Monk began by going back to speak with Runcorn. The superintendent was probably as aware as Rathbone of the thinness of the case; nevertheless, Monk outlined it in legal terms while Runcorn sat behind his desk and listened grimly.

"Need to know more about this man in the mews," he said when Monk had finished. "Might get a better description of him if we ask the cabbie again. And we'll have to ask Mrs. Ewart to see if she can say anything more."

She was surprised to see them again, but it was apparent that she was not displeased. She was wearing a woollen dress of a dark, rich wine color, and she looked less tense than she had the previous time. Monk wondered if that was in any part related to the fact that her brother was not at home at this hour.

She received them in the withdrawing room, where there was a bright fire sending its heat into the air. The room was not what Monk would have expected. There was a pretentiousness about it that took away something of the comfort. The paintings on the walls were big and heavily framed, the kind of art one chooses to impress rather than because one likes it. There was an impersonal feel to them, as there was to the carved ivory ornaments on the mantelpiece and the few leather-bound books in a case against the wall. The volumes sat together uniform in size and color, immaculate, as though no one ever read them. Then he remembered that Mrs. Ewart was a widow and this was Barclay's house, not hers. He wondered for a moment what her own choice would have been.

She was looking at Runcorn. Her face in the morning light was less tired than the first time they had seen her, but it still held the same sadness at the edge of her smile and behind the intelligence in her eyes.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, ma'am," Runcorn apologized, looking back at her steadily. "But we've looked into the matter further, and it seems very much like the man you saw could have shot Mr. Havilland. There's a man arrested for hiring him coming to trial soon, but if we don't find a good deal more information, he might get off."

"Of course," she said quickly. "You must catch the man who did it, for every reason. I have no idea where he went, except towards the main road. I imagine he would find a hansom and leave the area as fast as he could."

"Oh, he did, ma'am. We traced him as far as Piccadilly, and the East End after that," Runcorn agreed. Not once did he glance at Monk. "It's just that the cabbie didn't look at him except for an instant, and he isn't all that good at description. If you could remember anything else at all about him, it could help."

She thought for several moments, withdrawing into herself. She gave a little shiver, as if thinking not only of the cold of that night but now also of what had taken place less than a hundred yards from where she had stood. Runcorn's admiration of her was clear in his eyes, but it was the vulnerability in her, the sadness, that held him. Monk knew that because he had seen a flash of it before, and knew Runcorn better than he realized. There was a softness in Runcorn he had never before allowed, a capacity for pity he was only now daring to acknowledge.

Or was it Monk who had only just developed the generosity of spirit to see it?

Mrs. Ewart was answering the question as carefully and with as much detail as she could. "He had a long face," she began. "A narrow bridge to his nose, but his eyes were not small, and they were heavy-lidded." Suddenly she opened her own eyes very wide, as if startled. "They were light! His skin was sallow and his hair was black, at least it looked black in the streetlights. And his brows, too. But his eyes were light-blue, or gray. Blue, I think. And… his teeth…" Then she shivered, and there was a look of apology in her face, as if what she was going to say was foolish. "His eyeteeth were unusually pointed. He smiled when he explained the… the stain. I…" She gulped. "I suppose that was poor Mr. Havilland's blood?" She looked at Runcorn, waiting for his reaction, although it was inconceivable that it should matter to her. Yet Monk could not help but believe that it did. Had she seen that gentleness in Runcorn? Or was it just that she needed someone to understand the horror she felt?

Runcorn continued to probe. What about the man's clothes? Had he worn gloves? No. Had she noticed his hands? Strong and thin. Boots? She had no idea.

If she thought of anything else, he told her, she should send for him, and he gave her his card. Then they thanked her and left. Monk had barely spoken a word.

Even outside in the bright air, wind ice-edged off the river, Runcorn kept his face forward, refusing to meet Monk's eyes. There was no purpose in forcing communication where none was needed. Later they could discuss what each would do next. They walked side by side, heads down a little, collars high against the cold.

The only place Monk could begin was with the nature and opportunities of the man who had paid the assassin.

Was it Alan Argyll who had found him, or Toby? Or perhaps Six-smith had actually contacted him first, for the task he had claimed?

That was an obvious place to start. He could speak to toshers, who combed the sewers for lost valuables, or to gangers, who led the men who cleared the worst buildups of detritus and silt that blocked the narrower channels. They were all displaced. It would take a while before their services were needed, and there was no trade in which to earn their way in the meantime.

He was walking from the Wapping station towards one of the cut-and-cover excavations when Scuff caught up with him. The boy still had his new odd boots on and the coat that came to his shins, but now he also had a brimmed cloth cap that sat uncomfortably on his ears. The hat needed something inside the band to make it a little smaller. Monk wondered how he could tell Scuff this without hurting his feelings.

"Good morning," Monk said.

Scuff looked at him. "Yer doin' all right?"

Monk smiled. "Improving, thank you." He knew the enquiry was nothing to do with his health; it was his competence in the job that Scuff was concerned about. "Mr. Orme is a good man."

Scuff appeared unsure whether he would go so far as to call any policeman good, but he did not argue. " Clacton 's a bad 'un," he said instead. "You watch 'im, or 'e'll 'ave yer."

"I know," Monk agreed, but was startled that Scuff knew so much.

Scuff was not impressed. "Do yer? Yer don' look ter me like yer know much at all. Yer in't got them thieves yet, 'ave yer!" That was a challenge, not a question. "An don' let 'em talk yer inter takin' on the Fat Man. Nob'dy never done that an' come out of it." He looked anxious, his thin face pinched with anxiety.

Perhaps it was enlightened self-interest, given all the hot pies they had shared, but Monk still felt a twist of pleasure inside him, and guilt. "Actually I've been busy on something else," he answered, to divert Scuffs attention. He and Orme had agreed on some preliminary plans, which Orme had been carrying out, but there was no point in frightening Scuff needlessly. "Right now I'm busy trying to find out about a man who was killed just over a couple of months ago."

"In't yer a bit late?" Scuff was concerned, his young face puckered. Monk's incompetence clearly puzzled and worried him. For some reason or other he seemed to feel responsible.

Monk was both touched and stung. He found himself defending his position, trying to regain respect. "The police thought at the time that it was suicide," he explained. "Then his daughter fell off the bridge, and that was my case. In looking back at that, I found out about the father, and it began to look as if it wasn't suicide after all."

"Wotcher mean, fell orff the bridge?" Scuff demanded. "Nobody falls orff bridges. Yer can't. There's rails an' things. Someb'dy kill 'er too, or she jump?"