William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

worried him. For some reason or other he seemed to feel responsible.
    Monk was both touched and stung. He found himself defending his position, trying to regain respect. “The police thought at the time that it was suicide,” he explained. “Then his daughter fell off the bridge, and that was my case. In looking back at that, I found out about the father, and it began to look as if it wasn’t suicide after all.”
    “Wotcher mean, fell orff the bridge?” Scuff demanded. “Nobody falls orff bridges. Yer can’t. There’s rails an’ things. Someb’dy kill ’er too, or she jump?”
    “I’m not sure about that, either.” Monk smiled ruefully. “And I saw it happen. But when two people are struggling a distance away, in the half-light just before the lamps go on, it’s difficult to tell.”
    “But ’er pa were killed by someone else?” Scuff persisted.
    “Yes. The man was seen leaving. I know pretty well what he looks like, and that he went east beyond Piccadilly.”
    Scuff let out a sigh of despair. “That all yer got? I dunno wot ter do wi’ yer!” He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
    Monk hid his smile with difficulty. Scuff had apparently adopted him, and felt every parent’s exasperation with an impossible child. Monk found himself ridiculously caught in an emotion that all but choked him. “Well, you might give me a little advice,” he suggested tactfully.
    “Forget about it,” Scuff replied.
    “You won’t give me any advice?” Monk was surprised.
    Scuff gave him a widening look. “That’s me advice! Yer in’t gonna find ’im.”
    “Maybe not, but I’m going to try,” Monk said firmly. “He murdered a man and made it look like suicide, so the man was buried outside Christian ground, and all his family believed he was a coward and a sinner. It nearly broke his younger daughter’s heart, so she spent all her time trying to prove that it wasn’t so. And now it looks as if she might have been killed for it too. Only they buried her outside Christian ground as well, and marked her as a suicide.”
    Scuff skipped a step or two to keep up with Monk. “Yer daft, you are.” But there was admiration in his voice. “Well, if you won’t be told, I s’pose I’d better ’elp yer. Wot’s ’e like, this man wot killed the girl’s pa?”
    Monk thought for a moment. What risk was there in telling Scuff? If he kept it vague, none at all. “Thin, dark hair,” he replied.
    Scuff looked at him, his eyes hurt, his mouth pinched. “Yer don’ trust me,” he accused.
    Monk felt a twist of guilt knot inside him. How could he undo the insult, the rejection? “I don’t want you to get involved,” he admitted. “If he kills people for money, he won’t think twice about getting rid of you if you get anywhere near him.”
    “Me?” Scuff was indignant. “I’m not ’alf as green as you are! I can look arter meself! Yer don’ think I got no brains!”
    “I think you’ve got plenty of brains—quite enough to get close to him and get hurt!” Monk retorted. “Leave it alone, Scuff! It’s police business. And you’re right,” he added. “I’ll probably never find him. But it’s the man who paid him I want most.”
    Scuff walked in silence for fifty yards or so. They crossed the road and started along the next stretch.
    “Will they bury that girl proper then?” he asked finally.
    “I’ll see that they do,” Monk answered, pleased that Scuff had seen the heart of the matter so quickly. “I’m cold. Do you want a hot drink?”
    “Don’ mind if I do,” Scuff said, but grudgingly. He was still hurt. “If this man weren’t killed on the river, why in’t the reg’lar rozzers doin’ it?”
    “They are, as well.” They turned the corner, away from the river and out of the worst of the wind. The pavements were slick with ice. A coal cart rattled sharply over the stones, the horse’s breath steam in the air.
    “S’pose yer don’ trust ’em neither,” Scuff said dourly.
    “It isn’t a matter of trust,” Monk told him. “We need all the help we can find. We’re searching for one man in all London, who makes a living killing people! I know what he looks like, but that’s all. He shot one man and caused the death of the man’s daughter. An innocent man may go to prison for the murder, and the one who paid him is going to get away with it. Worse than that, we’ll never prove the real reason for it, and there could be a cave-in in one of the new sewer