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Monk swung around to Orme.
Orme handed him a sheet of paper, folded over once.
Monk took it and read, his hand shaking, the color draining from his cheeks.
“What is it?” Hester demanded more urgently, her voice high-pitched, her heart pounding.
“Jericho Phillips has Scuff,” Monk replied. “He says that if we don't stop pursuing him, all of us, the River Police, then he will use Scuff in his trade. And when he's finished with him, he'll either sell him on to someone, or if he's a nuisance and causes trouble, then he'll kill him.”
“Then we will stop.” Hester nearly choked on the words, but she could not even imagine letting Scuff endure that. The possibility did not exist to consider.
“That's not all,” Monk went on, his voice shaking now. “I must publicly condemn Durban and say everything bad about him that I can, including his early involvement with the men who robbed the bank. Then I must retract all the charges I've made against Phillips, and say that they were motivated by my desire to vindicate Durban's name, and pay my debt to him. His price is Scuffs life. If I don't, his death will be slow, and very unpleasant.”
She stared at him for interminable seconds, unable to grasp what he had said, then slowly it became clear, indelible, impossible to bear. “We must do it.” She felt as if she were a betrayer even as the words were on her lips, and yet any other answer was unthinkable. What happiness or honor could there ever be again if they let Phillips keep Scuff, and one day torture him to death? The power of terror and extortion was sickeningly clear, and without escape.
She saw something else in Monk's face, intelligence, understanding, and deeper horror.
“What is it?” she demanded, leaning forward as if to grasp him, and at the last moment stopping. “What do you know?”
“I was thinking that I should go to Rathbone and tell him about Ballinger,” he replied, almost in a whisper. “He needs to know, for his own sake, hideous as it will be for him. And he might be able to help; I don't know how.”
“Poor Oliver,” she said quietly. “But I would tell everybody any truth, if I had to, to get Scuff back.”
“Claudine thought Ballinger might have recognized her,” Monk said quietly, his voice rasping. “It seems he did, and told Phillips. That's why Phillips has taken Scuff now. They know the net is tightening.” His face was very pale, eyes hollow. “We have to get Scuff back, or get some hostage of our own that will force Phillips to let him go. I'll go to Rathbone …”
“I'm coming too,” she said instantly.
“No. I won't shut you out, I promise …”
“I'm coming! If you go after Scuff, and anyone is hurt, I can do more for them than any of the rest of you.” For the first time her glance took in Orme, pleading. “You know that!”
Monk turned back and faced her. “Yes, I do know it. I also know that you would not forgive me if anything went wrong and you might have prevented it, and I couldn't live with that. I give you my word that I will not go without you. Or Orme, if you'll come?” he added, looking at the other man.
“I'll come,” Orme said simply. “I'll get a boat ready, and some pistols.”
Monk nodded his thanks, and touched Hester's hand in passing. It was just a momentary warmth, skin to skin, and then it was gone.
Monk went straight to Rathbone's office and asked to see Oliver.
His clerk, Dobie, was apologetic. “I'm sorry, Mr. Monk, but Sir Oliver is with a client at the moment. I expect him to be free in half an hour, if it is urgent,” he said courteously.
“It is extremely urgent,” Monk replied. “Unless his client is coming up for trial tomorrow, it cannot wait. Jericho Phillips has kidnapped another child. Please interrupt Sir Oliver and tell him so. Tell him it is Scuff.”
“Oh, dear,” Dobie said with extreme distaste. “Did you say Scuff, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, sir. Would you please wait here?” He did not bother to ask Monk to be seated. He could see very well that he was too distressed to sit down.
Monk paced back and forth. The seconds seemed drawn out, even the minutest sound ringing in his ears.
Finally Dobie returned, solemn-faced. “Sir Oliver will see you immediately,” he said. “I shall ask all other clients to wait, until you inform me otherwise.”
“Thank you.” Monk strode past him and opened Rathbone's office door.
Rathbone turned, face pale, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” He did not elaborate; there was no need.
“Yes,” Monk replied, closing the door behind him. “He sent a message to say that if I didn't stop pursuing him, and blacken Durban's name in public, he'd use Scuff in his trade, and then kill him.” It was difficult to even say the words, as if they gave it a more intense reality. “I'm going to get him back, and I need your help.”
