Spike ate one of the fresh buns completely before even speaking to Crowe. “Yeah?” he said, looking carefully at his mug of steaming tea. “What you wanna know?”

  “The fire,” Crowe replied. “Not quite a year ago. Warehouse on Tooley Street.”

  Spike’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Nasty. Very nasty. Even if it weren’t on purpose, bad stuff.”

  “Is there any good stuff in a fire?” Crowe kept his expression neutral. “Lost a lot of stuff in this one. Fabrics?”

  Spike gave him a tired look, as if his patience was being strained to breaking. “Losing your grip, are you? Don’t be daft! A few bolts, that’s all. Some of ’em scorched a bit around the edges.” He shook his head, his eyes steady on Crowe’s face. “You’re putting me on, Doc. What is it really? Is it about Maddock?”

  Crowe had to look as if he understood. Maddock? For a moment he could not place the name, but there was an ugly thought taking shape in his mind, a dark shape heavy with fear. Maddock was the name he had read in the newspaper, the night watchman who had burned to death in the fire. Crowe nodded, tightening his lips, trying not to show too much emotion.

  He must have failed because Spike said, “Yeah, poor sod, that Maddock.” His voice was bitter. “You wanna see his bones?” Spike said bitterly. “They burned them. What does it matter to you that he’s dead?”

  It was what Crowe had feared, at the back of his mind. The dreadful shape he refused to look at. And was that what Ellie feared? That her father was somehow responsible for Maddock’s death? Of course, she would not tell Crowe of her fears. She probably would not even allow herself to acknowledge them. What could she do, other than accept the price—that she was being married off to this brute in order to keep Silas and Paul Dolan quiet? Did she even know if it was true? Had Hollister admitted his role in this arson to her, telling her what she must do to save his life? If he were convicted of arson, and a man had burned to death in that fire, they would hang him.

  Even after all this time, could it be the reason Monk had not acted yet? It was a capital crime, so it would take intensive, and possibly lengthy, investigating. William Monk would never let such an important possibility as death by arson slide by. Whoever was found guilty would face the gallows. If Monk got it wrong and hanged an innocent man, it would be impossible to undo. The man would be dead, and the Lords Justices would be loath to admit their error. Very loath indeed.

  Crowe believed he knew Ellie. At least, there was a side of her that he felt he knew. That was her ability to face pain and endure it without complaint. He had watched her do so, despite her fear and suffering. He saw how determined she was that if she cried, she would do so when she thought no one was watching.

  As before, he longed to comfort her now, even share the weight of her pain, but it would break a barrier that had to exist between them. He was her doctor; she was his patient. It was possible that, to her, he could never be more than that.

  How could he help her? How could he be sure that seeking the truth might not make matters worse? He could do nothing without discovering all the information that was available regarding the fire. He had so much yet to learn. Perhaps most importantly, he needed to uncover who had set it. Was it someone who would profit from it? Or perhaps someone paid to do the job, an expert. Arson was a skill, an art. Who else knew the truth about it? What was their interest, and their price for silence?

  The place to start was finding out who had taken the bales of wool, silk, and those valuable furs out of the warehouse before the fire was set. Who received the insurance money? Joe had told him that it would be Hollister and Dolan, each man taking his share.

  There were other questions rolling through Crowe’s mind, questions that might be harder to answer. How carefully had the insurance company investigated the fire? And if they didn’t do a thorough investigation, was someone in that insurance company part of the plot? And if so, what was their share?

  One more question rushed into his head: Did the insurance adjuster have ties to Hollister or to Dolan? Powerful men often relied on those of lower status to do their dirty work.

  Of course, there was one other very important question that he needed to explore. What could he learn about Maddock, the man who died?

  No matter how excellent his memory, Crowe knew that he must make a list of all these questions, and then tick them off when he found the answers. He would make a plan, although it might be altered with every new fact learned.

  Whatever he did, and whatever he learned, he knew it was a nightmare that must be faced. But he was determined to understand why someone as gentle as Ellie would agree to marry a bully like Paul Dolan. Everything he was being told brought him closer to his suspicions. It was not to please her father, but to protect him. If she knew about the black shadow of guilt hanging over him, or even suspected it, that could be explanation enough.

  But where was the justice in that? A young woman forced into a loveless marriage.

  Injustice was like an acid burning into him. Maddock had been killed. Silas Dolan and his son had grown rich. So had Albert Hollister. But perhaps Hollister’s enhanced wealth came with the constant fear that the Dolans could expose him anytime they chose. Could they? But then, by exposing him, were they not also exposing themselves? Or was it only the fear of that possibility that gripped Hollister by the throat and choked the courage out of him?

  Crowe knew he was getting closer to the truth, but what would he do when he found it? Not just the Dolans, but also Hollister could end up in prison! Was it possible for Silas Dolan to prove Hollister’s part in the insurance fraud without implicating himself or his son? If that was so, and if Dolan was that clever, then it must follow that even if Hollister was found guilty, he could not take Dolan down with him.

  Crowe ran these thoughts through his mind. One man blackmailing a second man to be his partner in crime? What if Silas Dolan was not guilty, but he knew that Hollister was? No, it was more likely that he had covered his tracks so carefully that even if Hollister knew the truth and was willing to implicate Dolan, he could not prove it. Was it even believable that Dolan could be a blackmailer, but not a thief or an arsonist?

  Finding the truth was vital, but he had to proceed with caution. If he made a mistake and blamed Hollister alone, then Ellie would be disgraced, left high and dry. She would live with shame and guilt, and no home. Even worse, she would watch her father tried before a jury and, in all probability, hanged. Crowe wondered if he would rather Dolan got away with these crimes than have that happen to Ellie’s father.

  Of course, there was the possibility that Hollister was not guilty of anything. The whole plot could have been devised by Silas Dolan. That might be so, but Hollister certainly must have played some part in the plan. Why else allow Ellie to marry Paul Dolan? Even more, force her into it?

  Crowe had to ask himself if he carried another fear, even darker and more chilling, in the back of his mind. Could Ellie have been party to this sinister plot? Not that she was there when the crime was committed, but had known what had transpired and had kept silent, out of fear for her father’s reputation, or perhaps even his safety. Could Crowe honestly expect her to be entirely innocent? What would the Dolans or her father do to her if she fought against them, even threatened to tell? And tell who? The police? Why would they believe her? Who would protect her from the Dolans, or even her father, if these men decided to silence her before she spoke up?

  Crowe could not deny that even the people we love most possess human frailties. They’re all vulnerable, and they have weaknesses to overcome. Isn’t that what life is for? Not to conquer others, but to conquer those flaws in ourselves?

  He bought Spike another cup of tea, sat with him, and watched as he ate the third bun. He reached into his pocket for a piece of paper and pulled out Scuff’s list of supplies the clinic needed. He would buy all of them before heading back.

  Crowe now understood that it would require all his attention to deal with Hollister and the Dolans, and his time was limited. Once Ellie was married to Paul Dolan, the problem would become unsolvable. And with Christmas less than a week away, it might be more difficult to find the people who held the answers.

  * * *

  Scuff understood the compulsion that drove Crowe to learn more about Ellie’s family, and the urgency of knowing the facts before it was too late. Crowe had shared some of what he knew about the fire, and Scuff knew that his mentor would not give up seeking the truth, especially where Ellie Hollister’s safety was involved. Her safety…and her happiness.

  Scuff continued organizing the treatment room, making certain that they had what was needed. He had been living and working in the clinic for over two years now and he knew the daily routines. He also appreciated that Crowe had taught him every possible skill he could, first by having him watch, and then by copying as Crowe critiqued him. And then, lastly, by doing it himself. This last step—learning from hands-on experience—was beginning earlier than either of them had expected, but it was because Crowe’s need to help Ellie did not wait upon anyone else’s timing.

  Having this responsibility left Scuff racked with nerves. At the same time, he would have been disappointed had Crowe not asked him to help. Now, with so much responsibility, he had to think hard and ask himself complicated questions, in order to understand certain medical techniques used by Crowe. When it came to moral decisions, however, Scuff was never confused. Crowe had taught him well.

  He thought of those times when he had sat up with Ellie when she was in pain, and Crowe was so exhausted that he had no choice but to sleep. Scuff had watched him change her bandages, and had then done it himself. There were times when Scuff slept in the afternoon, and then sat through the long night with her.

  Crowe had never spoken about his feelings for her, but Scuff understood them, and understood hers also. Could they ever share more than a mutual trust, along with their efforts required for her healing? For Crowe’s sake, he hoped they could.

  So, it was no surprise when Crowe had awakened him earlier that morning to say that he was leaving to learn all he could about Hollister and Dolan. He gave Scuff the list of duties that should be handled in his absence. There was no way to foresee which patients might come, but Crowe trusted Scuff to do whatever must be done. He knew that Scuff had the skills. All he needed was the confidence…and the courage. Along with the list, Crowe gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, then he left, going out into the brisk December wind off the river, and the sunlight on the wet roads.

  As much as he had wanted to, Scuff was not able to go back to sleep. Once he’d had a quick breakfast, including three cups of tea, he focused on the small jobs to do, things that were often put off because patients arrived and were in need of attention. Sometimes, there were so many in need that he felt a bit overwhelmed.

  Now, however, he wished for patients. Nothing serious, perhaps a cut to stitch, or a deep splinter to remove, something to bandage and strap up. Perhaps someone with dust in the eye that needed to be washed out. Or someone to comfort, reassure. In fact, he would like to have had anyone call by, simply to talk to. He was so used to being rushed that he felt quite useless when doing things that did not really need to be done with any urgency.

  On the other hand, there was no pleasure in seeing pain, even if he was able to ease it.

  A dock laborer came in with a deep cut in his arm. Scuff was able to clean it thoroughly, and then stitch it up and reassure the man that he would soon heal. Scuff was grateful that it was the kind of injury he’d seen before, and not something that he felt was beyond his expertise.

  When he was finished treating the wound, the man was relieved, all anxiety gone, and with only residual pain remaining. He promised to come back with money for the clinic.

  Scuff acknowledged his offer. Probably, he would fulfill his promise. It was Scuff’s experience that very few people failed to contribute what they were able to.

  He cleared up the instruments, placed all the bandages in the cupboard, then scrubbed the floor and put the bucket and scrubbing brush away. With no patients in the clinic, silence returned.

  Scuff was aware of feeling lonely.

  He had lunch early, not because he was hungry so much as he was bored.

  He decided to study, and had just pulled out one of the more serious medical books when there was a peremptory knock on the door and two policemen came in. In fact, they pushed the door open before Scuff could answer them.

  The larger of the two had the dark shadow of a beard, even so early in the afternoon. When he introduced himself and his junior companion, his voice was quiet, unusually soft for a man of his size. He looked Scuff up and down, noting his casual attire, including trousers worn at the knees and held up by a leather belt because they were two sizes too large, and his lopsided shirt collar poking above the heavy sweater he wore for warmth. And, of course, his well-darned socks.

  “Do you work here?” the sergeant asked, still scanning him.

  Scuff resented the attitude. He realized that his clothing made him look far from impressive, but he was tall and stood very straight. He was nearly the same height as the sergeant, and taller than the constable standing beside him. “Yes,” Scuff answered simply.

  He was not afraid of the police. William Monk, his adoptive father, his closest friend, except perhaps for his adoptive mother, was not only a policeman but head of the Thames River Police, and a man known throughout London…and sometimes feared, with reason.

  Scuff looked the sergeant straight in the eye. Not with insolence, but not with fear either—at least he hoped not. He had done nothing wrong. As an apprentice, he was allowed to perform simple tasks, but he knew that there were also limitations. He never asked for information as to how an injury had occurred, except what was necessary to treat it, and he guarded what he was told as a confidence. A doctor could work no other way.

  “Doing what?” the sergeant asked, one eyebrow raised slightly. It gave his face a skeptical look.

  “Helping Dr. Crowe,” Scuff answered.

  A look of impatience crossed the sergeant’s face. “With? Sweeping floors, washing dishes, rolling bandages, carrying out the rubbish, shopping for…whatever? Bandages, medicines…”

  Scuff was stung. Was the man being deliberately insulting? Crowe had warned him not to lose his temper. It was the old police trick, leading someone into striking the first blow. When you lost your temper, however provoked, you lost control. “If necessary, yes,” he said. He must be careful. He was not yet qualified. “But anyone can do that. I also perform minor operations, stitch up wounds, give medicines. And if we have a serious operation to perform, I assist him with that. Pass him things, instruments, thread needles.” He kept his voice level. “I learn a lot from him.”

  “So, you’re a doctor, then? A real one? Or just the best you can do around here?” It was the younger man who spoke, the constable. He had a soft face, but not gentle, just hinting at loose jowls when he got older, and when he put on a little weight.

  Scuff kept his temper with difficulty. “I’m taking courses in medicine, and I’m also learning a lot from Dr. Crowe.” He took a breath. “He does the skilled stuff, of course. I watch and learn.”

  The sergeant looked around the room. “And where is he, then, this real doctor?”

  Scuff’s mind raced as to what he should say. Why had they come anyway? What would send them away satisfied? And what could he say that might only earn more trouble? What might prove to be untrue, as they looked into it later? Truth was the safest, always. “I don’t know, sir. Dr. Crowe was going to look into the progress of a patient he attended some while ago. I don’t know where he was intending to go after that. He should be back later, if you care to wait.”

  “So, you refuse to say?” the constable said sharply.

  Scuff swallowed hard. They were trying to provoke him. “I don’t expect him to account to me where he goes. A patient’s home address, or what the trouble is, is not my business. I’m sure if he attended you, or your wife, for something private, you would not wish him to discuss it with the neighbors. Or even with me. Whatever the situation, it would grow in the telling.”

  The constable raised his eyebrows cynically. “And you don’t discuss it at all? Curious. Then how do you learn? Isn’t that what you say you are here for?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll learn the rules as well as the treatment. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He saw the anger on the sergeant’s face.

  The constable snapped. “As police, we have the right to ask questions. And it’s your duty to answer them! Now…where is Crowe?”

  Scuff took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve told you, sir, I don’t know. He started out to make inquiries about a patient from a while ago, a lady.”

  “And what was a lady doing coming to a place like this, eh? Wouldn’t she have her own doctor? Is something going on ’ere that a real doctor wouldn’t do?”

  Scuff knew what he meant. Rage welled up inside him. And at the same time, a growing fear all but suffocated him. Who had sent this man? What was he really after? Punishing Crowe for some imaginary offense, perhaps related to his inquiries into the arson in the warehouse? Or the death of the night watchman? He felt the chill deep inside himself.

  “No, it was a street accident, and not far from here,” he answered, watching the man’s face. “She was bleeding very badly from a leg wound.” He took a deep breath and nearly choked. “The wound needed immediate attention. I can say nothing more. I’ve taken an oath.”

  He should not have mentioned this, he knew, but the accusation that Crowe was doing illegal things, such as helping women terminate pregnancies, made him sick. “She was a lady,” he went on. “And I can only imagine what her father would say if he knew what you’re suggesting. He would have his servants thrash you till you needed a pretty good surgeon to put you back together again. That is, if they could find all the pieces.”