William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

that accused them of corruption, even from Orme if necessary. It was not a matter of paying his own debt; it was simply out of friendship.
    How to build such a defense was a great deal more difficult. He sat looking through the figures of recent crime again, reading and rereading them, trying to see a pattern in order to understand what had changed. Half an hour later he was forced to accept that he did not know any more than when he had begun.
    He could not afford the luxury of pride and would have to ask one of his men. He sent for Orme. Confiding in him was a risk. If he did not understand what Monk was trying to do, he might feel confused and defensive, fearing that he was seeking to undermine Durban and establish himself on the ruin of another man’s reputation.
    If he already knew of the corruption and even was a party to it, then Monk would have left himself vulnerable in a way that might prove his ultimate defeat. With Orme against him he could not succeed in any part of his job.
    “Yes, sir?” Orme stood in front of him, his jacket buttoned straight, his clean collar fastened a little tightly around his neck. He looked anxious.
    “Close the door and sit down,” Monk invited, indicating the wooden chair near the far side of his desk. “Mr. Farnham says that thefts have gone up alarmingly on the passenger boats,” he said when Orme had obeyed. “Looking at the figures in all the reports, he’s right. They’re much higher than this time last year. Is that coincidence, or is there something I have neglected to do?”
    Orme stared at him, evidently confused by his candor. Perhaps in the work they had done together he had already realized that Monk was a proud man and had difficulty relying on anyone else.
    All Monk’s instincts were to retreat, but he could not afford to. He had everything to gain from winning Orme’s trust, and everything to lose without it. He forced himself to speak gently. “Mr. Farnham says that there are people suggesting we are corrupt. We have to clear this up and prove them wrong—or liars, if that’s what they are.”
    Orme paled, his body stiff. His eyes met Monk’s in a puzzled, unhappy gaze.
    “The River Police have had a name for honesty for over half a century,” Monk went on, his own voice quiet and angry. “I won’t have it changed now! How do we stop this, Mr. Orme?”
    Orme snapped to attention. Suddenly he realized Monk was asking his help, not somehow challenging him, and far less blaming him.
    “There’s a lot fer us to do, sir,” he said carefully, as if testing Monk’s intent.
    “There is,” Monk agreed. “There are the usual fights and robberies in the docks and along the barges and moored ships, the accidents, the dangerous wrecks or cargoes, the thefts, fights, sinkings, and fires.”
    “And murders,” Orme added, watching Monk’s eyes.
    “And murders,” Monk agreed.
    “Do you reckon as she meant to go o’er, Mr. Monk?”
    So he was thinking of Mary again, as if he too was haunted by her courage, her loneliness, the unsolved questions.
    “No, I don’t.” He was being more honest than he had intended, but there was no help for now but to go on. If he could not rely on Orme, he was lost anyway. “I think she knew of something in the tunneling more dangerous than just the engines, or even the speed with which they’re cutting. I don’t know what it is yet, but I think someone killed her—and her father—over it.”
    “Argyll?” Orme said with surprise.
    “Not directly, no. I think he probably paid someone to kill James Havilland, and Mary found that out, too.”
    Orme’s face was grim with the anger a normally gentle man feels when he is outraged. There was something frightening in it, unselfish and implacable. “I think as you should keep followin’ that until you find out ’oo it was, sir,” he said levelly. “It’s wrong ter let that go by. If we don’t see it right fer a woman like that, wot use are we?”
    “And the thefts from the passenger boats?” Monk asked. “Our reputation matters, too. It’s part of our ability to do the job. If people don’t trust us, we’re crippled.”
    “We got to do wot’s right, an’ trust it’ll be seen as right,” Orme said stubbornly. “I can’t find out ’oo killed ’er. I ’aven’t got the skill fer that. Never done it with people o’ that class. Give me a river fight, dockers, thieves, lightermen, sailors even, an’ I can sort it out. But not ladies like that.