They treated Monk with civility; if he wanted anything more, he would have to earn it. The river was a dangerous place with its shifting tides and currents, occasional sunken obstacles, fast-moving traffic, and sudden changes of weather. It demanded courage, skill, and even more loyalty between men than did the same profession on land. However, human decency dictated they offer Monk tea laced with rum, as they would to any man, probably even to a stray dog at this time of the year. Indeed, Humphrey, the station cat, a large white animal with a ginger tail, was provided with a basket by the stove and as much milk as he could drink. Mice were his own affair to catch for himself, which he did whenever he could be bothered, or nobody had fed him with other titbits.

"Thank you." Monk drank the tea and felt some resemblance of life return to his body, warmth working slowly from the inside outwards.

"Accident?" Sergeant Palmer asked, looking at the bodies now lying on the floor, faces decently covered with spare coats.

"Don't know yet," Monk replied. "Came off Waterloo Bridge right in front of us, but we can't be sure how it happened."

Palmer frowned, puzzled. He had his doubts about Monk's competence anyway, and this indecision went towards confirming them.

Orme finished his tea. "Went off together," he said, looking at Palmer expressionlessly. " 'Ard to tell if 'e were trying to save 'er, or could've pushed 'er. Know what killed 'em all right, poor souls. 'It the water 'ard, like they always do. But I daresay as we'll never know for certain why."

Palmer waited for Monk to say something. The room was suddenly silent. The other two men from the boat, Jones and Butterworth, stood watching, turning from one to the other, to see what Monk would do. It was a test again. Would he match up to Durban?

"Get the surgeon to look at them, just in case there's something else," Monk answered. "Probably isn't, but we don't want to risk looking stupid."