William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

again and all but choked. “It would make him look as if he were … reluctant to have given charity to those in far more need than any of us. It would be—”
    “Josephine!” Hester said quickly, feeling the heat wash up her face. “Of course I wouldn’t reveal his name or his circumstances to anyone. I have no intention of being so clumsy. I am aware that would humiliate him.”
    Josephine shook her head. “You don’t understand—”
    “Yes I do,” Hester replied. She took a minute to weigh her next words before continuing. “The man I was thinking of a minute ago was my own father. I think the shame of what happened to him was what killed him. So I do understand. I shall look into this as far as I can, without mentioning any names, I promise you.”
    Josephine was still uncertain. “If he finds out, he will think I’ve betrayed him.”
    “He won’t know anything of it,” Hester promised again. “Don’t you think he would want to prevent others from suffering in the same way? And for that matter, I would be surprised if he is the only one of the congregation in this position. Wouldn’t you?”
    “I … I suppose so. But how will you do it?”
    “I don’t know yet. Perhaps I will have no clear idea until I try,” Hester admitted. “But if people are being forced into this position, it must be stopped.”
    Josephine gave a very slight smile. “Thank you.”
    Hester smiled back at her. “Where is this church, and what is the name of the man who leads it?”
    “Abel Taft is his name. The church is on the corner of Wilmington Square and Yardley Street,” Josephine replied, frowning. “But you live on the south side of the river, miles away! How will you explain going to a church up there?”
    Hester smiled more widely. “Their reputation for true and active Christianity, of course!” she replied sarcastically.
    Josephine laughed in spite of herself, and tears of gratitude filled her eyes. She shook herself abruptly, straightened her shoulders, and smoothed the skirt of the gray dress. “I have work to do,” she said more steadily. “I’m all behind myself.”
    T HERE WERE TIMES, ESPECIALLY in the winter, when William Monk found his duties as commander of the Thames River Police to be morearduous than usual. The knife-edge of ice on the wind across the open water could cut through almost anything, except oilskins. It whipped the flesh raw on exposed cheeks and froze the heavy cloth of trouser legs when the rain or the river water dampened them.
    But this late spring evening was balmy, and over the shining water arched a pale blue, almost cloudless sky. The breeze was welcome, the tide was high, and there were no naked banks exposed, which meant there was no dank smell of mud. Pleasure boats passed by with colored banners waving, laughter drifting toward the shore where a hurdy-gurdy played a popular song from the current music-hall shows. All the warm hope of summer lay ahead. It was a perfect time to be finishing a patrol on the river and thinking of going home.
    Monk had always managed a boat easily. It was one of the skills from his forgotten past, although his memory of how he acquired the ability had been obliterated by an injury in a carriage crash, just before he had first met Hester, nine years ago, in 1856. It always fascinated him that the mind could erase all sorts of things that the body seemed to recall.
    With ease he brought the police boat to the bottom of the dock steps, shipped the oars, and stepped out with the mooring rope in his hand. He tied it loosely so that later on the receding water would not strain it and walked up the steps to make his final report at the station.
    He spoke briefly with Orme, his second in command, made a last check of everything else, and half an hour later he was back on the water again—this time as passenger in a ferry as it approached the dock at Princes Stairs, on the south bank at Rotherhithe.
    He paid the fare and walked up the hill toward his home on Paradise Place, the panorama of the Pool of London behind him, black masts and cross spars against the fading sky, water still as polished silk.
    He found Hester in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, and Scuff, the onetime mudlark they had adopted—or, more accurately who had adopted them—sitting hopefully at the table, waiting for supper. He had been more or less resident for nearly two years now and wasbeginning to take them rather more for granted, as if finally he had