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“I don’t.” Runcorn could not conceal his dislike again. He looked at Barclay coldly. “There are other reasons for believing that Mr. Havilland might not have shot himself.” He turned back to Melisande and his eyes softened. “Do you recall anything of this man’s appearance, ma’am? Of what height was he? A big man or a small man? Anything about his face?”
She took a moment to bring it back to her mind. “He was very lean,” she replied. “His face was thin, what I could see of it. He had a scarf”—she made a gesture around her throat and chin—“and a hat on. His hair was long—long onto his collar. I think he was very dark.”
“It was the middle of a winter night!” Barclay said with an obvious effort to be reasonable in spite of everyone else’s unreason. “He was of very average height and build and he had a dirty old coat on, with his collar turned up, as anyone would on such a night. That’s all!”
“If his coat was dark, how did you see the wet stain on it?” Runcorn asked.
“Then it wasn’t dark!” Barclay snapped. “It was a light coat, but it was still dirty. Now we’ve told you everything we can, and you have kept my sister standing here in the cold for more than long enough. Good night!”
Melisande drew in her breath, perhaps to point out that it was he who had chosen to remain on the step. She had tried to invite them inside. But she might have remembered it was Barclay she was dependent upon, not Runcorn or Monk.
“Good night,” she said with a swift, apologetic glance, then turned to go inside.
The door closed, leaving them in sudden darkness. They were so numb from the icy wind that their first few steps were almost stumbling.
Runcorn walked in silence for almost a hundred yards, still lost in his own thoughts.
“Better see if anyone else saw him,” Monk said at last. “Might be a groom from one of the houses.”
Runcorn gave him a sideways look. “Might be,” he agreed dryly. “I’m betting it was an assassin, hired by one of the Argyll brothers to get rid of Havilland. But we’ve got to rule out everything else, so tomorrow we’d best ask all around. I can put my men on that. I suppose you’ve got river things to attend to?”
Monk smiled. The sudden appreciation of his position was an oblique way of thanking him for not showing off in front of Melisande Ewart. “Yes. Spate of robberies, actually. Thank you.”
Runcorn stared at him for a moment, as if to make sure there was no mockery in his eyes. Then he nodded and began walking again.
Monk was late to Wapping station again in the morning. He had not meant to be, but he had fallen asleep again after Hester had wakened him, and even her noisy riddling of the ashes from the stove had not wakened him.
It was nearly ten o’clock when he climbed the steps from the ferry. They were slicked over with ice and dangerously slippery. He reached the top and saw Orme coming out of the station door. Had he been waiting for him? Why? Another warning that Farnham was after him? He felt cold inside.
Orme came towards him quickly, his coat collar up, wind tugging at his hair.
“Mornin’, sir,” he said quietly. “Like to walk that way a bit?” He inclined his head to indicate the stretch southwards.
“Good morning, Orme. What is it?” Monk took the hint and turned to keep in step.
“Did a good bit of lookin’ around yesterday, Mr. Monk. Asked a few questions, collected a favor or two,” Orme answered in a low voice. He led Monk away from the station and, within a few moments, out of sight of it. “It’s right enough there’s been a lot more thievin’ in the last month or two—neat like, all tidy. Passenger standin’ talkin’, then a piece goes, watch or bracelet or whatever it is. Like as not it isn’t noticed fer a little while, then o’ course it’s too late. Could be anywhere. There’s always someone beside you as couldn’t ’ave done it, an’ they always say as they saw nothin’.”
“Several people working together,” Monk judged. “One to distract, one to take it, a passer, another to block the way with offers of help, and maybe a fifth to take it and disappear.”
“Yer right. An’ from what I ’eard, I’m pretty certain at least one of ’em was a kid, ten or eleven, each time.”
“Not the same child?”
“No, just that sort of age. People take ’em for beggars, mudlarks, just strays ’anging around for a bit of food, likely, or to keep warm. Better in a boat than on the dockside in the wind.”
Monk thought of Scuff. He would probably rather work than steal, but what was there for a child to do on the river in midwinter? The thought of hot food, a dry place out of the wind, and a blanket would be enough to tempt anyone. He was brave, imaginative, quick—the ideal target for a kidsman, one of those who took in unwanted children and made thieves of them. It was afar from ideal life, but in return the children ate and were clothed, and to some extent protected. The thought of Scuff ending like that sickened him. There was no leniency in the courts for children. A thief was a thief.
“Any idea who?” He found the words difficult to say.
Orme must have heard the emotion in his voice. He looked at him quickly, then away again. “Some. Only the arms and legs o’ the gang, so to speak. Need to catch the ’ead to be any use. Won’t be easy.”
“We’ll have to plan,” Monk replied. “See if there’s any pattern in the reports of theft. Any of the goods turn up? Who’d take that kind of stuff? Opulent receivers?” They took the valuable things and knew where and how to dispose of them. Durban would not have had to ask; he would have kno
wn their names, their places of business and storage, the goods in which they specialized.
“Yes, sir.” Orme did not add anything.
Monk realized, as if he had suddenly come to a yawning hole in the earth in front of him, how much Orme missed Durban, and how far short Monk still was of filling that space. Perhaps he could never earn that loyalty or give the men cause to accept him as they had Durban, but he could earn their respect for his skill, and in time they would come to know that they could trust him.
