When Monk arrived home that evening Hester could see that he was in some mental turmoil. He was shivering from the river crossing, and he concentrated on warming at least his hands and feet before he even attempted to say anything beyond a greeting. He ate the bowl of soup she brought him, and gradually he stopped shaking.

She wondered yet again if they would have been wiser to have found a house on the northern bank of the Thames, even if the area was less to their liking.

When she had gone to Portpool Lane she had taken the omnibus westwards and over whichever of the bridges was appropriate, but since they were directly opposite Wapping, it made sense for Monk to cross by ferry and be at the police station in fifteen minutes or so. Sometimes the patrol boat picked him up directly from the steps.

But the cold was intense, and on a night like this, with its drifting sleet, she wished profoundly he did not have to be on the open water.

She sat opposite him, looking at the red glow of the fire on his face, the soup bowl in his hands, and wondered if it had been a good idea for him to join a regular force again. She had offered to apply for a regular nursing job at one of the big hospitals, even though nursing in those circumstances was actually almost nothing to do with the care of patients.

One was rather more like a domestic servant in circumstances where a usual household maid would refuse to go.

She had tried it, before their marriage, and it had made her full of zeal to reform the practice of hospital nursing after her experience in the Crimea. She had failed spectacularly, very nearly incurring legal action against herself for insubordination, and worse. But still she would have swallowed her pride and applied again if it would have helped. Monk had refused outright.

Now she looked at him relaxing at last in the chair opposite her, and worried that he was finding the obedience to authority harder than he had expected, and the restrictions and demands of leadership too cramping to both his nature and his abilities. She was trying to think of the words to ask him when he spoke.

"Sixsmith, who's in charge of the practical side of the tunneling, is certain that Havilland committed suicide when he couldn't cope with the claustrophobia of working underground," he said, watching her face.

She felt herself tighten, ready to argue, but kept her temper, waiting for what else he would say.