Execution Dock Page 0,102

asked.

Scuff gave her a skeptical look. "Dip means 'e picks pockets. 'Oo don't, round 'ere? I reckon 'e's all guff."

And so it turned out. But by the end of the day they had heard many stories of Durban from a variety of people up and down the dockside. They had been discreet, and Hester believed with some pride that they had also been inventive enough not to betray the reason for their interest.

It was well after dusk with the last of the light faded even from the flat surface of the water when they finally made their way up Elephant Stairs just a few yards along from Princes Street. The tide was running hard, slapping against the stone, and the sharp river smell was almost pleasant in the air after the closed-in alleys they had walked all day, and the heavy, throat-filling odors of the docks, where men were unpacking all manner of cargoes, pungent, clinging, some so sweet as to be rancid. The quiet movement of water was a relief after the shouting, clatter of hooves, and clank of chains and winches and thus of heavy loads.

They were tired and thirsty. Scuff did not say that his feet were sore, but possibly he regarded it as a condition of life. Hester ached all the way up to her knees, and beyond, but in the face of his stoicism, she felt that it would be self-indulgent to let it be known.

"Thank you," she said as they started to walk up in the direction of Paradise Place. "You are quite right. I do need you."

"S'all right," he said casually, giving a little lift of his shoulder visible as he passed under the street lamp.

He took a deep breath. "'E weren't a bad man," he said, then looked sideways at her quickly.

"I know, Scuff."

"Does it matter if 'e told a few lies about 'oo 'e were or where 'e come from?"

"I don't know. I suppose it depends what the truth is."

"Yer think it's bad, then?"

They came to the end of Elephant Lane and turned right into Church Street. It was completely dark now and the lamps were like yellow moons reflected over and over again right to the end. There was a faint mist drifting up in patches from the water, like castaway silk scarves.

"I think it might be. Otherwise why would he lie about it?" she asked. "We don't usually lie about good things."

He was quiet.

"Scuff?"

"Yes, Miss."

"You can't go on calling me 'miss'! Would you like to call me 'Hester'?"

He stopped and tried to look at her. "Hester?" he said carefully, sounding the H. "Don't you think Mr. Monk might say I'm bein' cheeky?"

"I shall tell him I suggested it."

"Hester," he said again, experimentally, then he grinned.

Hester lay awake and thought hard about what steps she should take next. Durban had tried for a long time, well over a year, to find Mary Webber. He was a skilled policeman with a lifetime of experience in learning, questioning, and finding, and he had apparently failed. How was she to succeed? She had no advantages over him, as far as she knew.

Beside her, Monk was asleep, she thought. She lay still, not wanting to disturb him, above all not wanting him to know that she was thinking, puzzling.

Durban must have searched for all the families named Webber who lived in the area and gone to them. He would even have traced any who had lived there and moved, if it were possible. If he had not found Mary that way, then Hester would not either.

Then just as she was finally drifting off towards sleep, another thought occurred to her. Had Durban gone backwards? Had he found out where they had come from before that?

The idea did not seem nearly as clever in the morning, but she could think of nothing better. She would try it, at least until another avenue occurred to her. It would be better than doing nothing.

It was not particularly difficult to find the local families by the name of Webber who had a Mary of roughly the right age. It was simply tedious looking through parish registers, asking questions, and walking around. People were willing to help, because she embroidered the truth a little. She really was looking for someone on behalf of a friend who had died tragically before finding them, but whether Mary Webber was a friend or witness, help or a fugitive, she had no idea. If it had not been for Monk's sake, she might