They had to spend the rest of the morning dealing with the usual River Police business of thefts, smuggling, and the occasional violence. By the middle of the day Monk was back near Wapping again, knowing that with luck he would have most of the afternoon to think about Durban.

Since the charge was that Durban had procured boys, first for Phillips, then later with the intention of using them in the same trade himself, he knew he should go back and retrace every connection Durban had had with boys, seek the proof his enemies would use, pursue it as ruthlessly as they would, and then hopefully not find it. For that he would need Scuffs help.

“South bank, please,” he said to the ferryman. “Rotherhithe.”

“Thought you said Wapping!” the man responded tartly.

“I did. I've changed my mind. Princes Stairs, and wait for me. I'm going up to Paradise Place, and I'll be back.”

The man nodded agreement.

Monk settled back in the stern as they swung around and headed across the river. He knew from the man's manner that word had already spread that the River Police were in trouble. Even in these few hours their influence was beginning to erode.

Monk had a sudden moment of helplessness, a sickening doubt that he would never stop the destruction. How could he find the skill to prevent the rising confidence of the thieves and chancers up and down the river, the thousands of men who were kept reasonably honest only by the certainty of the River Police's authority, the knowledge that crime was punished immediately and effectively? To some extent it was a matter of bravado, of who kept their nerve the longest. Since the days of Harriott and Colquhoun, the River Police had had the upper hand. But now the greedy on the river were gathering, strengthening, circling to attack.

When they reached the far side he went immediately to Paradise Place. He opened the door and shouted for Scuff as loudly as he could. He tried to think of a suitable punishment if the boy had gone, and knew there was none. He had no right to give commands, except those pertaining to conduct in the house. And yet Scuff was roughly eleven, a child in years if not in experience. He might have strong and subtle knowledge of the street, but his emotions were still appallingly easy to hurt, as vulnerable as any other child's.

Scuff appeared at the top of the stairs, his hair damp and a clean shirt on, which was a little too large for his narrow shoulders, and hanging over the top of his trousers.

“Ah!” Monk said with relief. “I need your help. Are you busy?”

“No!” Scuff said eagerly, starting down. Then he remembered his dignity and slowed. “Not very. What're we gonna do?”

Monk had already decided to tell him the truth. “People are saying some very ugly things about Mr. Durban. In fact, they are actually going to charge that he was guilty of getting boys for Phillips to use on his boat, knowing what it was for.”

“That's stupid!” Scuff said disgustedly. “‘E'd ‘a never done that! Anyway, ‘e's dead.” Then instantly he was sorry, but now it was too late to take it back. “I din't mean ter say that,” he apologized, looking ruefully at Monk to see how hurt he was. “But wot fer? They can't do nothin’ to ‘im now, even if it was true.”

“It's a cowardly thing to blame a dead man who can't answer you back,” Monk said with as much composure as he could. He did not want Scuff to think he had been clumsy. “And it's a good way to get out of it yourself. It turns us away from what we should really be looking at, but all the same, I'm going to find out.”

Scuff looked doubtful. “It won't ‘ang Phillips.”

Monk had a sudden flash of understanding. Scuff was afraid it might be true, and he was imagining how Monk would be disillusioned by it.

“Not directly,” Monk agreed casually, keeping the emotion out of his voice with difficulty. “But just at the moment I'm even more concerned with saving Mr. Durban's good name…” He stopped, catching the anxiety in Scuffs eyes. “Because he was commander of the River Police, and now people are beginning to say we're all rotten, and they're taking liberties,” he explained. “I have to put a stop to that.”

Scuff drew in a deep breath, understanding flooding his face, and then anger. “Yer gotter, Mr. Monk,” he agreed seriously. “Let ‘em get at it once, an’ yer'll ‘ave twice the trouble gettin’ ‘em back ter straight.”

“Well, come on then!” Monk turned and went back to the front door. He heard Scuffs feet clattering down the stairs and running after him to the step. The door slammed, and then Scuff was beside him.

Monk smiled.

They worked for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, tracking down the name and fate of every boy, and what he said of Durban. The next day they started far earlier. By midafternoon, Scuff had been off by himself for several hours, and was late returning to the place they had agreed to meet. Monk was pacing from crate to embankment edge and back again, wishing he had not allowed the boy to go off alone. When Scuff finally showed up, his face was dirty, his shirt torn, and he looked apprehensive.

Monk was too pleased to see him to care about the torn new shirt. Scuff was also unconcerned, and that worried him far more. Scuff was very aware that the clothes were a present, and he was half afraid he would have to give them back one day. If they were torn or stained he could be in a lot of trouble. Worse than that, Hester might think he was not grateful.

Now he stood uncertainly, as if to deliver bad news.

“What did you find out?” Monk asked him. No doubt Scuff was tired and hungry, but relief would have to wait.

Scuff hesitated. He looked as if he had already been considering for some time how to tell Monk whatever it was. He drew in his breath, and then let it out again.

“What did you find out?” Monk repeated, his voice sharper than he meant it to be.

Scuff sniffed. “Mr. Durban. Sometimes ‘e caught boys thievin’- just little stuff, ‘andkerchiefs, sixpence, or a bob ‘ere an’ there-an’ ‘e'd let ‘ em off. Give ‘em a clip round the ear, but also mebbe a cup o’ tea an’ a sandwich, or even a piece o’ cake. Other cops'd ‘ave ‘ad ‘em, locked ‘ em up. Some folks thought ‘e were good for that, others said ‘e were doin’ it for ‘is own reasons. Some of ‘em boys weren't around anymore after that.” He frowned, searching Monk's face to watch how he took the news.

“I see,” Monk said levelly. “How old were these boys, and how often did that happen? Were they talking about once or twice, or lots of times?”

Scuff chewed his lip. “Lots o’ times. An’ one fat ol’ scuffle-'unter told me some o’ their crimes was worse than light fingers. ‘E said one boy Mr. Durban caught weren't five or six at all, ‘e were more like ten, an’ ‘e were a right thief, ‘alfway ter bein’ a fine wirer. That's someone as can pick a lady's pocket an’ she'll never even feel it.”

“I know what a fine wirer is. Why did Durban not arrest him, if he stole valuable property? Was there some doubt about it?”

Scuffs eyes lowered till he was staring at the ground. “‘E were a fine-lookin’ boy, wi’ fair ‘air. Some said Mr. Durban ‘ad another place fer ‘im.” He looked up again quickly. “Not that they got any proof, o’ course, seein’ as it in't true.”

“Who said that sort of thing?” Monk asked him.

“I dunno,” Scuff said too quickly.

“Yes, you do. You know better than to come with stories out of nowhere. Who said it?”

Scuff hesitated again.

Monk was on the verge of shouting at him, then saw his misery and knew that it was not on his own behalf, but came from a powerful awareness of Monk's own vulnerability. He knew what it was to admire someone, to rely on them as your teacher and friend, and in some ways both your protector and your responsibility. That was how Scuff regarded Monk. Was he imagining that Monk regarded Durban the same way?