RATHBONE WAS AT THE police station on the river’s edge the next morning as Monk came up the steps from the ferry. It was not yet eight o’clock. The October light was bleak and pale on the water, washing the color out of it. The wind smelled salty with the incoming tide. Gulls were circling low, screaming as they scented fish, diving now and then in the wake of a two-masted schooner moving upstream. To the north and south there were forests of masts all crisscrossing, moving slightly on the uneasiness of the water. Long strings of barges and lighters were threading their way through the ships at anchor, carrying loads inland, or to Limehouse, the Isle of Dogs, Greenwich, or even the estuary and the coast.

Monk reached the top of the steps and smiled very slightly when he saw Rathbone. Neither of them said anything. Perhaps the understanding was already there. Rathbone could see in Monk’s face, in his eyes, the knowledge of the complexity, the mixed emotions he felt, the embarrassment, the struggle of loyalties.

They walked almost in step across the dockside to the police station steps, then into the building. Monk said good morning to the men who had obviously been on duty overnight. He checked that there was nothing urgent that required his attention, then led the way to his office and closed the door.

“Are you representing him?” Monk asked.

“Not yet, because I haven’t seen him, but I expect I will.”

Monk hesitated a moment before he asked, “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“If he wants me, I have no choice,” Rathbone replied, and was startled to hear the bitterness in his voice. He felt trapped, and was ashamed that he did. If he’d totally believed in Ballinger’s innocence, if he’d trusted him as he wished to, then he would have been eager, burning with the urgency to begin.

Monk looked away, not meeting his eyes anymore, and Rathbone had the brief thought that it was because he did not wish to intrude; he did not want Rathbone to see how much he understood.