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“Thank you,” Monk said, swallowing his fear for Scuff as much as he could.
“ ’S nothin’.” Worm stood up very slowly, glancing at the window and the darkness outside. “Can you lend me tuppence for the ferry? I only got a penny and I gotta get back ter the other side.” He looked hopeful, then frightened at the realization of his own temerity.
“It’s a bit late,” Monk answered. “And there are a couple more things I’d like to know about what you found out. Perhaps you’d better sleep here by the fire. I’m sure we can find you a blanket, and a cushion for your head.”
Hester gave him a beautiful smile. Monk refused to look back and meet her eyes. He suddenly felt absurdly vulnerable.
Worm looked startled, then he smiled as well—not that he imagined this generosity was going to come cheap. He would have a lot of questions to answer, but maybe another cup of tea before bedtime. If he got all the answers right, he might even get another piece of cake!
IN THE MORNING, MONK gave Scuff a stiff warning about staying out so late, but also thanked him for the consideration of sending Worm with the message. It turned out Scuff had found Wally, but that it had been a dead end—it was mere coincidence that he had come into some money right after the sinking of the ship.
As he went to the front door, Monk saw Hester standing alone.
“What are you going to do with Worm?” he asked, without any preamble.
“Find out if he has a mother,” she answered. “He might belong to someone.”
“Rubbish!” Monk said smartly. “He has nowhere to go …” He took a deep breath. “And we’re not housing half the orphans on the river! Scuff was fine … but—”
“I know!” she said quickly. “I thought we could make use of him in the clinic. We need a permanent messenger.”
“Hester!”
“What?” She opened her eyes wide and seemed to look right inside him.
“What a good idea,” he said meekly.
MONK CROSSED THE RIVER and took a hansom cab to Lincoln’s Inn, where most of the top lawyers had their offices. He intended to see Alan Juniver, but was informed by his clerk that Mr. Juniver was in court at the Old Bailey and would not be available today. Monk had no intention of accepting such an answer, but the luncheon adjournment would be his first opportunity to force the issue. First he would see Sir Oswald Camborne, who had led the prosecution in the trial of Habib Beshara, before he went to see Beshara himself. He needed all the information he could obtain.
It took a degree of pressure, and then a thirty-five-minute wait, but finally Monk was shown into Camborne’s somber and imposing office. The bookshelves towered up the walls, giving the impression that too heavy a tread on the floor might bring them crashing down. The gas brackets were ornate and someone kept them meticulously polished.
Camborne rose from behind a large desk piled with papers. It was Monk’s instinct to catch a few and re-pile them less precariously, but he resisted with an effort. It would seem officious.
“I don’t know what you think I can help you with,” Camborne said immediately. “I have very little time, and there really is nothing to add. It was regrettable that the case was not more secure, but that doesn’t mean that Beshara wasn’t involved, even if not exactly as it seemed at first.”
Monk sat down, making himself as comfortable as he could in the chair facing the desk. He had the alarming feeling that one of the springs was about to break.
“There is nothing to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Beshara was involved at all,” he pointed out.
“Of course he was involved!” Camborne snapped. “You don’t kn
ow the history of the man as I do. In fact I dare say you’ve never even spoken to him, eh? No, I thought as much.” There was a flush in his face. He leaned forward. “You are meddling in things you know very little about, Mr. Monk. Stick to solving your petty little river thefts and stabbings and the things you understand.”
Camborne’s arrogance was astonishing. Monk reminded himself that it was a measure of the man’s insecurity in his situation. He kept his temper with great difficulty.
“And you understand the sabotage and sinking of ships, Sir Oswald?” he said very levelly.
Camborne paled. “No, of course not!” he retorted. “I don’t know what you mean by that remark! But I understand politics and international finance. You have no idea the weight of the affairs you’re meddling in. Possibly Beshara’s part in this atrocity was different from the precise act he was charged with. Does it matter who actually lit the fuse? The intent was there. A conspirator is both legally and morally guilty.”
“What conspiracy?” Monk asked, raising his eyebrows.
“For God’s sake, man!” Camborne said with exasperation. “The conspiracy to blow up the Princess Mary and drown all aboard her. Don’t play the fool with me!”
“Was there a conspiracy?” Monk affected innocence. “I was taken off the case almost immediately, and have only just been put back in charge. Clearly there is evidence I have not been given. A conspiracy requires a number of people to be involved. At the very least, more than one.”
Camborne forced the words between his teeth. “Of course it’s a conspiracy! You don’t imagine he did all that without help, do you? He acquired the dynamite, got it on board the ship, and set it up in the bow. Then somehow he got off before it exploded, killing nearly two hundred people.”
“Somehow?” Monk repeated the word carefully.
