The sergeant looked startled, while his young constable reached out as if to grab Scuff by the shoulders. “I’ll have you for that,” the older man said between his teeth.

  At that moment, a voice called out from the room behind them. “Help! Is someone there? He’s bad! Can’t…I can’t get it out!”

  Scuff pushed the sergeant out of the way and rushed to the old man and the boy now standing in the doorway. The boy was white-faced and holding up his wrist, which was bleeding freely, scarlet running down his hand and dripping onto the floor. Scuff could see torn flesh and the shaft of a large fishhook buried deep in the tissue.

  “Yes, I’m here,” Scuff said firmly. “We’ll get that out and stop the bleeding. Don’t worry.” He wasn’t sure he could do this, but he meant to try. “Hold it up,” he told the boy, indicating how he should raise his arm. “It’ll help slow the bleeding.”

  He pushed past the police and led the boy to the chair in the main room used for patients. He looked at the old man. “Hang on to him. Don’t want him to faint and fall.” He turned to the sergeant. “You can help while you are here. See there, the basin. Put hot water in it and hold it still, then take these scissors and cut his sleeve away so I can get to the hook.” When the sergeant didn’t move, he said, “Don’t stand there, man! I’ve got to get a needle and thread, and a knife to cut the hook free.”

  The sergeant remained frozen.

  Scuff swung toward the constable. “Are you any use, then?”

  “I’ll do it!” the sergeant said, his voice hoarse. He went to where Scuff was pointing to fetch the basin, and then to the stove, which was always burning, where he pushed the pot of water onto the hottest part.

  Scuff knew exactly where all his instruments were: the sterilized and sharpest scalpel, the needle already threaded through the eye with the finest gut, almost as fine as a hair, and plenty of bandages.

  “Give me that bottle,” he ordered the constable, pointing at the medical spirits above the stove.

  He smiled at the old man. “Hold on to him. You won’t pass out, will you?”

  The old man swallowed hard. “No, sir, I— No, I won’t.”

  Scuff gave him a quick smile. “Good.” He did not even glance at either of the policemen. Instead, he concentrated on the fishhook, and the flesh it was embedded in.

  The boy was not watching. Clearly, he did not wish to see, and Scuff could not blame him for that. The wound was a mess, and still bleeding, but more slowly now.

  He needed a little help. He looked at the constable. “Will you please give me a hand? Fetch me the things I ask for.”

  The constable froze. “I dunno, I—”

  Scuff forced himself to smile more directly. “You’re not refusing, are you?”

  “No!” Reluctantly, he shook his head, so small a gesture as to be barely visible.

  “Thank you.” Scuff held out a dry cloth. “Soak this in the hot water,” he said, pointing to the bowl of hot water now at his elbow. “And then pass it to me when I say.”

  “Right!”

  Scuff took another slow breath. He had two choices: he could try to work slowly, tearing as little flesh as possible, which might be easier for him, but would hurt the boy appallingly, or he could cut the flesh open quickly and remove the hook, and then sew the gap as soon as possible. Above all, he needed to hold the scalpel steadily, and not let the boy cringe so violently that a vein could be severed. “Hold tight,” he said to the boy. Then he glanced at the old man, and nodded.

  Scuff deliberately tightened his grip on the blade, then eased it a little as he cut the flesh to get the hook out. As soon as it was free, he moved quickly to stop the bleeding, watching closely so he could stanch the flow and keep the area around the wound clean. He let it bleed a little more, to be sure there were no pieces of metal or dirt or anything else in the wound, then he took the bottle of spirits and poured a bit over the wound. Confident that it was clean, he gestured to the policeman, took the soaked cloth, and then swabbed the area again.

  He bent over the wound as he stitched it up, concentrating intensely. He wondered if he was putting in more stitches than were needed. Crowe would have done it better, more neatly. He must be careful not to make the sutures too tight. That would make it hurt even more. “Another swab,” he said to the constable.

  The constable hesitated, then obeyed.

  Scuff could see that this was not unwillingness, but the beginning of appreciation for what they were doing.

  Scuff took the swab. “Thank you. Nearly finished,” he said to the boy. “Can you keep it still just a little longer?”

  The boy nodded, his lips pursed tightly, tears filling his eyes.

  “It’ll hurt,” Scuff warned. “You might have a scar there. Would you mind that? Having a battle scar?”

  “Will I? You reckon?” There was a hint of hope in the boy’s voice. What little boy didn’t want a battle scar!

  “Yes,” Scuff said with certainty, although he had no idea. “Hold still, last thing and we’re done.” He actually had quite a lot more to do, but the boy was looking at him, not at the wound, which had almost stopped bleeding.

  The constable was watching just as closely. He picked the right moment to hand over another clean swab.

  The old man still held on to the boy. Scuff could see that he was less tense, his hand resting gently on the boy’s shoulder.

  Scuff continued to work as quickly as he could, but carefully.

  There was silence in the room. The sergeant was still standing in exactly the same place, watching. What was he going to do when Scuff was finished? Ask more about Crowe? Scuff realized that he had an idea why these men were here. It was to do with Ellie, and with Silas Dolan. What did they want from Crowe? Just to warn him? How did they know Crowe was asking questions? And how could Scuff protect him? He thought about the warehouse fire, and the death of a man, and he knew that those events were the reason why Crowe kept rushing off. He hoped these policemen wouldn’t ask him again to explain Crowe’s absence. Or was the officer going to ask about the fire, or the goods that had been burned? Or not! Or about someone Crowe had treated. Scuff would not answer, even if he knew.

  The sergeant was moving from foot to foot, his impatience growing.

  Scuff tied off the last of the sutures and then cut the remaining thread. Finally, he wrapped a bandage around it. “You come back tomorrow, just to be sure,” he told the boy. “And don’t get it wet. Keep it as clean as you can.”

  “Thank you,” the boy said carefully, pronouncing the words as if he were unused to the weight of them.

  “You’re welcome,” Scuff replied, releasing the boy’s arm and sitting back in his chair. His shoulders were tight from the tension of heavy concentration. And the presence of these policemen was adding to it.

  The old man regarded Scuff carefully, then pulled a package out of his pocket. It was wrapped in old newspaper, and pretty wet. “We caught this earlier,” he said. He placed it on the bench. It was not necessary to explain that it was a fish. “You know how to cook it?” He looked at Scuff skeptically.

  “I do, yes, thank you,” Scuff replied. “I like fish. That’ll pay nicely for this treatment. And for coming back tomorrow, too, so be sure you do!”

  “You always need to do your work twice?” the old man asked.

  “As many times as necessary to make sure everything is healing.” Scuff realized that his hands were clenched because, without Crowe’s presence, he was still unsure of himself. With his presence, Scuff wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

  The old man grunted, then took the boy very gently by the shoulder and turned him round to face the door.

  “You sure that’s going to get better?” the sergeant asked dubiously, as soon as the old man and the child were out of the door. “That how you eat? You get stuff from people like that?”

  “Sometimes.” Scuff looked at the constable. “Thank you for your help.”

  The constable was smiling. Perhaps he did not mean to, but it was clear he could not remove that expression from his face. “How did you learn to do that?” he asked.

  Scuff smiled back. “Most of it from Dr. Crowe, but also from my adoptive mother.” He did not know why he added that. Probably it was so they wouldn’t think Hester was the sort of woman whose child was a mudlark, left to fend for himself along the riverbank. “She was a nurse in the Crimea and often did the duties of a doctor when there was not one there.”

  The sergeant looked at him with some disbelief. He could see that Scuff was clever. And his hands were carefully scrubbed. “So, you came to work for Crowe?” He gestured as if dismissing the idea. “Does this mother of yours approve of that?”

  The contempt Scuff heard in his voice was ugly. In fact, it scalded like a burn on tender flesh. He knew he was vulnerable, and how every callous or degrading word caught him. “I wouldn’t do it if she didn’t!” he snapped. “And, in case you didn’t realize it, many doctors don’t ask who you are or whether you can pay. They ask what you need, where it hurts, and how it happened.”

  The sergeant scowled. “Your mother isn’t a doctor, boy. Women don’t do that. They ain’t got the—” He thought again before he chose the word. “They ain’t suited to it.”

  “Even to save the life of a soldier?” Scuff asked, knowing he should back out of this before it got any worse. “Have you seen the sort of wounds they get in the army?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” The sergeant seemed to feel on safer ground again. It was in his face, and the angle of his shoulders.

  “Because if you had,” Scuff glared at him, “you’d have heard of Florence Nightingale, and you would show your respect for the women who left the comfort of their homes and went out to the Crimea and nursed on the battlefield, not just in the hospitals. They dealt with fevers and men dying every day. Limbs blown off and limbs amputated. They had more courage than most doctors who sleep in their beds all night.”

  “That’s why you want to be a doctor?” the sergeant asked. “Because of her?”

  “Yes.” Scuff didn’t know if it was or not, but probably it was. When he was younger, on the riverbank, where he had first met Monk, he wanted to be like Monk. A policeman! Someone who was strong, who never backed down from anyone or anything. Who was never afraid, at least not so you’d know it. Then Monk had taken him to his home, and let him stay there. That was where Scuff had met Hester. He wasn’t used to women, and he was not at all sure that he liked her. He knew that she would want to make him clean up, wash his hair. She would expect him to learn how to speak properly, and how to sit at a table and use a knife and fork. She might treat him like he couldn’t look after himself! Tell him what to do, when to go to bed, when to get up…and make him wash!

  Except that Hester Monk wasn’t like that. And she never tried to hug him! Actually, it was he who had first hugged her. And that was when he had been horribly frightened—it was an experience he did not want to think of even now—and he was already six feet tall and perfectly able to defend himself. He remembered how Hester had treated him quite casually, not like a child, but more like a friend.

  She would expect him to treat these policemen civilly, using his intelligence and self-control, and not his temper. Not that Hester never lost her self-control! He had seen her angry—furious, in fact—and he had seen her weep. But never while someone needed treatment, help, skill. Only her family—and that was William Monk and Scuff—knew how deep her pain went.

  Nothing he could think of would hurt her more than for him to revert to the riverbank urchin he once had been, instead of the man she had taught him to become.

  He looked at the sergeant. “Why do you ask why I wanted to become a doctor, Sergeant?”

  “It matters not why! You will answer my questions,” the sergeant snapped. “Or I’ll close this place down! Do you hear me?”

  Scuff stood very straight, his mind racing. He had thought the sergeant was coming round, but here he was, biting, bullying. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in Scuff’s career decisions, but was reacting to the pressure put on him to get his hands on Crowe.

  Crowe had left Scuff in charge, but what would he do when faced with this? Not provoke a fight, that was for certain. But not give in either.

  “What are your questions?” Scuff said as civilly as he could, but he heard the edge in his voice, the challenge. “You saw what I did for that boy, and you know as much about him as I do. You know exactly what he paid me. We get lots of people like that.” Was he avoiding the question? He wasn’t sure.

  “Women come in, too?” the sergeant asked, suspicion in his voice.

  “Whoever comes gets treated,” Scuff said. “But if it’s to do with birthing and such, we have midwives who do that. They’re used to it, and the women are more comfortable having other women taking care of them.”

  “Always?” the sergeant pressed. “Midwives always do this?”

  “As far as I know. Why? Are you’re asking about someone special?”

  “Checking a few stories I’ve heard,” the sergeant said, looking him straight in the eye.

  Scuff looked straight back, far more boldly than he felt. “Well, I’m not telling you any more details of our patients’ illnesses,” he answered. “You want to know about women and their ailments, then ask them. I wouldn’t tell you, even if I knew.”

  The sergeant flushed, as if this upstart Scuff had accused him of something dirty. “You better watch yourself, young man. I can close you down, and don’t you forget that!”

  It was a very real threat. Scuff felt a chill inside him, just thinking of the number of people he would be letting down if this happened. People needed this clinic to help them when they were ill or injured. They depended on Crowe’s advice, and trusted that he knew what he was doing. Which was to take away the pain and the fear, if it was humanly possible. Crowe, who always had patience for them, who never panicked, however bad it looked. And who believed fervently that it was wrong to betray a confidence.

  And there was another element to this: Crowe trusted Scuff. And for Scuff, this was a lot to live up to. Was he doing that? Or was he buckling under the pressure? And a slight pressure at that, which was caused by the offensiveness of a man who was also insulting him. He knew that Crowe would have dealt with it better. He was certain it was Crowe they were after, but why? Because he was looking into the warehouse fire, and that upset Dolan, and perhaps Ellie’s father?

  He drew in a deep breath. “People trust us not to talk about them or their private affairs, their illnesses. They come here, knowing we will do anything we can to help.” He had already argued this point, but the sergeant wouldn’t let it go. “I wouldn’t talk about you to others,” said Scuff. “And that includes if you had an accident near here, and I was the doctor to help you.”

  The constable was staring at him, as if Scuff were the only person in the room. And it was a look of respect, Scuff was quite certain of that. This strengthened his resolve. He was not going to let himself be provoked into being less than who he was taught to be, and all because this bully of a sergeant did not feel the same. It was Scuff’s choice to determine how he behaved; he refused to give any power to the sergeant. “Dr. Crowe isn’t here right now, and I don’t know where he is or when he’ll be back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to clean up and be ready in case someone else needs help.”

  “And if they don’t?” the sergeant asked. “You going to stand here waiting?”

  “No, I’m going to get my books out and study.”

  “What did you say your name was, again?” the sergeant asked.

  Scuff stood very straight. He had never had a real name until Monk and Hester had adopted him. At first, he had not wanted to be adopted. It felt like he was giving up his right to choose for himself, even giving up his identity. Then he had been kidnapped, and rescued. Perhaps Monk would have rescued all the boys, because that sort of thing was his job, but he also knew, for the first time deep into his bones, that to Monk and Hester he was special. The people on the riverbank called him Scuff. Living there, he had been totally free and did not belong to anybody! But then, nobody had ever come looking for him, even at the risk of their own lives. People might know where he was, but that was not at all the same thing as being sought and then found. And Monk and Hester had, indeed, found him. After that, the idea of being adopted felt right. The Monks always cared where he was, and treated him so that he never felt as if he were giving away a part of himself. And that was good. In fact, it was very good!

  Of course, there was a price, which was mostly obedience. The caring bit, the minding what they thought of him, came whether he wanted it or not. Slowly, he had felt part of this new family.

  Then, one day, he had been to church with Hester. Church was frankly a bit of a bore, and kind of ridiculous. And he had to dress up for it. No one minded that he had been poor, lots of the people were, but they minded if he didn’t have a proper haircut, and clean dark clothes, and shoes! It didn’t matter if his clothing was a little too big or too small, and nobody noticed patches or a hole here and there. Even his trousers, a bit short in the leg, went unnoticed. But heaven help him if he didn’t have a clean handkerchief!

  So, he went with Hester, and it felt nice. She always had something interesting to say about the people around them, though he wasn’t allowed to repeat it. She could see right through people, just as he could, but in a different way. Especially self-important people. But then, she was a nurse. She knew people were all made the same way, underneath the black jackets with fur collars, and the black bombazine dresses. Good word that: bombazine! Stiff, black, self-important. People were fragile all in their own ways.