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Hester smiled back at her. “Where is this church, and what is the name of the man who leads it?”
“Abel Taft is his name. The church is on the corner of Wilmington Square and Yardley Street,” Josephine replied, frowning. “But you live on the south side of the river, miles away! How will you explain going to a church up there?”
Hester smiled more widely. “Their reputation for true and active Christianity, of course!” she replied sarcastically.
Josephine laughed in spite of herself, and tears of gratitude filled her eyes. She shook herself abruptly, straightened her shoulders, and smoothed the skirt of the gray dress. “I have work to do,” she said more steadily. “I’m all behind myself.”
There were times, especially in the winter, when William Monk found his duties as commander of the Thames River Police to be more arduous than usual. The knife-edge of ice on the wind across the open water could cut through almost anything, except oilskins. It whipped the flesh raw on exposed cheeks and froze the heavy cloth of trouser legs when the rain or the river water dampened them.
But this late spring evening was balmy, and over the shining water arched a pale blue, almost cloudless sky. The breeze was welcome, the tide was high, and there were no naked banks exposed, which meant there was no dank smell of mud. Pleasure boats passed by with colored banners waving, laughter drifting toward the shore where a hurdy-gurdy played a popular song from the current music-hall shows. All the warm hope of summer lay ahead. It was a perfect time to be finishing a patrol on the river and thinking of going home.
Monk had always managed a boat easily. It was one of the skills from his forgotten past, although his memory of how he acquired the ability had been obliterated by an injury in a carriage crash, just before he had first met Hester, nine years ago, in 1856. It always fascinated him that the mind could erase all sorts of things that the body seemed to recall.
With ease he brought the police boat to the bottom of the dock steps, shipped the oars, and stepped out with the mooring rope in his hand. He tied it loosely so that later on the receding water would not strain it and walked up the steps to make his final report at the station.
He spoke briefly with Orme, his second in command, made a last check of everything else, and half an hour later he was back on the water again-this time as passenger in a ferry as it approached the dock at Princes Stairs, on the south bank at Rotherhithe.
He paid the fare and walked up the hill toward his home on Paradise Place, the panorama of the Pool of London behind him, black masts and cross spars against the fading sky, water still as polished silk.
He found Hester in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, and Scuff, the onetime mudlark they had adopted-or, more accurately who had adopted them-sitting hopefully at the table, waiting for supper. He had been more or less resident for nearly two years now and was beginning to take them rather more for granted, as if finally he had accepted that this was his home, that they would not suddenly change their minds and turn him out back onto the dockside.
He had grown considerably since they had taken him in. There was a lot of difference between a half-starved boy of eleven-Scuff’s own estimate of his age, though they couldn’t confirm it-and a boy of thirteen, who eats at every possible opportunity, mealtimes or not. He was several inches taller and was beginning to appear less angular; he no longer looked as if a sharp twist would break his bones.
He was also beginning to acquire a rather self-conscious dignity. Instead of unabashed pleasure, he now welcomed Monk with a grin, but remained seated, far too grown up to give away his emotions.
Smiling to himself, Monk acknowledged Scuff equally casually and went over to Hester to give a much warmer and completely spontaneous greeting. They spoke of the day and its events. Scuff reported on his time at school, an experience that was only slowly becoming familiar to him. It had not been easy; he had always been able to count, and he knew the value of money to the farthing. As a child of the docks and the streets around them, he was skeptical, brave, and very able to take care of himself. It was impossible to lose him on the dockside. But learning about other countries remained, to him, a pointless exercise, even though he knew them by name and knew the products they shipped to the Port of London because he had seen them unloaded. He knew what these goods looked like, how they smelled, how large or how heavy they were. However, reading and writing about them, and even spelling their names correctly, was another matter entirely.
Later in the evening, after Scuff had gone to bed and they were in the sitting room, Hester told Monk about Josephine Raleigh’s father and the problem he faced.
“I’m sorry,” Monk said quietly. He looked at her troubled face and could see her pity for the man, and perhaps for young Josephine as well. It was terrible that a church would do this to someone, abuse their faith so. “I wish it were a crime,” he added. “But even if it were, it wouldn’t have any connection with the river, and that’s all I have power to deal with. Do you want me to speak to Runcorn, and see if there’s anything he can suggest?” Superintendent Runcorn had once been Monk’s colleague, long ago, then his superior, and then his enemy. Now finally they had understood and overcome their differences and were allies.
Hester looked suddenly crushed, as if his words had struck an additional blow.
Monk did not understand it. Surely she could not have believed there was a way for him to intervene?
“Hester … I sympathize. It’s a vile thing to do, but the law offers no way of addr
essing it.”
She looked at him for a moment, and then rose to her feet wearily. “I know.” There was defeat in her voice and an overwhelming misery. She turned to walk away, hesitated a second, then went on, going out of the sitting room back toward the kitchen, her shoulders square but her head bowed a little.
Monk was confused. She had, in a way, closed a door between them. But what had she imagined he might do? He started to rise to go after her, realized he had no idea what to say, and sat down again. He thought of all the years he had known her and the battles they had fought together against fear, injustice, disease, grief … and then memory washed over him, not like a tide so much as a breaking wave, battering and submerging him. Hester’s own father had committed suicide because of a debt he could not honor. She spoke of it so seldom he had allowed himself to forget.
He stood up quickly; he was still not sure what he would say, but it was imperative he find something. How could he have been so stupid, so clumsy as to forget?
He found her in the kitchen, standing by the stove with a saucepan in her hand, but her attention somewhere in the middle distance. She was not moving, and her eyes were filled with tears.
There was no honest excuse to give, but even if there were, it would only make things worse.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I forgot.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
She turned and looked at him at last. “No, it doesn’t. I’d rather you didn’t think of him that way anyhow. But I know how Josephine feels, exactly as if it were me all over again. Except that I wasn’t there when I should have been. Maybe I could have done something if I had been there.”
Monk knew there was nothing she could’ve done, but he also knew she would not believe him if he said so; she would think he was lying automatically to comfort her, although that was something neither of them had ever really done. They had always faced the truth together, however bitter; gently, perhaps slowly-but they had never lied.
