Lower down, near the water and all its multitudinous trades and businesses, and carrying far heavier traffic, few of the streets had pavements at all, and those that had were paved unevenly, worn by the endless passage of feet. Nevertheless, he was able to walk almost by instinct, feeling his way along the cracks and, above all, avoiding tripping. After so many years living in this area, he knew the potholes and uneven levels as well as if he could see them.

  He walked into the dark night and realized that his mind was made up. He could not leave it alone and just walk away. He must find out all he could about Albert Hollister…and Paul Dolan as well. Marrying this Dolan fellow was clearly not what Ellie wanted, and yet she was willing to accept it…or so she insisted. Why? There must be a reason. It was none of Crowe’s business, and yet he could not stand apart. Paul Dolan was in every way objectionable. He was crude, a bully, even violent at the least provocation. Why would any man wish his daughter to marry such a person? Was there some hidden goodness in the young man that Crowe could not see, and Ellie could? He knew many awkward, unpolished people. In fact, most of his patients were without money, education, or any social graces, except those bestowed on them by good nature. But they were not violent.

  No, there was something more urgent here, and more tangible. He must find out. First, he would learn more about Albert Hollister, then about Paul Dolan, and Silas, his father.

  In the little time they had spent together, he had learned all kinds of things about Ellie’s character, her hopes and dreams. He’d discovered what made her laugh and what disgusted her. He had discovered what stirred her to anger and to grief. But he knew very few actual facts about her life, except the medical ones he learned as a result of her accident. She had told him her mother had died some years ago of an illness, nothing mysterious or springing from any fault in her care. He had also learned that Ellie was an only child.

  There was an ocean of things he did not know. If he acted without at least some knowledge, he could do far more harm than good.

  But if he did not help her, who would?

  He made a list in his mind of things he needed to do. His memory was extraordinary, and he seldom wrote anything down, except for medical orders. That was a characteristic he shared with Scuff. The benefactor who had helped Crowe learn to read and write was a ship’s surgeon, who had taught him anatomy and medicine during their long days at sea. Then came university, and a learning he had absorbed with a passion, much as the driest sponge absorbs water. Much as Scuff was doing now.

  Then had come the scandal, disaster, that had ruined his benefactor and cut off the finances that had paid his fees. It was the end of his formal studies. But he never abandoned medicine: it was his art, his calling, and his love. He had wandered about for a while, worked with animals, which he had loved, then returned to London and was drawn into helping people. He knew it was illegal. He had the knowledge, but not the official title that comes with passing examinations that made it legal to practice medicine.

  It was Hester Monk, who would later become Scuff’s adoptive mother, who had persuaded Crowe to return to his formal studies and earn his qualifications. She knew far more about practical medical care than many doctors. It came from participating in surgeries on the battlefields in the Crimea. It was from her that Scuff, too, acquired his love of healing, and his ambition to give his life over to it.

  Crowe had not taken Scuff in as a favor to Hester. It was for Scuff’s own sake, but it was also because Crowe saw an echo of his younger self in the boy. The boy who was now a man.

  Crowe was determined to learn what he could about Albert Hollister and the Dolan family. Discovering more about what their businesses were would be simple enough, but he needed to understand what anchored those businesses…the facts that could not be readily seen. For example, who owned them? Did Silas Dolan trade alone, or did he have partners? And to whom did he and Hollister owe money, loyalty, or repayment of favors? Sometimes, the very nature of debt could run deep, and it could be dangerous. At the same time, he wanted to know if someone—Hollister?—had a debt to Dolan. Crowe wondered what he might discover.

  His mind returned to the subject of families and, specifically, businesses. Was it possible that one of the businesses, headed by either Dolan or Hollister, was failing? And if that happened, who would lose? What secrets tied the Dolan and Hollister families together?

  Perhaps, Crowe decided, he should first learn about Hollister, what he owed, if anything, and to whom. And then the same about Silas Dolan.

  Crowe was convinced that there was a nefarious link between the two men, one that added up to Ellie being promised in marriage to a brutish young man.

  He knew who to ask, and he would start tomorrow.

  The wind blew up from the river, sharp and cold on the incoming tide. He put his head down as he went round a corner. Only half a mile to go and he would be home.

  The shops he passed reminded him that Christmas was only a little over a week away, but he felt none of the joy of the festive season.

  * * *

  Crowe had more contacts among ordinary people than anyone he knew. There were the regular police and the Thames River Police, firemen, and the ferrymen who rode back and forth across the river. There were dockside workers, cab drivers, news vendors—both of newspapers and posters—and peddlers of everything from matches and bootlaces to fresh ham sandwiches. The newspaper vendors always knew more than the papers they sold, and then there were the running patterers. These were the men who heard pieces of news mixed with gossip and exaggeration, to which they added a little music and lots of rhyming slang, and entertained the public on the street. They were the main source of news for the masses that could not read. Crowe knew a few of them. He liked their sly wit, their crazy rhymes and rhythms. Sometimes, they were informed about more than they thought it was wise to say, but with a little skill and good humor, they could be persuaded to reveal what they knew. These men were natural raconteurs, street poets, and actors.

  By the time Crowe reached the clinic and was inside, sheltered, and warm, it was late. He was tired and hungry, but his mind was racing.

  Scuff was in the kitchen stirring the big saucepan that lived on the back of the stove. It contained lots of bones, fresh ones added every two or three days, plus cabbage stalks and potato peelings. Always onions, and sometimes barley, very often turnips.

  He breathed in deeply. He had not even thought of it, but now he realized that he hadn’t eaten for a long time, too consumed had he been with his thoughts.

  Scuff heard him and turned around. “Hungry?” he asked.

  For the first time since seeing Ellie Hollister on the street, Crowe smiled. He felt the stiffness ease out of his body. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Any new patients?” He sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Nothing much,” Scuff replied, turning back to the saucepan. “A couple of cuts that needed a stitch, couple of bad colds. Gave them some of that vile cough medicine.” He shot a grin at Crowe. “Tastes so vile it’ll be some time before they finish it! You think it really works? If it does, I’ll make some more.”

  Crowe smiled. “Yes, do make more. It keeps. By the way, unless there’s a rash of accidents, or something serious, I’ll be out most of the time over the next day or so. I’m looking into something.”

  “Can I help?” Scuff asked, a hint of excitement in his voice.

  “Yes,” said Crowe. “You can be here and look after things. Please?” When he saw how Scuff nodded as he realized with anticipation that he would be left in charge of the clinic, Crowe felt relieved. The clinic would be in good hands. He could leave with an easy mind, and put his whole attention into learning about Silas Dolan and Albert Hollister.

  * * *

  When Crowe set out early the following morning, he was quite certain where he would begin. He was also quite certain that he did not want to know the full truth about Albert Hollister, because he was afraid of what it would tell him about Ellie. As much as he knew he should, he could not get her out of his thoughts. He never would. She had been moved to the back of his mind and had remained there most of the time, a sweet and distant memory, but being with her after this short space of time had shattered his delicate self-deception.

  Ellie was real again, with no protection of dreams, and desperately vulnerable. Not that she had asked for his help. In fact, when she had walked away from Paul Dolan, she seemed to have had only a momentary relief, and it was quite clear in her eyes, in the whole set of her face, that she intended to continue her course with him.

  Bitter as this was for Crowe, it was clearly her choice.

  But now Crowe was on a quest. He needed to know why. What did he expect to find? Something that would offer her an escape? No, he was looking for the truth, the reason why she did not walk away from Paul Dolan and his repellent behavior. The thought of him hurting her made him feel ill. Dolan’s slapping her, and even touching her intimately—the very idea felt like blasphemy. Crowe could still see the look in her eyes, the pain in them. And when she had turned away from him, he knew that she recognized Dolan’s cruelty and could do nothing.

  But why?

  What did Crowe not understand? Whatever it was, he felt compelled to discover the reason behind it. Seeing her again had awakened within him all those feelings of tenderness, the intimacy of not being alone in the heart, the happiness of sharing as he never had with anyone as far back as his memory stretched, including the darker years of his childhood.

  The time Ellie had spent in the clinic, recovering from what could have been a fatal injury, had made him aware of loneliness, a kind of separation from something infinitely precious, but only half remembered. Her presence had released all of this. In that short stay, he had learned to trust her always to be herself, good and yet fallible; frightened but never a coward; tender, wanting to trust, even for the short time she had been there, before returning to the shadows of her life and to her inescapable duties. He would not have wanted her to be different, whatever her hungers or her fears, or to be taken away from what was her duty.

  But was this relationship with Paul Dolan really her duty, regardless of what it cost her? When Crowe had treated her, Dolan had not been part of the picture. Or had he? Was he always there, and it was only that Crowe had not known it? That was another truth he did not want to face, and yet he must.

  Exactly where should he begin, if he wanted to learn about Albert Hollister? There were a few things that Ellie had told him about her father. He knew, of course, that Hollister was a widower and Ellie was his only child. And that, financially, he was very comfortable. She had not actually said that, but it emerged through their conversations. And he could see this for himself, from the quality of her clothes, ruined as they were in the accident. Nevertheless, he knew the feel of quality, of fine cotton lawn, rather than the coarse cotton he was accustomed to seeing. And when her father had come to take her home, she had changed into clothing that was clearly of high quality.

  What else had she told him in those few days together? He had encouraged her to talk while in terrible pain, mostly to take her mind off it, if even for a moment. And…because he was interested.

  So, what did he know? Albert Hollister owned warehouses, several of them along the waterfront of the south bank of the Thames. Merchants needed them when loading and unloading, storing goods of all kinds that would be carried by rail to elsewhere, or sold to merchants here in London. It was a good business, and he had prospered from it.

  But that was information Crowe had learned nearly a year ago, when he was tending to Ellie in the clinic. Had anything changed since then? And did it explain her betrothal to a man she quite clearly despised? Even more than that, a man she feared.

  Crowe turned his thoughts to Silas Dolan. How did he fit into Ellie’s life, beyond being the father of the bully who was betrothed to her? She had never mentioned the name Dolan during her recovery. Young Dolan had certainly never visited her, unlike her father, who had come to see her on several occasions. Each time, he had tried to take her home, but the sight of his daughter’s pale face, recognizing that she was still in pain, and Crowe’s warnings about the dangers of moving her, had made him back down. He had put his daughter’s safety before his strong opinions, which told Crowe that he cared. So, what had changed so radically since then? Why would he allow someone like Paul Dolan to marry her?

  Dolan had spoken to her of their marriage returning her father to the prosperity he had once had. That implied a change in circumstances…

  If Crowe was going to save Ellie from this terrible fate, he needed answers!

  Of all the different kinds of people on the street—people he had treated and assisted, or even those he hardly knew—who could help him now? He hated asking, lest some might see this as a kind of request for repayment. He did what he could to help anyone, but it was always the poor and the desperate who came to him. That was because they knew him, and trusted him, and it had made no difference if they lacked the money to pay a regular doctor. They had trusted him even before Hester Monk had persuaded him to finish his formal education and take the necessary examinations to qualify. If he asked for their help, would they feel obligated, based on his past treatment of them?

  Crowe thought of those earlier times. He had never been so afraid of anything in his life as he feared failing to pass the exams. He was terrified that he would be forbidden to practice medicine any longer, having already practiced without qualifications. And what about all the people who had trusted him? He would have to abandon his treatment of them. But when it had come time to take the examinations, he had succeeded! Now he was treating the same people as before, only from a newer and bigger clinic, one with a few rooms where several patients could stay and recover, if the cases were severe enough. He owed Hester Monk for that.

  Scuff had more than earned his way in the practice. And any knowledge or confidence Crowe had given him, and would continue to give him, was the cause of profound satisfaction for both of them. No, not just both, but all of them. He had to include Hester and Monk.

  Should he ask for Monk’s help in this? As the senior policeman on the river, he would have access to all kinds of information about Silas Dolan and his son, Paul, and Albert Hollister as well.

  No, before turning to Monk, he first must find out the basic facts that were common knowledge on the street. And it was better if he did so quietly, putting the pieces together until he had enough to form at least a rough picture. He was not researching the way to treat an illness or injury; this was about Ellie Hollister’s life!

  He began with a man he had helped several years earlier. Actually, he had saved him from losing his hand after a river injury. Several small bones had been crushed, and it was Crowe’s immediacy on the scene and his quick responses that had made the difference. This man, Joe, was still making his living on the river, skillfully managing the long strings of barges that went higher up from the Pool of London, with enormous loads of goods for distribution, traveling as far inland as the river stretched, until it was no more than a stream with a very shallow draft. An entire line of these barges could be managed by a single man standing at the stern, using his long pole, his balance, and his minute knowledge of every ridge and sandbank, his awareness of everything about the tides that had taken him along the river since childhood. Joe had learned them all, and now it was instinctive. And he had the good fortune of having two strong hands to manage the pole. With only one hand, he would not have been able to earn a living. And he had Crowe to thank for this.

  “What can I do for you?” Joe asked, when Crowe finally found him sheltering behind a stack of crates and boxes.

  There was no time to waste in being unnecessarily evasive or devious. And it was probably pointless anyway, an insult to the man’s intelligence.

  “What do you know about Albert Hollister?” Crowe asked.

  Joe thought for a moment. “Hollister’s got these warehouses along the river, south side. Two small ones, and one big one with its own wharf. That’s a lot, that is, having your own wharf. Get stuff in and out quick.” He gave a lopsided wink. “Before anyone gets too much time to wonder what it is exact, like.”

  “Is it likely to be of interest to, say, the River Police?”

  “More like Customs men,” Joe replied. “And they got no friends, exceptin’ those that try to buy their favors.”

  “Is Hollister dealing in stuff that Customs would like to know about?” He had to ask, although he did not want to know.

  “Not much.” Joe pursed his lips. “Too easy to get caught. You need to know all the right people.”

  “And who are the right people?”

  “You born yesterday, Doc? They mostly take a bit on the side, the Customs men do, and keep their mouths shut. “ ’Ollister is not in anyone’s pocket, far as I know. Unless it’s Silas Dolan’s.”

  Crowe felt a knot tighten inside his chest. “Are you saying that Albert Hollister is beholden to Silas Dolan?”

  “Don’t need to be,” Joe replied. “They’re both cleverer than that. There were days…let’s just say Dolan made a whole bag full o’ money from a fire. Lost a fortune in silks and stuff, so they say…but he came out all right…if you get my drift.”

  “What has that to do with Hollister?” Crowe had to ask, although, yet again, he dreaded the answer.

  “The fire was in one of Hollister’s warehouses.”

  Crowe nodded, but he knew that uncertainty was clear in his face.

  “So, here’s what you do, Doc,” Joe explained patiently. “You pretend to be uploading the stuff—you know, into some warehouse—when you’re really offloading it. That means putting it somewhere safe, where it won’t be seen. Can’t get much safer than a string o’ barges goin’ upriver on the tide. So, your warehouse is empty, or nearly so, and all the goods are safe upstream, and then you set fire to the warehouse and claim the insurance. Oh, no! Lost all me silks and furs! Oldest trick in the book, but you gotta be clever about it. Anybody who could prove you did it…and you’re theirs for life. Like a sword hanging over your ’ead.”