Monk smiled back at him, surprised how pleased he was. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Where are we going to start?" Rathbone asked him.

Monk looked Rathbone's elegant figure up and down. "With rather older clothes, I think. We need to find and prove the connection between Sixsmith and the assassin."

Rathbone's eyes widened. "For God's sake, Monk! How? Sixsmith worked in the sewer excavations. He could have been anywhere when he was out on bail. It was only a bribery charge! And no one has the faintest idea where the assassin was. We don't even have a name for him!"

"You've summed it up perfectly," Monk said with a smile that was more like a baring of teeth. "I plan on enlisting all the help I can. I'll start with Runcorn, Orme, and as many of my own men as I can spare, then the doctor, Crow. He'll be happy to help because the assassin shot Scuff. Then I'll get as many navvies as'll help. Toshers, gangers, and watermen, too. And I'll try to get Sutton, the ratcatcher. He knows the hidden rivers and wells that very few other people do, all the hiding places. People who won't speak to us will speak to him."

There was horror, disgust, and self-mockery in Rathbone's face. "And what is it you imagine I can do in this . . . this pursuit of the unspeakable?"

Monk grinned now. "Oh, you are in command," he assured him. "You will tell us what is proof and what is not."

Rathbone gave him a dark, twisted look and excused himself to change his clothes.

They went first to Runcorn, as a matter of geographical simplicity. He was horrified, as they had known he would be. Even more than that, he was angry with himself for not having seen the difference in the two descriptions of the assassin.

"No one did," Monk assured him honestly. "It was only when I was telling Hester about it and repeating it myself that I realized. That one detail too much was his only slip."

Runcorn's face was hard and bleak. "I'll trace each step of that bastard's way," he promised, "if I have to climb or crawl through every sewer in London and question the bloody rats!"

At the thought, Mark's face pulled tight, his mouth in a downward turn, but he did not argue.

Next they got Orme out of his bed with an apology for the hour, as he could just barely have gone to sleep after a hard day. He made no complaints, not even by change of expression on his face. Monk hoped profoundly that it was not because he did not dare to. Orme had earned the right to respect and consideration for his feelings, his well-being, and the fact that he might have other cares and occupations in life than serving the demands of the River Police in general, or Monk in particular.

"I can't do it without you," Monk said frankly.