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“That's stupid!” Scuff said disgustedly. “‘E'd ‘a never done that! Anyway, ‘e's dead.” Then instantly he was sorry, but now it was too late to take it back. “I din't mean ter say that,” he apologized, looking ruefully at Monk to see how hurt he was. “But wot fer? They can't do nothin’ to ‘im now, even if it was true.”
“It's a cowardly thing to blame a dead man who can't answer you back,” Monk said with as much composure as he could. He did not want Scuff to think he had been clumsy. “And it's a good way to get out of it yourself. It turns us away from what we should really be looking at, but all the same, I'm going to find out.”
Scuff looked doubtful. “It won't ‘ang Phillips.”
Monk had a sudden flash of understanding. Scuff was afraid it might be true, and he was imagining how Monk would be disillusioned by it.
“Not directly,” Monk agreed casually, keeping the emotion out of his voice with difficulty. “But just at the moment I'm even more concerned with saving Mr. Durban's good name …” He stopped, catching the anxiety in Scuffs eyes. “Because he was commander of the River Police, and now people are beginning to say we're all rotten, and they're taking liberties,” he explained. “I have to put a stop to that.”
Scuff drew in a deep breath, understanding flooding his face, and then anger. “Yer gotter, Mr. Monk,” he agreed seriously. “Let ‘em get at it once, an’ yer'll ‘ave twice the trouble gettin’ ‘em back ter straight.”
“Well, come on then!” Monk turned and went back to the front door. He heard Scuffs feet clattering down the stairs and running after him to the step. The door slammed, and then Scuff was beside him.
Monk smiled.
They worked for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, tracking down the name and fate of every boy, and what he said of Durban. The next day they started far earlier. By midafternoon, Scuff had been off by himself for several hours, and was late returning to the place they had agreed to meet. Monk was pacing from crate to embankment edge and back again, wishing he had not allowed the boy to go off alone. When Scuff finally showed up, his face was dirty, his shirt torn, and he looked apprehensive.
Monk was too pleased to see him to care about the torn new shirt. Scuff was also unconcerned, and that worried him far more. Scuff was very aware that the clothes were a present, and he was half afraid he would have to give them back one day. If they were torn or stained he could be in a lot of trouble. Worse than that, Hester might think he was not grateful.
Now he stood uncertainly, as if to deliver bad news.
“What did you find out?” Monk asked him. No doubt Scuff was tired and hungry, but relief would have to wait.
Scuff hesitated. He looked as if he had already been considering for some time how to tell Monk whatever it was. He drew in his breath, and then let it out again.
“What did you find out?” Monk repeated, his voice sharper than he meant it to be.
Scuff sniffed. “Mr. Durban. Sometimes ‘e caught boys thievin’— just little stuff, ‘andkerchiefs, sixpence, or a bob ‘ere an’ there—an’ ‘e'd let ‘em off. Give ‘em a clip round the ear, but also mebbe a cup o’ tea an’ a sandwich, or even a piece o’ cake. Other cops'd ‘ave ‘ad ‘em, locked ‘em up. Some folks thought ‘e were good for that, others said ‘e were doin’ it for ‘is own reasons. Some of ‘em boys weren't around anymore after that.” He frowned, searching Monk's face to watch how he took the news.
“I see,” Monk said levelly. “How old were these boys, and how often did that happen? Were they talking about once or twice, or lots of times?”
Scuff chewed his lip. “Lots o’ times. An’ one fat ol’ scuffle-'unter told me some o’ their crimes was worse than light fingers. ‘E said one boy Mr. Durban caught weren't five or six at all, ‘e were more like ten, an’ ‘e were a right thief, ‘alfway ter bein’ a fine wirer. That's someone as can pick a lady's pocket an’ she'll never even feel it.”
“I know what a fine wirer is. Why did Durban not arrest him, if he stole valuable property? Was there some doubt about it?”
Scuffs eyes lowered till he was staring at the ground. “‘E were a fine-lookin’ boy, wi’ fair ‘air. Some said Mr. Durban ‘ad another place fer ‘im.” He looked up again quickly. “Not that they got any proof, o’ course, seein’ as it in't true.”
“Who said that sort of thing?” Monk asked him.
“I dunno,” Scuff said too quickly.
“Yes, you do. You know better than to come with stories out of nowhere. Who said it?”
Scuff hesitated again.
Monk was on the verge of shouting at him, then saw his misery and knew that it was not on his own behalf, but came from a powerful awareness of Monk's own vulnerability. He knew what it was to admire someone, to rely on them as your teacher and friend, and in some ways both your protector and your responsibility. That was how Scuff regarded Monk. Was he imagining that Monk regarded Durban the same way?
“Scuff,” he said gently. “Whatever it is, I need to know. We'll find out if it's true or not, but we can't do that if I don't know what it is, and who said it.”
Scuff sniffed again, and pulled his face into an expression of reluctant concentration. “Mudlarks I know,” he replied. “Taffy—I dunno ‘is last name ‘cause ‘e don't know it neither. Potter, an’ Jimmy Mac–summink An’ Mucker James. They all said they knew o’ Mr. Durban seein’ boys steal, sometimes something that'd ‘ave fetched ‘em two or three years in the Coldbath Fields, an’ tellin’ ‘em off. Mostly little kids.”
“Little?” Monk asked, feeling the chill inside him, and his skin hot and then cold.
“Five or six, mebbe.” Scuff looked miserable. “Most o’ them took ‘cause they was ‘ungry or scared o’ ‘oever it were put ‘em up to it.”
“Are they still around, the little boys?”
“I dunno. I dint find any.” Scuff looked defiant. “That don't mean they int there. They could be keepin’ out o’ the way. They're just the kind Phillips'd take.”
