“Where?” Rathbone demanded. “Jumped a ship and sailed to China or the Indies?”

“Or America?”

“But from a Pool of London quay, downriver, at what time?” Rathbone argued. “For America it would more likely be Liverpool or Southampton. Come to that, what time was it he was last seen? Was the tide going out or coming in? Couldn't jump a ship on the incoming tide, unless he ended up in London again. And why would he do that? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose.” He sat back in his chair again. “No. You'd never persuade a jury he simply took flight. From what? He had no debts, no enemies, no incipient scandal. No, he's dead, poor devil. Probably buried in one of the common graves of the Limehouse typhoid victims.”

“Then prove it,” the prosecutor said grimly. “If his lawyer is worth his pay, you'll have a very hard job, Rathbone, a very hard job indeed. But I wish you luck.”

When Rathbone returned to Vere Street he found Monk waiting for him. Monk looked appalling. His clothes were as immaculate as always and he was freshly shaved, but his face was haggard, as if he were ill and had not slept. When he stood up to follow Rathbone into his office, without per- mission, he moved as though his entire body ached. From his appearance he might have been in the later stages of rheumatism. Rathbone had very ambivalent feelings about him, but he would never have wished him ill . .

. a slight reduction in arrogance and self-confidence, perhaps, but not this. It disturbed him more than he was prepared for.

“Close the door,” he ordered unnecessarily. Monk was in the act of doing so, and stood against it for a moment, staring at Rathbone as he went around the desk and sat behind it. “You got Caleb Stone, I know. I've just come from the Crown Prosecutor's office. It would help a great deal to have more evidence.”

“I know that!” Monk said savagely, moving away from the door and sitting painfully in the chair opposite the desk. “Maybe the police will set up a proper search and find the body. I imagine they'll go on dragging the river. Something I was hardly equipped to do. Although this much later, they'd have to be lucky to find it. They could always search the Greenwich and Bugsby marshes. For someone of Angus Stonefield's standing they'd think it worth it”

“They might also think it worth it to get a conviction, now that they have made an arrest,” Rathbone said with a slight smile. “They have rather committed themselves. They won't want to be obliged to let Caleb Stone free. He'd be insufferable. He'd be a hero to every villain from Wapping to Woolwich. But you know that better than L”

“What does he think?”