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“Look,” Biddie said patiently. “Yer been fair ter me. I in't gonna lie to yer. The local cop on the beat ‘ad ter pull ‘em apart, an’ ‘e were gonna charge Durban, ‘cause ol’ Jetsam got more'n the worst of it. ‘E were near ‘avin’ ‘is ‘ead stove in. I reckon Durban'd ‘ave been charged if ‘e ‘adn't bin a cop ‘isself, an’ put the twist on.”
“That shouldn't make any difference,” Monk said, then immediately knew it was a mistake. He saw the contempt in her eyes. He knew what she was going to say before she started, and yet the words still hurt like a fresh cut.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah? Well, the cop wo
t caught ‘im were just the local constable, and Durban were a commander in the River Police. Yer can't be daft enough not ter work that out fer yerself Constable might ‘a grumbled, but ‘e din't do nothing, nor Jetsam neither. If any of us ‘ad known ‘oo Mary Webber were, we'd ‘a told ‘im.”
Monk did not pursue it any further. It was too late today to see if he could substantiate any of it. He walked in silence with Scuff to the nearest steps where there was a light and he could hire a ferry to take them back across the river to Rotherhithe. It was slack tide now and the long stretch of mud and stones gleamed in the yellow glare from the lamps. In its own way it was both sinister and beautiful. The slick surface of the river barely moved. Even the ships at anchor lay still, their spars lumpy with furled sails. The blur of smoke hung above some still-burning factory chimney where industry never slept.
Did he believe Biddie? Who was Mary Webber? Nothing he had learned about Durban had made any mention of a woman. Why such passion? Who was she that Durban would so lose control of himself, and of all the beliefs he had so clearly lived by, that he would attack a man to beat information out of him? And perhaps even worse, he had apparently then coerced a junior officer into ignoring his duty and overlooking the whole episode!
Monk could not imagine Durban doing either of these things. But then, how much had he really known him? He had liked him. They had shared food, warmth, and exhaustion of body and mind in the relentless search to find men who could unknowingly destroy half the world. They had found them. He still relived the horror of it in dreams.
But in the end it had caught up with Durban himself. He had gone nobly, willingly, to death by fire in order to save others, and take the threat with him. And he had gone alone, refusing to allow Monk to share his fate. He had physically thrown him off the stern of the ship into the boiling wake rather than let him also perish, and had not had time to save himself before the magazines exploded.
What kind of friendship or loyalty can you give to someone who is so supremely brave, and yet also desperately flawed? What do you owe to promises made, or understood? What if the other person is gone, and no more explanations can be asked for or given, and still you have to act, and believe something?
Scuff was watching him, waiting to see what he did because of this latest revelation, and Monk was intensely aware of it.
“Mebbe she could ‘ave put Phillips away.” Scuff said hopefully. “D'yer think that were why ‘e were after ‘er? Or mebbe Phillips did ‘er in too, d'yer think? An’ that's why nobody found ‘er?”
Monk had to answer him. “No, not really.”
“She might ‘ave.” Scuff raised his voice to sound more positive, even trying to be cheerful. Monk knew it was for his sake. “She's ‘iding ‘cause she's scared stiff o’ Phillips. She could ‘ave seen wot ‘appened. Mebbe she's somebody's ma wot Phillips done.”
“Perhaps,” Monk conceded, although he did not believe it. “Durban never mentioned her in his notes, and surely he would have, if that's who she was.”
Scuff thought about that for quite a long time. They had hailed a ferry and were more than halfway across the river, weaving in and out of the great ships at anchor, before he found a solution.
“Mebbe that were to keep ‘er safe. If she saw summink Phillips'd kill ‘er fer. An’ ‘e would,” he suggested.
Hank could not see Scuffs face in the darkness of the river, but he could see the hunch of his narrow shoulders and the way he held himself when he was hurt.
The oars splashed in and out. The ferryman had a good rhythm, probably from years of practice.
“An’ like you said,” Scuff replied unhappily, “there's gentlemen in it up ter their necks. Gentlemen wot got enough money ter pay yer friend the lawyer wot spoke up fer Phillips. And yer don't know ‘oo they are, ‘cause they don't exactly go round tellin people they go in fer wot ‘e does.”
“You're right, Scuff,” Monk said decisively. “I should have thought of that for myself. Of course you are.”
He could see Scuffs grin, even in the dark.
When a bed had been made up for Scuff and he was sound asleep in it, Hester and Monk sat in the kitchen over a very late supper—really no more than two large pieces of fruitcake and two cups of tea.
“I can't let him go back until Phillips is arrested and locked up,” he said anxiously, watching her face.
“It's as much my responsibility as yours,” she answered. Then she smiled. “Of course we can't. And that might be quite a while, so you had better get him some clean clothes. I'm much too busy to wash these every night, even supposing I could dry them. You might even get a pair of boots that fit him—and really are a pair.”
She wanted to talk about something that was worrying her. He could see it in her eyes, in a kind of hesitation, as though she were still looking for a way to avoid saying it at all.
He told her about hearing of Mary Webber, but not of Durban's violence towards the pawnbroker, or his use of rank to prevent the constable from charging him. He realized with surprise that it was not Hester he was protecting—it was Durban. Because he himself cared so intensely what Hester thought of him, he was imagining that Durban would too.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked him, puzzled and a little off balance.
“I don't know,” he admitted. “At Scuffs help, I suppose.”
Suddenly she was profoundly serious.
“Be careful, William,” she warned. “Please? I know he's looked after himself for years, but he's only a child. Lots of people die on the river …” She left the rest unsaid. There were more like Fig than like Scuff, and they both knew that.
