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doesn’t he call in the River Police? Is it even legal not to?”
    He saw the anxiety in her eyes. He understood it uncomfortably well.
    “He needs the ivory back more quickly than they’ll be able to get it,” he explained. “There are thefts up and down the river all the time.”
    “And murders?” she asked. There was no criticism in her, but there was fear. Did she know how narrow their finances were now? The bills were paid for this week, but what about next week, and the one after?
    She loved the clinic. It would be a defeat of all they had tried to do if she had to give it up in order to earn money as a paid nurse again. The clinic would not survive without her. She was not only the one reliable person there with any medical experience; she had the will and the courage behind the whole venture.
    They had managed through the harder, earlier times with the financial help of Lady Callandra Daviot, who had been a friend to Hester for years, and to both of them since long before their marriage. But Monk was loath to go back to Lady Callandra now—when she was no longer actively involved in his cases, and certainly could not help in this one—simply to ask her for money he knew perfectly well he would not be able to repay. And could Hester ever accept that either?
    He touched his fingers gently to her hair. “Yes, of course, murders,” he answered. “And accidental deaths, which is what the authorities seem to be assuming this one is so far. Louvain has not told them otherwise. When I catch the thief and can prove his guilt, then I can prove the murder as well. I have signed statements from Louvain and the morgue attendant.” He hated the thought of working secretly from the River Police. He was not a lover of authority, nor did he take orders with ease or grace, but he was a policeman by training, and even if he despised some of them for lack of imagination or intelligence, he still respected the concept of an organized force, both to prevent and to detect crime.
    “I’m hungry,” he said with a smile. “What is there to eat?”

 

TWO
    In the morning the mist had blown away. Monk left the house by seven to begin his investigation, and his education concerning the river and its customs. Hester slept a little later, but by eight she, too, was on her way to the house in Portpool Lane almost under the shadow of Reid’s Brewery. It was over three miles, and necessitated the use of two omnibuses and then a walk, but she was too aware of the expense to waste money on a hansom, except in the middle of the night. She arrived just before nine to find Margaret already there, having made a note of the night’s work and busy considering what might best be done for the day.
    Margaret was a slender woman in her late twenties. She had the confidence that goes with a degree of money and education, and the vulnerability of a woman who was not yet married and had therefore failed to fulfill her mother’s ambition for her—and indeed her own for her social and financial survival.
    She was dressed in a plain wool skirt and jacket, and had a pencil and piece of paper in her hand. Her face lit when she saw Hester.
    “Only one admission during the night,” she said. “A woman with a serious stomachache. I think it’s largely hunger. We gave her porridge and a bed, and she looks better already.” There was a shadow on her face, in spite of the harmlessness of the news.
    Since the move from Coldbath Square there was no need for rent to be paid, so Hester knew it was not that which caused Margaret’s concern. This building was theirs—or more accurately, it belonged to Squeaky Robinson, who remained out of prison and with a roof over his head strictly on condition that they had the sole use of the house for as long as they should wish. It had allowed them to expand their work, and now a greater part of London was aware that here prostitutes who were injured or ill could find help, without religious conditions attached or