.
If Monk had to abandon Rathbone, his friend would understand why, but Hester and Scuff wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t be able to live with that.
He watched Byrne leave. Then he found Orme and told him that he had to go and investigate the scene of a murder.
“Need my help, sir?” Orme said without a flicker in his smooth, windburned face.
“Only in that you look after everything here,” Monk answered, also not betraying the slightest emotion. They understood each other too well for an explanation to be necessary.
“Right, sir,” Orme agreed.
Monk hesitated. “Thank you,” he said with more feeling than perhaps Orme appreciated. “Thank you very much.”
Scuff left home and waited until he saw Monk take the ferry across to the Wapping Police Station; then he found another ferry and paid the extra fare to be taken to Gun Wharf, two stops along, so there was no chance of his being seen by Monk, should he still be standing on the dock, or possibly by Mr. Orme, who also would recognize him.
Next he took a public omnibus, changed, and took another, until more than half an hour later, passing as an errand boy with an urgent message, he found his way into the Old Bailey and seized his chance to follow a rather self-important-looking journalist into the courtroom where the trial of Oliver Rathbone had just resumed.
Scuff was uncomfortable, but he continued to stand where he could still look like a messenger waiting for someone. He hoped nobody would actually give him any notes to carry. He knew the riverbank as if it were his own backyard, but this part of the city was a foreign land to him. He would just have to find a way to refuse to accept any errands without getting thrown out. He hoped he had not lost any of the quickness in the invention of lies that he used to have before he met Monk. All the reading and history and school-learning of facts might have pushed it out of his head.
The prosecutor, who was called Wystan, was just getting into his stride. He was a fuzzy, pepper-and-salt- looking man with a self-satisfied face. Scuff did not like him.
The present witness was an old woman. The stand was some height above the floor, up its own curling set of narrow little steps, and Scuff watched her climb up with some awkwardness. Or perhaps she wasn’t so old, just
