“Yes, of course I do!” he said vehemently, then looked at her face. He knew he had to be more honest; even a half lie to her built a barrier he could not live with. “No, not entirely. Parfitt was vile, and if it was one of his victims, I’d be happy to let him go. If it was one of the boys, or even two or three of them, I don’t even know if I’ll arrest them. Even if I could prove which ones, I might not try to.”

She said nothing.

He took the toast and buttered it.

“But if it’s the man behind the whole trade, probably behind Phillips as well, then yes, I want to find him. And I want to hang him.”

Monk fished the note out of his inside pocket where he carried it, carefully, in an envelope. It was both a talisman and a weight dragging him down. He took the note out of the envelope and put it on the table between them, well away from the jam or the teapot. “This was written by a literate person, adult. It’s a strong hand, used to writing.”

She looked at him, then down at the torn piece of paper. She picked it up and read it. “But you have no idea who wrote it?”

“No. It’s good-quality paper and perfectly ordinary pencil. The envelope’s mine.”

She turned the note over in her hands. The silence seemed to stretch until he could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantel over the stove. Her shoulders were stiff; a tiny muscle clenched in her jaw was flickering.

“Hester?” His voice was quiet and yet filled the room.

She looked up at him. “The words are Latin. They’re medicines. This is part of a list of things we order regularly for the clinic.”

He stared at her. This was the last thing he had expected her to say.

“You recognize the handwriting?” he asked.

“Claudine’s,” she said. “But she could have given the list to several people.”

“Margaret,” he replied. “Isn’t she the one who keeps the money, and buys such things?”

“Yes. But so does Squeaky, sometimes.” Her voice was tight, full of grief.

He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. He knew what she was afraid of. Squeaky had kept a brothel when they’d first met him. He had seemed on the surface to have reformed his ways, under duress, perhaps, but still quite genuinely. He had even taken a kind of pleasure in his respectability. Had it all been an act to cover an even darker side? Had they been too blinded by hope and wish to look at him more closely? How big a descent was it from running a brothel for women to investing in pornography with boys?