"Oh, at least!" Orme started to laugh. It was a rich, happy sound, a little high, as if he was now realizing how close they had all come to defeat, and he still did not know how badly any of the rest of his own men had been injured, or even whether any had been killed.

Then Monk remembered Clacton. Did Orme know that he had deliberately held back? If he did, would he do anything about it? Would he expect Monk to? Even as the thought came to him, Monk half made up his mind to face Clacton, not as a betrayer but as a coward. It might be the better way.

He held out his left hand. "A good night," he said warmly.

"Yes, sir," Orme agreed, taking it with his own left. "Very good. Better'n I thought."

"Thank you." It was not a formality; he meant it.

Orme caught the inflection. "Yer welcome, sir. We done good. But yer'd best get that arm seen to. It's a nasty one."

Monk obeyed and got into the waiting boat, a little awkwardly. His arm was stiffening already.

It was nearly an hour later, on the north bank again and close to midnight, when he finally sat on a wooden chair in the small back room of a young doctor known as Crow. Monk had met him through Scuff when Durban was alive and they were working on the Louvain case.

Crow shook his head. He had a high forehead and black hair that he wore long and cut straight around. His smile was wide and bright, showing remarkably good teeth.

"So you got 'em," he said, examining the gash in Monk's arm while Monk studiously looked away from it, concentrating his anger on the wreck of his jacket.

"Yes," Monk agreed, gritting his teeth. "And the Fat Man."

"You'll be clever if you get to jail him," Crow said, pulling a face.

"Very," Monk agreed, wincing. "He's dead."

"Dead?" Without meaning to, Crow pulled on the thread with which he was stitching Monk's arm. "Sorry," he apologized. "Really? Are you sure? The Fat Man?"

"Absolutely." Monk clenched his teeth tighter. "He fell through a rotted pier on Jacob's Island. Went straight down into the slime and never came back up."

Crow sighed with profound satisfaction. "How very fitting. I'll tell Scuff. He'll be glad at least you got that sorted. Hold still, this is going to hurt."

Monk gasped and felt a wave of nausea engulf him for several moments as the pain blotted out everything else. Then there was a sharp, acrid sting in his nose that brought tears to his eyes. "What the hell is that?" he demanded.

"Smelling salts," Crow replied. "You look a bit green."

"Smelling salts?" Monk was incredulous.

Crow grinned, all teeth and good humor. "That's right. Good stuff. So you got the Fat Man. That'll help your reputation no end. Nobody ever did that before."