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“I’ll come with you,” Hester responded. “I might notice something you don’t.” She turned to Scuff, who was waiting hopefully. “And you are going to school. If we find anything that matters, we’ll tell you. Do you hear me?”
Scuff nodded reluctantly. “Yes.” He meant “yes, I hear you,” not “yes, I will.” He hoped she would appreciate the difference.
“I’ll come home and tell you when I have permission,” Monk promised Hester.
Scuff looked from Hester to Monk, then back again. “ ’Ow did they know that Sir Oliver gave the lawyer the photograph?” he asked. “Did somebody tell on ’im?” His expression of contempt showed very clearly his opinion of those who told tales. That was a sin it was almost impossible to forgive. It wasn’t a mistake; it was a betrayal.
“Yes, somebody did,” Hester replied. “We don’t know who.”
“Don’t you ’ave ter find out?” Scuff asked. “ ’E’s a real enemy, whoever ’e is. It in’t safe not to know who ’ates you that much.”
“You’re quite right,” Monk nodded. “But we’ll have to do that after we’ve done all we can to save Sir Oliver from prison. Telling tales is pretty mean-spirited, mostly, but it isn’t a crime.”
“Isn’t it? It ought ter be.”
“People have to tell, sometimes,” Monk pointed out. “You might need to, to see that justice is done, or even to save someone’s life.”
“ ’Who’s life did this save?” Scuff’s disbelief was sharp in his face.
“Nobody’s,” Monk conceded. “I promise we’ll find out if we can.”
Scuff nodded, clearly thinking about it deeply.
Monk would go back and explain it to him in more detail later. He must not forget. Right now there were other things that were much more urgent. He ate his breakfast, excused himself, and went outside to walk down to the ferry to Wapping.
It was a fine day as Monk went down the hill. The panorama of the river was spread before him, but he barely noticed it. Only the sun, bright on the water between the barges going up and down the river, dazzled his eyes for a moment. From this distance he could not see the barges gliding with unconscious grace as they found their way on the incoming tide.
He found a ferry almost immediately and set out into the flow. The air was cooler once they were away from the shore, and the salt and fish smell was keener. He exchanged a few words with the ferryman. He knew nearly all of them. He remembered their names and the few bits of personal information they offered. It was a good habit to cultivate, beyond his own personal interest. Long ago he used to want respect, even if it came with a measure of fear. Now he realized how much more people would do for someone they liked. Stupid that it had taken him so long. He should pass that message on to his men, especially the younger ones, save them the trouble of learning it the hard way.
He reached the north bank, paid and thanked the ferryman, then climbed up the wet stone steps to the dockside and walked across to the Thames River Police Station.
Orme was just inside, his stocky, solid figure blocking the way. He looked grim.
“What is it?” Monk said without preamble. He had learned to trust Orme as he had few other men in his life.
“Assistant Commissioner Byrne’s here, sir,” Orme replied. “Waiting to see you.” He did not need to say more; the warning was in his face and in the fact that he was here at all rather than out on the river, standing in for Monk during his too frequent absences.
“Thank you.” Monk walked into his office where Byrne was sitting waiting with ill-concealed impatience. Byrne was good-looking enough. He had strong features and retained a fine head of hair, but he was both shorter and stockier than Monk; he would never have Monk’s natural elegance.
“Good morning, Monk,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Good morning, sir,” Monk replied. He knew an apology was expected. It riled him, but he imagined it would be an unwise start to evade it. “I’m sorry to have kept you.”
The commissioner did not acknowledge it. “This business with Oliver Rathbone,” he said instead. “We cannot afford to be seen as partial, Monk. We talked about this before, but it’s only getting worse. I know you consider him a friend, but you cannot be seen to stand by him now; it looks bad for the entire force. If you are called to testify, be discreet. Do you understand me?”
Monk hesitated. He wanted to say that he heard and understood, but he would not obey an order he considered to be contemptible. He took several deep breaths to give himself time to think. It was a time to be clever, not bold.
“I believe so, sir,” he answered carefully. “You do not wish me to speak in any way that suggests that the police force has any interest in the matter other than to uphold the law and see justice served. I had not intended to do so, sir. And so far, I have not been called to testify, but of course that could change.”
The commissioner looked at him with a degree of disfavor. They stood perhaps a couple of yards apart, the sun shining through the window, casting rainbows on the wall as it passed through the glass paperweight on Monk’s desk.
The commissioner chewed his lip. “I don’t know whether to believe you, Monk. Your history suggests that loyalty to a friend runs deeper than obedience to orders. How can I make this crystal clear? Rathbone has made a mockery of the law by giving the prosecution this obscene photograph, while keeping it from the defense. It is inexcusable. Give me your word as an officer of the Crown that you did not give him the damn thing in the first place. You were on both the Phillips case and the Ballinger one.”
Monk felt a wave of relief, and then the next instant warned himself that he was far from in the clear yet.
“I give you my word, sir, I have never had the photographs in my possession to give to anyone.”
“And if you did, you’d have damned well given it to the prosecution too, wouldn’t you?” the commissioner said drily. “It was your wife who got that disreputable bookkeeper of hers on to the Taft case in the first place, wasn’t it?”
