The men spoke quietly, so as not to disturb her, and because they did not want her to get half the thread of the story, and then worry about the other half.

  “You sure?” Scuff said quietly. The moment the words were out, he wished he had not asked. Neither of them wanted Hollister to be guilty, and yet it was the only answer that made sense. The missing goods had not surfaced anywhere near Hollister’s warehouse, or its ruins. And surely the River Police would have found them within a couple of weeks if they had remained nearby. A river man, especially a bargee, knew exactly how far a flood tide would carry them, and could calculate within five or ten minutes how long it would take to unload such a cargo.

  But unload onto what? A wharf, and then another warehouse? A train that could handle the whole shipment and get it inland before dawn? He did not yet know, but he had heard enough to be certain that it had happened. The Thames River Police would match up the details when he gave them the information, and the names of those who were prepared to swear to it. He hoped that Mac had the sense not to ask too many questions. Arson was a crime of a different, more serious order, not so much for the insurance companies, although this certainly mattered, but because fire in a warehouse was the key to this entire business. And a death. Which meant that where there was arson, there was also, possibly, murder. Years in a prison like Coldbath Fields was a terrible fate for the guilty, but better than the gallows.

  “You’re sure about Hollister?” Scuff asked anxiously.

  “I’m not completely sure,” replied Crowe, leaning forward in his chair and staring with a puzzled expression at the floor. “I don’t want Hollister hanged for being the instigator of the whole plot. And Dolan is clever enough to make it turn out that way. As for Maddock, the watchman, he’d have to be alive to give us his story, so we don’t know what it would be. Paul Dolan will almost certainly tell us whatever will save his father, and make Hollister take the brunt of the blame. After all, it all took place at Hollister’s warehouse.”

  “But they were Dolan’s goods,” Scuff argued. “He could sell them up the river more easily than Hollister, if he’s taking a share of them in return for his part in the insurance fraud. Does Hollister know anything about wools or silks? Does he have contacts who could keep their mouths shut? If these people got caught, they’d sell out Hollister in a heartbeat, but they’d be a lot more careful about implicating Silas Dolan!”

  “I know.” Crowe looked profoundly unhappy. “If we make a mistake, Silas Dolan might even manage to blame Hollister for it all, particularly the arson. And we can’t forget that, when it comes to the law, the death of the night watchman is a hanging offense. Arson and insurance fraud are small crimes in comparison.”

  Scuff saw anxiety not only in Crowe’s face, but in his clenched hands and hunched shoulders. He did not want to be the one who brought this crisis to a head, in case he had to make a very difficult decision about what to report to whom, and have others pay for it. “Some operations have to be made, and the patient dies anyway,” Scuff said slowly, looking for the right words. Something like the words Crowe had used when teaching Scuff about lancing boils, especially when they were on a part of the body too close to a vital organ or an artery. “When you have…” he started.

  Crowe looked up and gave him a twisted smile. “I know. You’re going to feed me back my own words. I have a knife in my hand, and I know enough of the boil to cut it, while I still have the chance. And it’s not as if I had the excuse that it will cure itself if I leave it.”

  “No,” Scuff agreed.

  There was a long moment of silence. Nothing moved.

  Scuff thought of several things to say, but he was sure that Crowe knew them already. Now that they both accepted Hollister’s involvement, to pretend any longer would be not an evasion, but a lie.

  Another fact that had to be taken into account was that Crowe had been asking about the shipment claimed for in the fire. However discreet he had been, he was putting himself and Scuff at risk. There would be whispers and suggestions; they couldn’t be avoided.

  “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll go in the morning. I’ll tell Monk.”

  “No,” Scuff said, speaking with an authority he did not really have. Crowe also knew Monk and his wife, but Scuff felt a special connection to the people who considered him their son. “I’ll go…now.”

  “But you don’t know the details,” Crowe argued. “I have to go. And it’s after midnight!”

  “I know enough from what you’ve just told me,” Scuff replied. “We need to let Monk know before there’s even the smallest chance of the conclusion of your investigation getting back to Dolan. No one will tell Dolan tonight, it’s too late. But I can tell Monk. I’ll go—” He stopped. He had nearly said “home.” But the clinic was his home now. “I’ll go to Paradise Row now and tell him.”

  Monk and Hester lived in the optimistically named Paradise Row, which was up the hill a little from the Greenwich docks, ’round several corners, and next to a park full of trees.

  Crowe stood up at the same time as Scuff. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind.

  “Go to sleep here by the stove,” Scuff said, as if it were an order. “I’ll go and awaken Monk and then I’ll come back here. If he wants to move quickly, they will need you to go with them, so be ready. Get some sleep,” he said again. “If you go with them, which I suppose you will, I’ll look after everything here.”

  Scuff walked over to where his coat was hanging on the row of hooks beside the door. “Prepare yourself,” he said half over his shoulder. “Eat and rest.” And then he went out into the starlit night.

  * * *

  When Crowe went up the river again, this time it was on a Thames River Police boat, with four strong men at the oars and William Monk in the stern, perched on the seat beside him. They were followed by another boat, carrying six more policemen. It rode over the surface of water so black it was almost sinister. There was no moon visible in the heavily clouded sky, but at least the wind was little more than a breath.

  Monk sat silently. There were no more questions to ask. Scuff had given an explanation of the situation, and then Crowe had told him all he knew as they traveled up the river. Several things were no more than intelligent guesses, but it was enough to set this late-night operation into motion.

  For Crowe, there was no point at all in wondering whether he had made the proper choice. What could he do but inform Monk? It had come to the point of no return. In fact, it had been since the moment he had told Scuff. This did not mean it was the right decision, or that whatever happened would not slip out of their control and end in a disaster they could not have foreseen. If the Dolans knew they were coming, it could end in a pitched battle with injuries…or worse.

  And there was nothing to indicate that any of the goods would still be in some upriver warehouse…or even in Great Britain!

  Crowe forced his attention back to the present. They were moving with surprising swiftness, considering that these boats were designed to cut through the water with a minimum load. Usually, there were no passengers.

  Neither Monk nor Crowe spoke. There was nothing left to say, and they both lived more in their actions than their words.

  For the first few miles, there were wharfs and docks, warehouses, cranes, and derricks, slipways for launching. Further along, there were shipbuilding yards, piled-up timbers. Every so often, they passed a steep wall with stone steps leading up to a landing. At the water’s edge, at the foot of these steps, was where boats could pick up or land passengers.

  They passed from deep water into the quiet, more domestic stretches of the river. There were houses with river-edge gardens, stretches of trees lining the banks. Villages had slipways for builders who made fishing boats and small ferries.

  Crowe knew they were not far from their destination now. Even moving in the dark, the outlines of warehouses and derricks were familiar. He could see lights on the shore, some of them moving, as if somebody had seen them coming. It was good they had riding lights! Of course they did. Everyone did, for their own safety, as well as that of other people. He wondered if they were recognizable by them.

  Monk’s men shipped their oars and the boats drifted silently. Crowe closed his eyes and imagined the lost cargo. Much of it had certainly been sold long ago, or moved, but perhaps there were still bolts of silk and wool, and the white furs. The furs were unique, and it would not be difficult to prove they came from the collection of luxury goods that had been claimed as a loss with the insurance company.

  The boats behind them also shipped their oars. The darkness and shifting shadows made judgment of distance difficult, but Crowe sensed they were fast closing on the wharf and the shore.

  A shout echoed across the water. The wharf was now visible in the darkness, but only because of a guide light at the furthest point from land.

  Suddenly, the black wharf rose over them like the bow of a battleship.

  Monk tapped the shoulder of the oarsman nearest to them and gestured. The man put the oar back in the water, and with considerable skill, guided the boat toward the steps, which were visible only in the single riding light attached to their own boat.

  Monk gave the signal to go ashore, ordering one of the oarsmen to stay where he was. If they needed to make a quick escape, the boat would be ready for them.

  Monk stood, climbed out of the boat, and then swiftly, almost silently, moved up the steps. Crowe went after him, clutching the single rail to stop himself from losing his footing on the slimy wood, worn thin and smooth by countless feet over generations of men climbing up from the water.

  At the top, they kept low. Dark as the sky was, a black silhouette could still be seen by anyone watching, with eyes accustomed to the ice-cold winter’s night.

  Crowe wondered if there was anyone watching their stealthy arrival. It was far from daylight, with no light promised for several hours. With a start, he suddenly remembered that today was Christmas Eve!

  Monk held his hand up and stood motionless. They all listened. There was no sound but the faint murmuring of the water. No dripping, not even a sigh of the wind.

  Twelve men trod silently across the wet wooden boards. They all carried bull’s-eye lanterns, but not one of the lanterns was turned on.

  They moved forward slowly, with Crowe following.

  The place seemed deserted, but Crowe figured that there must be a night watchman nearby, someone whose responsibility was to guard against fire or theft. After all, there could be highly valuable goods stored inside. Was this a repository for storing fragile things, valuable objects such as paintings, other works of art…or goods that were supposed to have been destroyed in a fire, and had to be concealed from even the most casual observation?

  One of the policemen was a highly skilled lock pick. Crowe watched him work rapidly and in silence, while another man held up a bull’s-eye lantern to give him light, sheltered from view by his own body. It took perhaps one minute before the lock pick stepped back and gestured for Monk to open the door.

  As they entered, a thought ran through Crowe’s mind. They would have to be quite lucky, so long after the fire, for any goods to still be hidden away and not be dispersed to points unknown. He shook the idea away. It would make sense to keep some of the goods, those that were most identifiable, locked up until no one remembered their existence.

  With one policeman left behind as a lookout, the others went inside. Crowe assumed that at this hour, and so close to Christmas, all the warehouse workers were at home sleeping, surrounded by holiday spirit.

  The men moved silently into the huge space. It seemed to be less than half full of crates and containers, but it took all the men to search for the bales of goods they hoped would be here.

  After inspecting nearly every possible corner and surface of the warehouse, a murmuring sound of discovery reached Crowe’s ears. He rushed over to where several of the policemen were clustered, Monk among them. Hidden under old tarps were seven bales of silk, three bales of fine wool, and one extremely large bundle more heavily wrapped than the others. Monk accepted a pocket knife from one of his policemen and carefully cut the cord holding it together. Inside were some fur stoles, each one individually packed to preserve the suppleness of the skins and the sheen.

  Crowe moved closer. He caught his breath. One of the stoles was identical to Ellie’s.

  A policeman ran his fingers over the fur. “Poor wee beastie,” he said softly.

  Crowe felt a shaft of emotion run through him. These animals had been killed, not to feed people, but for the beauty of their pelts, to satisfy the fashion wishes of the wealthy. His mind flashed back to Ellie at her father’s house, standing there and showing him the fur Dolan had given her. How had she felt, wearing the skin of an animal? For no reason he could think of, he saw Mattie curled up on the blanket on the floor, and the tiny kitten asleep beside her, its nose close to her cheek.

  It was at that moment that lanterns suddenly appeared, illuminating the part of the floor near the door. One of the River Police started to shout, but the cry died in his throat.

  Crowe spun round. Paul Dolan was standing at the edge of an open space on the warehouse floor, with a pistol in his hand. It was pointed at one of the policemen. Behind him, other shadows took shape. Crowe hoped they were Monk’s men, ready to close in on Dolan, and guessed there were at least eight or nine of them. But as they became visible, he saw that they were not from the police. So, Paul was here, ready to fight, no doubt sent by his father.

  All movement stopped.

  And then a policeman stepped forward and announced himself, his voice ringing through the cavernous space. “Sergeant Olsson, Thames River Police! Put the gun down, sir.”

  Paul stood there, the gun gripped firmly, and now aimed at Olsson.

  “There are ten of us here,” said Olsson, as if speaking to a man who was neither armed nor dangerous. “Are these your goods?” He gestured toward the biggest stack closest to them.

  Paul hesitated.

  Sergeant Olsson smiled bleakly. “If they aren’t, then what are you doing here? And if they are, maybe you’d like to tell us where you got them from?”

  “You don’t look like the police to me,” Paul answered. And then he smirked. “Oh, River Police, yes?” He said this as if they were of lesser caliber than city police. “Of course, when you are all dead, we’ll take your uniforms and your badges, and then you’ll look like common thieves. Or even tramps coming out of the cold. But how were we to know? We caught you here, didn’t we? And we thought you might be arsonists. With all that trouble before, one has to be careful. Everybody knows that!” He smiled as if the thought amused him.

  Monk stepped forward, now clearly out of the shadows. “A dozen tramps?” he said incredulously. “Planning another fire, are you? Burn us all to death? Like you burned the night watchman in Hollister’s warehouse? That’s a hanging matter. Perhaps that wasn’t you…maybe it was your father?” His face looked strange and bleak in the light of the bull’s-eye lanterns.

  Crowe stared at Monk and saw the strength of his bones, curiously ageless in this unnatural light.

  Paul hesitated, as if suddenly uncertain how to act.

  There was a slight shuffling sound in the darkness.

  No one moved.

  Crowe looked around. How many men were actually in this barn of a place? Eighteen? Twenty? Was this mischance? Or had Monk and his men walked into a trap? He knew that the River Police were like any others, in that they did not carry firearms, only truncheons. He wondered if Paul was the only man present who had actually killed a man. If, in fact, he was the one responsible for the death of Maddock. But then, of course, there was Monk, whom Crowe was certain had killed. He knew this only because he had been told in confidence.

  He looked around the vast space. Where was Silas Dolan? Surely he was here, too, in the shadows. How many men had he killed? None? Half a dozen?

  There was a soft sound, as if a bale of fabric was sliding from its position above Dolan’s head. Dolan glanced up just as it teetered on the edge of the tall stack where it was positioned, then he moved sharply sideways, raising his arm to ward off the impact. The bale landed inches away from him, hitting the floor with hardly a sound. He threw himself into the shadows, the gun still gripped in his hand.

  Crowe looked up, expecting to find a policeman on top of the bales, ready to hurl them as weapons. At that height, and out of sight, whoever was there held a distinct advantage.

  The next moment, another policeman broke from the shadows, dragging Paul with him, then striking him on the arm so hard that the gun flew out of his hand and landed on the floor.

  Monk dived for it, while Crowe swiveled ’round just in time to avoid a blow to the side of his head.

  Within seconds, they were all in a pitched fight. Other men came out of the darkness, and still more shadows moved, so that it was impossible to tell at first whether they were Dolan’s men or River Police.

  Someone emerged from behind a large stack of bales and moved forward. It was Silas Dolan, a revolver in his hand. He raised it and shot at Monk, just as another bale was dislodged. The shot went wild, the bullet striking a lamp. Glass exploded, shards finding their way into the arms and faces of anyone standing within range.

  Chaos erupted.

  Crowe tried to follow what was happening. In the frenzy around him, he saw Monk shoot at least one of Dolan’s men, using the revolver he had snatched from the floor. He turned just in time to stop one of those men from striking him.

  Memory washed over Crowe, scenes from his past that he had almost obliterated from his mind. He was a young man at sea, going anywhere, engaging in dockside brawls in foreign ports, fights when he had to watch for knives, fists, boots, anything used to defend or attack.