What he needed was a plan to catch the thieves on the passenger boats. More important, he wanted to trace them back to the opulent receiver who was organizing them, and probably the kidsmen as well.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon when Orme returned. Together, without mentioning Durban at all, they carefully constructed their strategy.

Orme looked nervous, but he did not argue with Monk's intention to be present.

"And Clacton," Monk added.

Orme looked at him quickly.

Monk smiled, but he did not explain himself.

Orme's mouth tightened, and he nodded.

Monk met Runcorn by the hot-chestnut stand just off Westminster Bridge Road. It was four in the afternoon and already dark. A heavy cloud hung like a pall over the city. There was the smell of chimney smoke in the air, and the wind held the sting of snow to come. Downriver on the incoming tide was a drift of fog, and Monk, standing within sight of the dark, flat water, could hear the boom of foghorns drifting up. Although there were several of them, it was an eerie sound of utter desolation. Now it echoed vaguely. When the fog came in it would be swallowed, cut off half finished, like a cry strangled in the throat.

"Found the cabbie," Runcorn said, blowing on a hot chestnut before putting it into his mouth. "Took the man as far as Piccadilly. Remembers him quite well because he did an odd thing. He got out of his cab and crossed the Circus, which was pretty quiet at that time in the morning, all the theaters on Haymarket and Shaftesbury Avenue being out long since. Then he got straight into another cab and disappeared east along Coventry Street, towards Leicester Square." He looked up from his chestnut, watching for Monk's reaction. "Why would a man change cabs when there's nothing wrong with the one he's in?"

"Because he wants to disappear," Monk replied. "I expect he changed again, maybe twice, before he got where he wanted to be."

"Exactly," Runcorn agreed, taking another chestnut and smiling. "He wasn't drunk, he wasn't a beggar, he certainly wasn't anyone's groom ..."

"He could have been," Monk started.

Runcorn's eyebrows rose. "With the price of a cab fare from Westminster Bridge Road to the East End?"

Monk could have bitten his tongue. He looked away from Runcorn. "No, of course not. Whoever he was, he had money."

"Exactly!" Runcorn repeated. "I think Mrs. Ewart saw the man who shot James Havilland. She gave us quite a good description of him, and the cab driver added a bit. Seems he has black hair, rather long onto his collar, and at least at that time he was clean-shaven. The cabbie had the impression of a hollow sort of face and long nose, thin between the eyes."

"A very observant cab driver," Monk remarked, a little skeptically. "You sure he wasn't just trying to get on the good side of the police?"