Then he had a dinner engagement with Drusilla Wyndham. The very thought of it made him smile. It was like a sweet smell after the dirt and stench of the Isle of Dogs, like laughter and bright colors after the gray misery.

He wore his very best jacket, perhaps partly because of the memory of Selina and her opinion of him, but mostly it was the mood he felt every time he thought of Drusilla. He could see her face in his mind's eye: the wide hazel eyes, the delicate brows, the soft mass of honey-shaded hair, the way her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. She had grace and charm, assurance, wit. She took nothing too seriously. She was a joy to the eye and to the ear, to the mind and the emotions. She seemed to have the perfect judgment of exactly what to say, and even when to remain silent.

He looked at himself in the glass, adjusting his cravat to perfection.

Then, taking his overcoat and his hat, he went out of the door and walked smartly to find a hansom, humming a little tune to himself.

Of course Hester was likely to be at Ravensbrook House, but that was something he could not avoid. He would almost certainly not run into her.

She would be in the sickroom, where he would not be permitted, even had he wished to go, which he certainly did not.

He tipped his hat to a woman he passed in the arc of the street lamp. The knowledge that he would not see Hester was an instant relief. He was in no mood to have his pres ent happiness spoiled by her criticism, her constant re minder of the pain and injustices of life. She was so one-sided about everything. She had no sense of proportion.

It was a fault possessed by many women. They took every thing both literally and personally. Those like Drusilla, who could see the realities and yet had the courage to laugh and carry herself with consummate grace, were rare indeed. He was extraordinarily fortunate that she was so obviously enjoying his company every bit as much as he did hers.

Unconsciously he increased his pace, striding out over the wet pavement.

He was quite aware that women found him attractive. He did not have to work at it; there was an element in his nature which drew their fascination.

Perhaps it was a sense of danger, of emotions suppressed beneath the surface. It was of no importance. He simply realized it was there, and from time to time had taken some slight advantage of it. To use it fully would be stupid. The last thing he wanted was some woman pursuing him, thinking of romance, even marriage.

He could marry no one. He had no idea what lay in his past beyond the last couple of years, and perhaps even more frightening than that, what lay in his character. He had very nearly killed one man in a blinding rage. That he knew beyond question. Memories of those awful moments were still there, buried in his mind, sometimes troubling his dreams.

The fact that the man was one of the worst blackguards he had ever known was immaterial. It was not the evil in the man he feared. He was dead now, killed by another hand. It was the darkness within himself.

But Drusilla knew nothing of that, which was part of her allure.

Hester did, of course. But then he did not want the thought of Hester in his mind, especially tonight, or of the typhoid fever, its anguish or its bitter realities. He would tell Genevieve Stonefleld he had made a considerable stride forward today, then he would leave and spend a bright, witty and elegant evening with Drusilla.

He stepped off the curb and hailed a hansom cab, his voice bright with anticipation.

The next morning, Monk woke with a smile and arose early. The February morning was dark and windy and there was a hard frost in the sheltered hollows of the streets, but he set out before eight for the East End again, and the Blackwall Reach. He meant to find Caleb Stone, and he would not cease until he did, today, tomorrow, or the day after. If the man were alive, he was too angry, too distinctive and too well known to disappear.

By nine he was standing in thin daylight on the banks of the Blackwall Reach on the Isle of Dogs. This time he did not bother with pawnbrokers or street peddlers, but went straight to the places where Caleb might have eaten or slept. He tried hot pie sellers, alehouses and taverns, other vagrants who slept rough in old packing cases and discarded sails or awnings, piles of rotting rope, with timbers rigged to make some kind of shelter.

Yes, one old man had seen him the night before last, striding down Coldharbour towards the Blackwall Stairs. He had been wearing a huge coat, and the tails of it had flapped wide around his legs, like broken wings.

Was he sure it was Caleb?

The answer was a hollow laugh.

He did not ask anyone else if they were sure. Their faces told it for them.

A young woman, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, simply ran away. A one-legged man sitting awkwardly, splicing ropes with horny hands, said he had seen him yesterday going toward the Folly House Tavern. He was walking rapidly against the wind, and looked pleased with himself.

Monk took himself to the Folly House Tavern, a surprisingly clean establishment full of dark oak paneling and the smell of tallow candles whose flickering lights reflected in a mirror over the bar. Even at this hour of the morning there were a dozen people about, either drinking ale or busy with some chore of fetching or cleaning.

“Yeah?” the landlord inquired cautiously. Monk looked ordinary enough, but he was a stranger.

“Ale.” Monk leaned against the bar casually.

The landlord pulled it and presented him with the tankard.

Monk handed over threepence, and a penny for the landlord, who took it without comment.

“Do you know Caleb Stone?” Monk said after a few minutes.

“I might,” the landlord said guardedly.

“Think he'll be in today?” Monk went on.

“Dunno,” the landlord replied expressionlessly.

Monk took half a crown out of his pocket and played with it in his fingers.

Along the bar counter several other drinkers ceased moving and the dull background chatter stopped.

“Pity.” Monk took another sip of his ale.

“Don't never know wiv 'im,” the landlord said carefully. “'E comes Wen 'e suits, an' goes w'en 'e suits.”

“He was here yesterday.” Monk made it a statement.

“So wot if 'e were? 'E comes 'ere now an' then.”

“Did you see him when he was here two weeks ago last Tuesday?”

“'Ow do I know?” the landlord said in amazement. “D'yer fink I write down everyone wot comes in 'ere every day? Fink I got nuftink better ter do?”

“ 'E were.” Another little man leaned forward, bright gray eyes in a narrow face. “'lm an' 'is bruvver, both.”

“Gars! 'Ow jer know?” a short man said derisively. “ 'Ow jer know it were Tuesday?”

“ 'Cos it were same day as of Winnie fell orff the dray an' broke 'is 'ead,” the little man replied with triumph. “That were Tuesday, an' it were Tuesday as Caleb an' 'is bruvver were 'ere. Lookin' at each other fit to kill, they was, both of 'em blazin' mad, faces like death, they 'ad.” Monk could hardly believe his luck.

“Thank you, Mr…”

“Bickerstaff,” the man replied, pleased with the attention.

“Thank you, Mr. Bickerstaff,” Monk amended. “Have a drink, sir. You have been of great assistance to me.” He passed over the half crown, and Bickerstaff grabbed it before such largesse could prove a mirage.

“I will,” he said magniloquently. “Mr. Putney, hif you please, we'll 'ave drinks all 'round for them gents as is me friends. An' fer me new friend 'ere too. An' fer yerself, o' course. Not forgettin' yerself.”

The landlord obliged.

Monk stayed another half hour, but even in the conviviality of free-flowing beer, he learned nothing further of use, except a more detailed description of precisely where Bickerstaff had seen Caleb and Angus, and their obvious quarrel.