Monk had found Scuff, an orphan mudlark, along the tidal edges of the river, surviving by salvaging and selling bits of coal, brass screws and fixtures washed up and left. He, and scores of other children, lived in such a way. Monk was new to his appointment as Commander of the River Police and, in Scuff’s eyes, sufficiently ignorant of the facts of life, especially on the water, to be a danger to himself and all those he was supposed to protect. For the price of an occasional ham sandwich and cup of really hot tea, and because he liked Monk, Scuff had undertaken to educate him before he made a mistake from which he could not be rescued.

  Of course, Monk imagined he was teaching Scuff, and Scuff was too diplomatic to explain to him otherwise. They had become friends. As Monk learned more of life on the river, which he did rapidly, the relationship had grown deeper, and the balance of it had changed. Scuff had begun to learn about life also.

  In some dangerous exploits Scuff had been badly frightened, and for safety’s sake, Monk had taken him to his home in Paradise Place. There, Scuff had slept in a bed, a real one, with sheets, in a room all to himself. At the time, warmth, safety, good food cooked specially for him, had seemed the most important thing to happen to him. Looking back now, its importance diminished. What really mattered, what had changed Scuff’s life, though it appeared then as an uncomfortable inconvenience, was that he had met Monk’s wife, Hester.

  To begin with, Scuff found it awkward. Monk he knew and almost understood, as much as one could understand a policeman and an adult who presumably had never had to beg for his survival one meal at a time, and to sleep wherever he could find a dry place sheltered from the wind. But Hester was different altogether. She was a woman, perhaps a lady. She had probably never even seen the muddy tidal stretches of the river, let alone slept in a cardboard box!

  She did not have any children of her own, and Scuff, who claimed to be eleven, was far too old to need a mother! If there really was a God above, as some people seemed to think, please let Him stop her from treating him like a child. It would be embarrassing beyond imagination.

  But Scuff need not have worried, as Hester treated him like an ordinary person. She was even polite to him! But she was very quick to tell Scuff if he was not polite back. At first he was horrified, then he realized he rather liked it. She was treating him like an equal. As if he was a real person, not just a stray nuisance she needed to be kind to.

  He stayed more and more often.

  She had wanted Scuff to go to school, learn to read and write and do sums. It had been awful, at first, like being put in a kind of prison. Gradually he had discovered, after he had caught up, that he was quite good at that sort of thing.

  It was when he realized he wanted to practice medicine like Hester, not be a policeman like Monk, that he kept to it with all his will, actually getting up early and staying up late, studying his books. If Monk was disappointed at his choice, he hid it very well. Scuff hated to disappoint him, even worse to hurt his feelings, but medicine was what he wanted. Not just to be like Hester, but because its art, its passion, its rewards filled his mind with such intensity there was no room left to want anything else. Medicine was his career now. Hester had been a nurse with the army during the Crimean War. She had even been out on the battlefield herself, after the fighting was over. She wasn’t a doctor, but she was as good as many of them, better.

  “How are you coming on?”

  Scuff turned and saw the lanky figure of Crow in the corridor behind him. Crow had dark eyes and black hair. The term “crow” was dialect for a doctor, but it suited him perfectly quite apart from his occupation. Except that no bird of any sort had a huge, white-toothed grin like Crow when he saw something funny, or exciting, or someone he really liked, such as Hester.

  Crow had wanted to be a doctor for a long time, but something had interrupted his study before he had taken the exams. He had practiced without qualifications, and without charging people, for years. He worked among the poor, even the destitute, taking gifts in kind, when they could be spared, and nothing at all when that was the circumstance.

  At Hester’s urging, he had finally taken his exams, and was now officially a doctor. He had made a terrible fuss at the time, afraid of failure, of all past misjudgments rising up again, but he had passed, his skill undeniable. He was more than grateful now, and therefore this was an excellent place for Scuff to begin an apprenticeship.

  Scuff had his school learning, but nothing that would allow him to go to a proper university. He would follow in Crow’s footsteps, the hard way. He too would learn, not from reading about patients in books or from professors, but by helping real people in trouble.

  “Well?” Crow demanded.

  Scuff brought his attention back to the present, recited a list of the supplies that were low. They had money now: not a lot, but enough to get the things they needed, at least in small quantities. One could never foretell what was going to be required.

  “Good.” Crow seemed pleased. It must have been better than he expected, because the lightning grin was back. “Money coming tomorrow, I think,” he added. He was prevented from saying anything further by a noise at the outside door, and a moment later the sound of feet on the wood floor.

  Crow went immediately, and less than a minute later he called out loudly for Scuff.

  Scuff put down his pencil and paper and went to the other room. As soon as he was inside he saw Crow, bent almost double as he staggered to help a man who had all but collapsed sideways. The man was ashen-faced and could hardly stand. His left arm hung uselessly at his side and there was blood on the sleeve of his shirt, near the bend of his elbow. It had dribbled all the way down to the cuff, now stiff with old, dried stains.

  Scuff shot forward and took some of the man’s weight. He tried not to touch the elbow, but it was impossible not to brush it as they eased him onto the low table at one side of the room.

  “Just lie still,” Crow said to him. Scuff could see from his eyes that he was already aware the man was in a very bad way.

  He knew what would be next: they must examine the man and see what the damage was, and—if indeed it had happened some time ago—the extent of any infection that had set in.

  “What’s your name?” Crow asked the man.

  “Tibor…” the man said hoarsely.

  Crow reached out and Scuff put the small, very sharp scissors in his hand. Crow carefully cut the cloth away, talking to Tibor all the time, telling him what he was doing. He found it easier to work in silence, but he knew that the sound of a voice was comforting. It was clear that he knew exactly what he was doing. Scuff had learned with surprise, and only afterward, that sometimes Crow was only hoping and keeping faith with his determination.

  When the wound was laid bare even Scuff could see that it was several days old. The skin was unhealed, the gashes clear where several knife strokes had gone deep. They could not have caught an artery, or he would have bled to death, but from the pallor of his skin, the livid puffiness below the wound and the lifeless hand, Scuff knew instantly what Crow feared—gangrene. In fact, he could already smell it.

  “When did this happen?” Crow asked Tibor.

  The patient stared at him as if he had no idea what he meant.

  Crow tried again. “How long ago?” he asked, indicating the wound without touching it.

  Tibor looked young, no more than thirty. His would have been a handsome, sensitive face were he not clearly terrified. He must have some idea that his condition was serious, and that perhaps it was already too late to save him. Scuff had seen people terribly ill before, and known they would die soon. It was part of the practice of medicine. Some of these people were old. Some were children. Crow had told him that when it ceased to upset him, it was time to get out of medicine and look for something safe and easy to do. Something where it did not matter whether he succeeded or not.

  “Yesterday?” Crow asked. “Day before?”

  Tibor shook his head, not more than an inch or two, but it was denial. “Day…”

  “Several days ago?” Crow guessed. “Night? It happened at night?”

  Tibor nodded.

  Crow held up his fingers. One? Two? Three? Four?

  Tibor nodded at four. His eyes never left Crow’s.

  Crow went on with his careful examination. When he had finished inspecting the wound, he looked more closely at the arm. He did not look at Scuff; there was no need to. The flesh was already dying. Even Scuff could see that.

  “Tibor,” Crow said quietly. “What kind of a name is that? You’re not English, are you?” It was not really a question. “Where do you come from?”

  “Budapest,” Tibor said huskily, but he pronounced it with a familiarity no Englishman would have had.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Little…little bit.”

  “Can you tell me what happened to your arm?”

  Tibor struggled, and tried to mime some kind of blow, but the gesture was weak. With the use of only one hand, he could not express enough.

  Crow looked up at Scuff. “I need to know what happened,” he said in little above a whisper, and speaking rapidly, as if he did not want Tibor to understand. “If it’s as bad as it looks, the only way to save him is to take the arm off at the elbow, or even at the shoulder, if this has gone too far. But I have to know if there’s anything in there: a bullet or the tip of a knife, or whatever caused this. I daren’t use ether on him—he’s too weak. I can’t just go exploring. That, on top of taking it off, could be enough to kill him.”

  Scuff nodded. He did not want to understand. He could imagine what the poor man was going to feel. But he knew they had no choice. Gangrene was a death of the flesh. It did not heal. All the doctor could do was hope to save the life of the patient by seeing that it did not spread to the rest of the body. But without a language in common, Crow could not even get permission for that. And without permission, if he died, it would be a crime. That did not even take into account the horror of the patient who saw his arm being cut off, and did not understand the necessity.

  “I’ll find someone who speaks Hungarian,” Scuff promised. “There are loads of them around Shadwell. I’ll run.”

  “Good. Get anyone who can help. Don’t waste time trying to find someone who knows him. Go…We’ve got to do this tonight.”

  Scuff obeyed without saying anything more. He went out the door into the side bend in the street. The early-evening air was cool off the river. He knew the feel of the incoming tide, the smell of it: fish, salt, estuary mud. It was different from the ebb. He had lived on the river all his life, and he understood it as a stranger never could. Hester had taught him some of its history, and he knew that too, even if it was not out of books.

  The longest street in London. His street. The roadways and alleys were incidental, subject to change. The Thames was the great highway.

  He walked quickly, ideas flitting through his mind. Where should he look for someone who could help, and would agree to? The light was fading. He saw the changes in it on the wind rippling over the water. He could read a clock, but it was still instinctive to turn to the sky, especially on a clear evening like this.

  People would be out walking, on their way home. Many shops would be closed. The open ones would be run by locals. Would they even know what a Hungarian was? It would be quicker to start in Shadwell itself than to stop here and there and waste time trying to explain.

  Where would people go at sundown? Home. Or to the tavern! Men there would have time to speak to a stranger. He was not a child anymore to go almost unnoticed. He was taller than Hester. In another few years he would be as tall as Monk. Already he looked older than he was, except that he had no need to shave more than once every few days.

  He knew where the taverns were; everybody did. They were the sort of landmarks people used.

  The nearest he knew from the Shadwell Dock was the Saracen’s Head, toward Cable Street. He stopped, hesitating at the door, then went inside. It was early in the evening and there were few people there. He felt very self-conscious, now that it came to the moment to ask. Crow would not have cared. He would have thought only of the sick man and his need. Hester certainly would not have doubted herself. She had faced army generals, in uniform, without backing down. If she was scared, no one guessed it.

  He walked over to the bar.

  “Yes, sir?” the landlord said, then took a closer look at him, doubting his ability to pay for a drink.

  “Good evening, sir,” Scuff said with as much dignity as he could. He was mimicking Monk’s accent, or perhaps it was Hester’s. She was a Londoner, as he was, even if she was a lady. “I’m on an errand for a doctor. He has a very badly injured patient who speaks little English. Do you know of anyone who could turn Hungarian into English for us, and the other way too?”

  The landlord frowned. “Injured, eh? Like ’e bin in a bad fight?”

  Scuff remembered with a chill the murder there had been just a couple of days ago. The victim of that had been Hungarian. He drew in his breath and let it out. His mind raced.

  “Not really. More like an accident. Just the one arm, nothing on the rest of him,” he replied. “He can’t even tell us who did it to him, or if he fell, or what happened. At least not so we can understand. All I need is someone who can help us speak to him…”

  “Dunno,” the landlord replied. He looked around the room at the half-dozen or so men there. “Any one o’ you know someone as can speak ’Ungarian?” he said loudly. “Got a doctor’s lad ’ere as wants to know. Need ’elp ter make ’im understand what to do for ’isself, like?”

  He was regarded in silence.

  It annoyed him.

  “Come on! The place is crawling with bleedin’ ’Ungarians! One of you must be able to speak English.”

  More silence.

  “Lot o’ bleedin’ heathens, you are,” the landlord said, slamming an empty tankard down on the bar. “Well, you could try the feller what lives over on Pinchin Street, just the other side o’ the railway line. ’E’s English as you or me, but I ’eard someone say as ’e speaks all kinds o’ foreign. ’E’s a doctor, or ’e was. Maybe ’e’ll ’elp yer. You all bein’ doctors, like.”

  “Thank you. Do you know his name? Or what number on Pinchin Street he lives?” Scuff was desperate. Time was short. Crow had said he had to operate tonight, or it would be too late. “Please!” he added. “He’s going to die if we don’t help him! I don’t know about Hungarians, but that’s not what we do.”

  “No…I don’t…” the landlord began.

  “Fitz…something,” one of the men at the farthest table said. “I think it’s about number fourteen, or thereabouts.”

  “Thank you,” Scuff said, almost over his shoulder, as he went back to the door and out into the street again.

  He half walked, half ran along Cable Street to the place where he could cross over the railway line, go just a few yards, then turn left into Pinchin Street. He prayed a few words to the God Hester had taught him just a little about. He was supposed to love people. If He did, perhaps He could make this doctor be at home! If he wasn’t, Scuff had no idea where to begin looking for him. Maybe he had a landlord who would know? What good to anybody was a doctor you couldn’t find? Out healing somebody else—the answer was obvious. People did die, whatever they believed in. Scuff knew that. Hester had to as well. He should ask her sometime.

  Fourteen? Where was number fourteen?

  Twelve. That must be next door. He stopped at the door, panting for breath. He did not have to run very often now. He reached for the knocker and banged it loudly, more than he’d intended. But nothing happened. He tried again, this time meaning it as loudly as he could.

  The door opened and a large man stood just inside with his table napkin stuck in the top of his shirt. The anger drained out of his face as he saw Scuff’s expression.

  “What is it, lad?” he said with alarm.

  “Is the doctor in?” Scuff asked, still breathing hard. “He’s English, but they said at the tavern that he speaks Hungarian. We need his help. This man’s going to die if we don’t operate on him tonight, but he doesn’t understand anything we say.” He drew in a deep breath. “He only speaks Hungarian. Please?”

  “You must mean Fitz. I’ll get him for you, lad. Just wait there.” He closed the door, in what was perhaps a habitual precaution.

  Scuff stood on the step, shifting his weight from one foot to the other for what seemed like an age, but was probably no more than two or three minutes. Then the door opened and a different man stood there. He was a little over average height, fair-haired and clean-shaven, but his face was pale and there was a kind of hollowness about his eyes.

  “You were looking for me?” he asked quietly. He might understand Hungarian, but he was most definitely English, and a gentleman, his voice with the same inflections as Hester’s.

  Scuff gulped. “You the doctor what speaks Hungarian?” In his tension he forgot the grammar he had been taught. “ ’Cos if you are, we need you to help us, or this man’s going to die. He’s got a bad wound in the elbow and gangrene’s setting in. We got to operate tonight, but he doesn’t understand a word we say. Please…”

  The man shook his head, a grief in his face that was overwhelming. “I’m not up to that. It’s a hard operation and…and not many come through it.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry…”

  “I don’t want you to operate!” Scuff all but shouted at him. “We can do that! We just need you to speak to him. We got to tell him what we’re going to do, and that it’s his only chance. Please…You—” He stopped. Shouting at this man would not help. There was enough pain in his face already. “Please, Mister…Doctor…”

  “Herbert Fitzherbert,” the man replied. “But people call me Fitz. Do you need any instruments? I still keep them…”

  “No,” Scuff said. “No, thank you, sir. We got everything that’ll do any good. Please just come wi’ me?”