“Yes. I have seen a great deal of typhoid fever before.”

“In the East End?” he said derisively. “They're dying like flies!” “In the Crimea,” she corrected him. “And hundreds of the men died there too, but not all.”

“Oh.” His face ironed out. “Yes. I forgot about the Crimea.”

“You wouldn't had you been there!” she snapped.

He made no remark, nor did he thank her, but went out, closing the door behind him.

She rang the bell, to tell Dingle that Enid was past the crisis and have her take away the bowl of used water. She also asked for a cup of tea.

Until that moment she had not realized how devastatingly tired she was.

Dingle brought her tea, hot buttered toast, a fresh stone hot water bottle and a blanket warmed next to the kitchen fire.

“But you will stay with her, won't you?” she asked urgently. “Just in case?”

“Yes I will,” Hester promised.

For the first time since Hester had arrived, Dingle's face relaxed into a smile.

“Thank you, miss. God bless you.”

Monk was now certain in his own mind that there was no other course but to find Caleb Stone. None of his doubts about Genevieve warranted any delay or gave rise to anything more than a suspicion at the back of his mind, an awareness, haunting and painful, of other possibilities. But whatever they might be, they still led back to Caleb. There would be both time and need to apportion guilt once Angus's fate was known, or so deeply implicated that the authorities were obliged to investigate it. He dressed in old clothes which he must have purchased some time ago for such a task. His own wardrobe was immaculate. He had the tailor's bills from past years as testament to that, and to his vanity. The quality and cut of it, the perfectly fitting shoulders, the smooth, flat lapels made him wince at the expense, at the same time as giving him an acute satisfaction. The feel of the cloth pleased him every time he dressed, as did his elegant reflection in the glass.

However, today he was bound for Limehouse, and possibly the Isle of Dogs, in search of Caleb Stone, and he did not wish to be obvious as a stranger.

As such he would be both disliked and despised, and most certainly lied to.

Therefore he put on a torn striped shirt without a collar, then baggy, ill-fitting brownish-black trousers, and grimaced at the figure he cut.

Then a stained waistcoat (largely for warmth) and an outer jacket of brown wool with several moth holes in it. He crowned it with a tall hat, and- refusing to look at himself again-he set out into the light drizzle of early morning.

He took a cab as far as the end of Commercial Road East in the heart of Limehouse, then continued on foot. He already knew it was going to be difficult to find Caleb. He had tried tentatively before. No one was eager to talk about him.

He turned his coat collar up and walked across Britannia Bridge over the dark water of Limehouse Cut, past the town hall and onto the West India Dock Road, then turned sharp right down Three Colt Street towards the river and Gun Lane. He had several places in mind to pursue the serious quest for Caleb. From what he had already learned of him, his life was a precarious balance on the edge of survival. He had been involved in various acts of violence and duplicity. He had a razor-edge temper and was spoken of in anxious and whispered tones. But so far, Monk had not been able to learn exactly how he made his money, nor where he lived, except most approximately that it was east, downriver from the West India Dock. He began with the pawnbroker in Gun Lane. He had been there before. He could not remember anything about either the man himself or the small room no doubt crowded with domestic objects of every kind, grim reminders of the degree of poverty in the area. But the man's expression of alarm when he stood over the counter and the light from the oil lamps caught his face, was proof that some time in the past they had met before, and Monk had had the best of it.

Of course, he no longer had the power of the police to use, and Wiggins, the proprietor, was a hard man. He could not have plied his trade for long if he were taken advantage of often.

“Yes?” he said guardedly as Monk came in emptyhanded. Then he recognized him. “I dunno nuffink ter tell yer,” he said defensively. “I in't got nuffin 'ot, an' I don' do no bis'ness wi' thieves.” He set his fat jaw hard. It was a lie, and they both knew it. Proving it was the issue. Monk had already decided his course.

“I don't believe you, but then on the other hand, I don't care either.”

“Yeah? Since. when?” Wiggins's face registered profound disbelief. “Since you're more use to me in business than in gaol,” Monk replied. “Oh, yeah?”

He leaned over the counter in the space between two stone jars on one side and a pile of pans and kettles on the other. “Gore inter a bit o' tradin' on the side, 'ave yer?” It was meant as an insult, then as Monk failed to be angry, his expression suddenly changed to one of amazement. “Gorn a bit bent, 'ave we? Well I never. 'Oo'd a' thought. Mr. Monk, an' all, reduced ter a bit on the side. 'Urts does it, not gettin' a reg'lar wage fer 'ounding folks? 'Ungry, are we, an' cold now an' agin? Must say as yer don' look the dandy as yer used ter. Right come down in the world, we 'ave.” His smile grew with each new thought. “If yer wanter 'ock some o' that fancy rig o' yours, I daresay as I could see me way ter a fair price. Sell 'em up west, I could, for a nice penny. O' course, that's if yer don' wanna be seen doin' it yerself, like? Catches yet pride, do it?”

Monk made a powerful effort to control his temper. He considered returning at a later date in the very best clothes he had, and giving Wiggins a gold sovereign just to make the point.

“I'm a bad enemy w-hen I'm hard-pressed,” he replied between his teeth.

“And I'm hard-pressed now.”

“You was always a bad enemy,” Wiggins said sourly. “An' a bad friend too, for all I know. D'jer wanna 'ock summink or not?”

“I want to do a little business,” Monk said carefully. “Not with you, with Caleb Stone.”

Wiggins's face tightened.

“I've got a job for him,” Monk lied. “One I'll pay him for, and from what I hear, he could use the money. I need to know where to find him, and you seem a good place to start.”

“I dunno were ter find 'im, nor I wouldn't tell you if I did.” Wiggins's eyes were cold and hard. They did not flinch a fraction as they met Monk's.

The door opened and an undersized woman came in, a thin shawl held around her hunched shoulders, a pair of boots in her hand. She peered at Monk anxiously to determine whether to wait for him to finish his affairs or not.

“Wotcher want, Maisie?” Wiggins asked, cutting across Monk. “Them your Billy's boots agin? I'll give yer sixpence. If'n I gives yer more, yer'll not raise enough ter get 'em back.”

“'E'll get paid Friday,” she said tentatively, as if she were saying it more in hope than belief. “'E's got a bit o' work. But I gotter feed the kids. Gimme a shilling, Mr. Wiggins. I'll get it back to yet.”

“They in't worth a shillin',” Wiggins said immediately. “Got 'oles in 'em.

I know them boots like the back o' me 'and. Sevenpence. That's the lot!

Take it or leave it.”

“What work does Billy do?” Monk asked suddenly.

Wiggins drew in his breath to interrupt, but the woman was too quick.

“'E'll do anyfink, mister. Yer got summink as yer wants done, my Billy'll do it for yer.” Her thin face was full of hope.

“I want to find Caleb Stone,” Monk replied. “I just want to know where he lives, that's all. I'll speak to him myself. His brother has died, and I want to inform him officially. They were close, even though his brother lived up in the West End.”

“I kin tell yer were Selina lives,” she said after taking a deep breath.