The Silent Cry

Chapter Eight

Monk walked briskly along Brick Lane, head down under the wind which was clearing the last of the fog. He must see Vida Hopgood again before he pursued the case any further. She had the right to know of Runcorn's refusal to involve the police in the case, in spite of the mounting proof that there had been a series of crimes of increasing violence. Memory of their encounter still angered him, the more so because part of his mind knew Runcorn was right, and in his place he might well have made the same decision. He would not have done it out of indifference, but a matter of priorities. He had too few men as it was. They only touched the surface of crime in areas like Seven Dials.

It was an easy excuse to ignore people like Vida Hopgood, but it was also unfair to all the countless other victims to put men where they could make no effective difference.

Thinking of it made him angrier still, but it was better than thinking of Hester, which was so natural to him, and at the same time so full of all kinds of discomfort. It was the same kind of temptation as pulling a bandage off a wound to see if it had healed yet, touching the place that hurt, in the hope that this time it would not. It always did…

and he did not learn by experience.

He turned the corner into Butcher's Yard and was suddenly sheltered. He almost slipped where there was ice on the cobbles. He passed a man shouldering a heavy load covered in sacking, probably a carcass. It was quarter past four and the light was fading. In late January the days were short.

He reached Vida Hopgood's door and knocked. He expected her to be in.

He had found this a good time to call. He looked forward to the warmth of her fire and, if he were fortunate, a hot cup of tea.

"You again," she said when she saw him. "Still got a face like a pot lion, so I s'pose yer in't found nothin' useful. Come on in, then.

Don't stand there lettin' in the cold!" She retreated along the passageway, leaving him to close the door and follow her.

He took his coat off and sat down uninvited before the fire in the parlour, rubbing his hands together and leaning towards the grate to catch the warmth.

She sat opposite him, her handsome face sharp-eyed, watchful.

"Did yer come 'ere ter warm yerself cos yer got no fire at 'ome, or was there sum mink in particular?”

He was used to her manner. "I put all we have before Runcorn yesterday. He agrees there is plenty of proof of crime, but says he won't put police onto it because no court would prosecute, let alone convict." He watched her face for the contempt and the hurt he expected to see.

She looked at him equally carefully, judging his temper. There was a gleam in her eyes, a mixture of anger, humour and cunning.

"I wondered well yer was gonna say that. D'yer wanna give it up then, that wot yer mean? Cometer it straight?”

"No, if that was what I meant, I'd have said it. I thought you knew me better!”

She smiled with a moment of real amusement.

"Yer a bastard, Monk, but there are times well if yer wasn't a rozzer, or I could ferget it… which I can't… as I could almost fancy yer.”

He laughed. "I wouldn't dare!" he said lightly. "You might suddenly remember, and then where would I be?”

"In bed wi' a shiv in yer back," she said laconically, but there was still a warmth in her eyes, as if the whole idea had an element which pleased her. Then the ease died away. "So wot yer gonna do about these poor cows wot bin raped, then? If yer in't givin' up, wot's left, eh? You gonna find them bastards fer us?”

"I'm going to find them," he said carefully, giving due weight to every word. "What I tell you depends upon what you are going to do about it.”

Her face darkened. "Listen, Monk…”

"No, you listen!" he cut across her. "I have no intention of ending up giving evidence at your trial for murder, or of being in the dock beside you as accessory before the fact. No jury in London is going to believe I didn't know what you would do with the knowledge, once I found it for you.”

There was confusion in her face for a moment, then contempt. "I'll see yer in't caught up in it," she said witheringly. "Yer don't need ter run scared o' that. Jus' tell us 'oo they are, we'll take care o' the rest. Won't even tell anyone 'ow we found 'em.”

"They already know." He ignored the sarcasm, the reasoning, and the excuses.

"I'll tell 'em yer failed," she said with a grin. "We found 'em ourselves. Won't do yer reputation no good, but it'll keep yer from the rope… seein' as that's wot yer after, in' it?”

"Stop playing, Vida. When I know who they are, we'll come to some agreement as to what we do about it, and we'll do it my way, or I'll not tell you.”

"Got money, 'ave yer?" she said with raised eyebrows. "Can afford ter work fer no pay, all of a sudden? In't wot I 'card.”

"It's not your concern, Vida." He saw from her face she did not believe him. "Maybe I have a rich woman who'll see I don't go hungry or homeless…" It was true. Callandra Daviot would help him, as she had from the beginning, although it was far from in the sense Vida would take from his words.

Her eyes opened wide in amazement, then she began to laugh, a rich, full-throated surge of merriment.

"You!" she chortled. "Yer got yerself a rich woman ter keep yer!

That's priceless, that is! I never 'card any think so funny in all me life." But she was watching him all the same, and there was belief in her eyes.

"So those are my conditions, Vida," he said with a smile. "I intend to find out who they are, then we bargain as to what we do about it, and what I tell you rests on our agreement.”

She pursed her lips and looked at him steadily in silence, weighing up his strength of resolve, his will, his intelligence.

He looked back at her without wavering. He did not know what she knew of him from the past, but he had felt his reputation in Seven Dials keenly enough to be sure she would not judge him lightly.

"O'right," she said at last. "I reckon as yer in't gonna let the bastards orff, or yer wouldn't care enough ter catch them whether I paid yer or not. Yer wants 'em fer sum mink near as much as I do." She stood up and went over to a drawer in a small table and took out two guineas. "Ere yare. That's all until yer come up wi' sum mink as we can use, Monk. Get on wif it. Jus' cos some woman wi' more money'n sense fancies yer, don' mean I want yer clutterin' up me best room 'alf the evenin'." But she smiled as she said it.

Monk thanked her and left. He walked slowly, hands pushed hard into his pockets. The deeper he looked into the case, the more did it seem as if Rhys Duff could be guilty. One thing he had noticed which he had not told Vida Hopgood was that from everything he had been able to establish, there had been no attacks since the incident in which Rhys had been injured. They had begun slowly, building up from small unpleasantnesses, gradually escalating until they were assaults so violent as to threaten life. Then suddenly they had stopped altogether. Ten days before that had been the last of them.

He crossed an open square and went into the alley on the far side, passing a man selling bootlaces and an old woman with a carpet bag.

Why the ten days? That was a larger space than between the other attacks. What had kept them away for such a length of time? Was there a victim he had missed? To fit in with the pattern there should have been at least two.

Further afield? Rhys had been found in St. Giles. Had he and his friends moved territories, perhaps fearing Seven Dials had become too dangerous for them? That was an answer that fitted with what he knew so far. But he must put it to the test.

He turned and began to walk west again until he came to a thoroughfare and caught a cab. It was not very far. He could have gone all the way on foot in half an hour, but suddenly he was impatient.

He alighted just past the Church of St. Giles itself, and strode towards the first lighted hostelry he saw. He went inside and sat down at one of the tables, and after several minutes was served with a mug of stout. Noise surged all around him, the press of bodies, shouts, laughter, people swaying and shoving to get past, calling out to one another greetings, friendly abuse, snippets of gossip and news, little bits of business. There were fencers of stolen goods here, pickpockets, forgers picking up a few likely customers, card sharps and gamblers, pimps.

He watched them all with a growing feeling of familiarity, as if he had been here before, or a score of places like it. He remembered the way the lamp hung a trifle crookedly, shedding an uneven light on the brass railing above the bar. The line of hooks where customers hung their mugs dipped a little at the far end.

A small man with a withered arm looked at him, and shook his head towards his companion, and they both pulled up their collars and went outside into the cold.

A woman laughed over-loudly and a man hiccuped.

A fair-haired man with a Scots accent slid into the seat opposite Monk.

"We've no' got anything here for ye, Mr. Monk. Tell me what it is ye're after, an' I'll pass the word, but ye know I'd 'a great deal sooner ye did not sit in my house drinkin' yer ale. Aye, we've the odd thief in here, but small folk, no worth the bother o' a man like yourself.”

"Murder is worth my trouble, Jamie," Monk replied very quietly. "And so is rape and beating women.”

"If ye're talking about those two men that were found in Water Lane, none of us around here know who did that. Young policeman's been all over asking and wasting his time, poor devil. And Constable Shotts, who was born and bred around here, should know better. But why are you here?" His broad, fair face was wary, his crooked nose, broken years ago, and wide, blue eyes gave him a comfortable look which belied his intelligence. "And what's it to do wi' rape?”

"I don't know," Monk replied, taking another drink of his stout. "Have any women been raped around here in the last month or two? I mean ordinary women, women who work in the factories and sweatshops, and maybe go on the streets now and then when things get a little tight?”

"Why? What do you care if they have? Po-liss don't give a toss.

Though I heard as you're not with the po-liss any more." A flicker of amusement crossed his face, his lips curled as if he would laugh, but he made no sound.

"You heard truly," Monk replied. He was certain he knew this man. He had spoken his name without thinking. Jamie… the rest of it escaped him, but they know each other well, too well to pretend. It was an uneasy truce, a natural enmity held at bay by a certain common interest, and a thread, very fragile, of respect, not unmixed with fear. Jamie MacPherson was a brawler, hot-tempered, he carried a grudge and he despised cowardice or self-pity. But he was loyal to his own, and far too intelligent to strike out without a reason, or to act against his own interests.

He was smiling now, his eyes bright. "Throw you out, eh? Runcorn. Yer should o' seen that coming, man. Waited a long time to get his own back, that one.”

Monk felt a shiver of cold run through him. The man not only knew him, he knew Runcorn also, and he knew more than Monk did of what lay between them. The chatter and laughter washed around him like a breaking sea, leaving him is landed in his own silence, not a part of them but separate, alone. They knew, and he did not.

"Yes," Monk agreed, not knowing what else to say. He had lost control of the conversation, and it was not what he had intended, or was used to. "For the time being," he added. He must not let this man think he was no longer a force to fear or respect.

MacPherson's smile widened. "Aye, this is his patch. He'll no' be happy if you take his case from him.”

"He isn't interested in it," Monk said quickly. "I'm after the rapists, not the murderer.”

"Are they no' the same?”

"No… I don't think so… at least, one is, I think!

"You're talking daft, man," MacPherson said tartly. "Ye know better than to take me for a fool. Be straight wi' me, an' I'll maybe help ye.”

Monk made up his mind on the spur.

"A woman in Seven Dials hired me to find who was raping and beating factory women over there. I've followed it for three weeks now, and the more I learn, the more I think it may be connected with your murder here.”

"Yejust said it was no' the same people!" MacPherson's blue eyes narrowed, but he was still listening intently. He may dislike Monk, but he did not despise his intelligence.

"I think the young man who was beaten but lived may have been one of the rapists," Monk explained. "The man who died is his father…”

"Aye, we all ken that much…”

"Who followed him, having learned, or guessed, what he was doing, and got caught in the fight, and he was the one who got the worst of it.”

MacPherson pursed his lips. "What does the young man say?”

"Nothing whatever. He can't speak.”

"Oh aye? Why's that then?" MacPherson said sceptic ally "Shock. But it's true. I know the nurse who is caring for him." In spite of all he could do to prevent it, the picture of Hester was so vivid in his mind it was as though she were sitting beside him. He knew she would hate what he was doing, she would fight desperately to protect her patient. But she would also understand why he could not leave the truth concealed if there were any way he could uncover it. If it were not Rhys, she would want it known just as passionately.

MacPherson was regarding him closely. "So what is it ye're wanting from me?”

"There have been no attacks or rapes in Seven Dials since the murder,”

Monk explained. "Or for some short time before. I need to know if they moved to St. Giles.”

"Not that I heard," MacPherson said, his brow puckered. "But then that's a thing folk don't talk about easy. Ye'll have to work a little harder for that than just come in here and ask for it.”

"I know that. But a little co-operation would cut down the time.

There's not much point in going to the brothels; they weren't professional prostitutes, just women in need of a little extra now and then.”

MacPherson pushed out his lip, his eyes hot and angry. "No protection," he said aloud. "Easy pickings. If we knew who it was, and they come back to St. Giles, it'll be their last trip. They'll not go home again, an' that's a promise.”

"You'll not be the first in the line," Monk said drily. "But we have to find them before we can do anything about it.”

MacPherson looked at him with a bleak smile, showing his teeth. "I know you, Monk. Ye may be a hard bastard, but ye're far too fly to provoke a murder that can be traced back to ye. Ye'll no tell the likes o' me what ye find.”

Monk smiled back at him, although it was the last thing he felt like.

Every other time he spoke, MacPherson was adding new darkness to Monk's knowledge of himself. Had he really been a man who had led others to believe he could countenance a murder, any murder, so long as it could not be traced to him? Could it conceivably be true?

"I have no intention of allowing you, or Vida Hopgood, to contrive your own revenge for the attacks," he said aloud, icily. "If the law won't do it, then there are other ways. These men are not clerks or petty tradesmen with little to lose. They are men of wealth and social position. To ruin them would be far more effective. It would be slower, more painful, and it would be perfectly legal.”

MacPherson stared at him.

"Let their own punish them," Monk went on drily. "They are very good at it indeed… believe me. They have refined it to an art.”

MacPherson pulled a face. "Ye have no' changed, Monk. I should no' have underestimated ye. Ye're an evil devil. I could no' cross ye. I tried to warn Runcorn agin ye, but he was too blind to see it. I'd tell him now to watch his back for getting rid o' ye from the force, but it would no' do any good. Ye'll bide your time, and get him, one way or another.”

Monk felt cold. Hard as he was, MacPherson thought Monk harder, more ruthless. He felt Runcorn the victim. He did not have the whole story. He did not know Runcorn's social ambitions, his moral vacillation when a decision jeopardised his own career, or how he trimmed and evaded in order to please those in power… of any sort.

He did not know his small-mindedness, the poverty of his imagination, his sheer cowardice, his meanness of spirit!

But then Monk himself did not know the whole story either.

And the coldest thought of all, which penetrated even into his bones was Monk responsible for what Runcorn had become? Was it something he had done in the past which had warped Runcorn's soul and made him what he was now?

He did not want to know, but perhaps he had to. Imagination would torment him until he did. For now, perhaps it would be useful to allow MacPherson to retain his image of Monk as ruthless, never forgetting a grudge.

"Who do I go to?" he said aloud. "Who knows what's going on in St.

Giles?”

MacPherson thought for a moment or two.

"Willie Snaith, for one," he said finally. "And old Bertha for another. But they'll no' speak to ye, unless someone takes ye and vouches for ye.”

"So I assumed," Monk replied. "Come with me.”

"Me?" MacPherson looked indignant. "Walk out on my business? And who's to care for this place if I go attendin' to your affairs for ye?”

Monk took one of Vida's guineas out of his pocket and put it on the table.

MacPherson grunted. "Ye are desperate," he said drily. "Why? What's it to you if a few miserable women are raped or beaten? Don't tell me any of them mean something to you!" He watched Monk's face closely. "There must be more. These bastards cross you somehow? Is that it? Or is it still to do with Runcorn and the po-liss? Trying to show them up, are ye?”

"I've already told you," Monk said waspishly. "It's not a police case.”

"Ye're right," MacPherson conceded. "It couldn't be. Not one for putting himself out on a limb, Runcorn. Always safe, always careful.

Not like you!" He laughed abruptly, then rose to his feet. "All right, then. Come on, and I'll take you to see Willie.”

Monk followed immediately.

Outside, dressed again in heavy overcoats, MacPherson led the way deeper into St. Giles, and the old area that had earlier in the century been known as the "Holy Land'. He did not go by streets and alleys as Evan had done, but through passages sometimes no more than a yard wide. The darkness was sometimes impenetrable. It was wet underfoot. There was a constant sound of dripping water from eaves and gutterings, the rattle and scratch of rodent feet, the creak of rotting timbers. Several times MacPherson stopped and Monk, who could not see him, continued moving and bumped into him.

Eventually they emerged into a yard with a single yellow gas lamp and the light seemed brilliant by comparison. The outlines of timber frames stood sharp and black, brick and plaster work reflecting the glow. The wet cobbles shone.

MacPherson glanced behind him once to make sure Monk was still there, then went across and down a flight of stone steps into a cellar where one tallow candle smoked on a holder made of half an old bottle, but it showed the entrance to a tunnel and MacPherson went in without hesitation.

Monk followed. He had a sharp memory of stomach-knotting, skin-prickling danger, of sudden pain and then oblivion. He knew what it was. It came from the past he dreaded, when he and Runcorn had followed wanted men into areas just like this. Then there had been comradeship between them. There had never been the slightest resentment on his part, he knew that clearly. And he had gone in head first without a second's doubt that Runcorn would be there to guard his back. It had been the kind of trust that was built on experience, time and time again of never being found wanting.

Now he was following Jamie MacPherson. He could not see him, but he could re-create in his mind exactly his broad shoulders and slight swagger as he walked, a little roll, as if in his youth he had been at sea. He had a pugilist's agility and his fists were always ready. He looked in his middle-fifties, his reddish-fair hair receding.

How long ago had it been that he and Runcorn had worked together here?

Twenty years? That would make Monk in his twenties then, young and keen, perhaps too angry still from the injustice to the man who had been his friend and mentor, too ambitious to gain the power for himself which would allow him to right the wrongs.

Hester would have told him he was arrogant, claiming for himself a position in judgement to which he had no right, and no qualification.

He would never admit it to her, but he winced now for the truth of it.

MacPherson's voice came out of the darkness ahead of him, warning him of the step, and an instant later he nearly fell over it. They were climbing again, and emerged into another cellar, this time with a lighted door at the far side which led into a room, and another.

MacPherson banged sharply, once, then four times, and it was opened by a man whose hair stood up in spikes on his head. His face was full of humour and the hand he held up was missing the third finger.

"Well, bless me, if it in't Monk agin," he said cheerfully. "Thought yer was dead. Wot yer doin' 'ere, then?”

"Looking into the rapes over in Seven Dials," MacPherson replied for him before Monk could speak.

Willie Snaith's hazel eyes opened wide, still looking at MacPherson.

"Yer never tellin' me the rozzers give a toss about that? I don' believe ya. Ya gorn sorft in the 'ead, Mac? Ya forgot 'oo this is, 'ave ya?”

"He's no' with the po-liss any more," MacPherson explained, coming further into the room and closing the door to the cellar behind them.

"Runcorn got his revenge, it seems, and had him drummed out. He's on his own. And I'd like to know for myself who's been doing this, because it's no' one of us who live here, it's some fancy fellar from up west way, so it is.”

"Well, if that don't beat the devil! "E wot lives longest sees most, as they say. So Monk's workin' fer us, in a fashion! That I'd live ter see the day!" He gave a rich chortle of delight. "So wot you want from me, then? I dunno 'oo dun it, or I'd a' fixe dim me self "I want to know if there were any beatings or rapes of factory women in the last three weeks," Monk replied immediately. "Or in the two weeks before that either.”

"No…" Snaith said slowly. "Not as I 'card. "Ow does that 'elp yer?”

"It doesn't," Monk answered him. "It was not what I was hoping you would say." Then he realised that was not true. It would have indicated a solution, but not the one he wanted. He did not care about Rhys Duff himself, but he knew how it would hurt Hester. That should not matter. The truth was what counted. If Rhys Duff was guilty then he was one of the most callous and brutal men Monk had ever known of.

He was twisted to a depravity from which it would be unimaginable to redeem him. And more immediate than that, although he might recover, in time, there were his companions.

He was not guilty alone. Whoever had been with him was still at large, presumably still bent on violence and cruelty. Even if the attack on Rhys had temporarily frightened them, it would not last. Such ingrained sadism did not vanish from the nature in one act, however harsh. The need to hurt would rise again, and be satisfied again.

Snaith was regarding him with growing interest.

"Yer've changed," he observed, nodding his head. "Dunno as I like it.

Mebbe I do. Edges 'a gorn. Yer in't so 'ungry no more. Bloody nuisance, yer was. More'n Runcorn, poor sod. Never 'ad yer nose fera lie, 'e din't. E'd believe yer well you'd smell the truth. Looks like yer lorst that, though, eh?”

"Difficult truths take longer," Monk said tensely. "And we all change.

You shouldn't discount Runcorn. He's persistent too, just weighs his priorities, that's all.”

Snaith grinned. "Eye ter the main chance, that one, I know that, whereas you… yer like a dog wi' a bone. Never let go. Cut orff yer 'ead, an' yer teeth'd still be fast shut! Bleedin' bastard, yare!

Still, nobody crossed yer twice, not even yer own.”

"You said that before!" Monk snapped, stung by his helplessness. "Did I do anything to Runcorn he didn't have coming?" He framed the question aggressively, as if he knew the answer, but his stomach knotted as he looked at Snaith's face in the gaslight and waited for the answer. It seemed an age in coming. He could feel the seconds slip by and hear his own heart beating.

MacPherson cleared his throat.

Snaith stared back, his round, hazel eyes shadowed, his face a trifle puckered. Monk knew before he spoke that his reply was the one he feared.

"Yeah, I reckon so. Enemy in front of yer's one thing, be' and yer's another. I don' know wot yer dun ter 'im, but it fair broke 'im, an' 'e weren't spec ting it from yer. Learned me sum mink abaht yer. Never took yer light arter that. Yer an 'and bastard, an' that's the truth." He took a breath. "But if yer want the swine wot done them women in Seven Dials, I'll 'elp yer ter that. I in't fussy 'oo I use. Go an' ask Wee Minnie. OF Bertha dunno nuthink. Find Wee Minnie, an' teller I sent yer.”

"She won't believe me," Monk said reasonably.

"Yeah, she will, 'cos less'n I tell yer w'er ter finder yer'll be wand' ring around the rookeries for the rest oyer life!”

"That's the truth, so it is," MacPherson agreed.

"So tell me," Monk accepted.

Snaith shook his head. "In't yer never scared, Monk? In't it never entered yer 'ead as we'd cut yer throat an' drop yer in the midden, jus' for ol' time's sake?”

Monk grinned back. "Several times, and if you do there is nothing I can do now to stop you. I'm too far into St. Giles to yell for help, even supposing anyone would come. But you're a businessman, at least MacPherson is. You want what I want. You'll wait until I've got it before you do anything to me.”

"There are times when I could almost like yer," Snaith said, surprised at himself. "One thing I'll say for yer, yer in't never an 'ypocrite.

Got that much on Runcorn, poor sod.”

"Thank you," Monk said sarcastically. "Wee Minnie?”

It was a tortuous hour, and Monk got lost three times before he finally slipped through an alley gateway, across a brick yard and up the back steps into a series of rooms which finally ended in the airlessly hot parlour where Wee Minnie sat on a pile of cushions, her wrinkled face in a toothless smile, her gnarled hands clicking knitting needles of bone as she worked without looking at it on what appeared to be a sock.

"So yer got 'ere," she observed with a dry chuckle. "Thought as yer'd got lorst. Yer wanter know about rape, do yer?”

He should have known word would reach here before he did.

"Yes.”

"There was two. Bad, they was, so bad no one never said nothing.”

"I don't understand. It was bad, surely that was all the more reason to do something, warn people, stay together… anything…”

She shook her head, her fingers never losing their rhythm.

"Yer gets beat, yer tell people. It in't personal. Yer gets raped bad, it's different.”

"How do you know?”

"I know everything." There was satisfaction in her voice. Then suddenly it hardened and her eyes became cruel. "Yer get them bastards! Give 'em ter us an' we'll draw an' quarter 'em, like they did in the old days. Me gran'fer told me abaht it. Yer string 'em up, or by 'ell's door, we will!”

"Can I speak to the women who were raped?”

"Can yer wot?" she said incredulously.

"Can I speak to the women?" he repeated.

She swore under her breath.

"I need to ask them about the men. I have to be sure it was the same ones. They might remember something, a face, a voice, even a name, the feel of fabric, anything.”

"It were the same men," she said with absolute certainty. "Three of 'em. One tall, one 'eavier, an' one on the skinny side.”

He tried to keep the sense of victory out of his voice. "What age were they?”

"Age? I dunno. Don't yer know?”

"I believe so. When were these attacks?”

"Wot?”

"Before or after the murder in Water Lane?”

She looked at him with her head a trifle to one side, like a withered old sparrow.

"Afore, o' course. In't bin nuffink since. Wouldn't, would there now?”

"No, I think not.”

"That were 'im, then, wot got killed?" she said with satisfaction.

"One of them." He did not bother to correct her error. "I want the other two.”

She grinned toothlessly. "You an' a few others.”

"Where did they happen, exactly? I need to know. I need to speak to people who might have seen them coming or going, people in the street, traders, beggars, especially cabbies who might have brought them or taken them away afterwards.”

"Wot fer?" She was genuinely puzzled, it was plain in her face. "Yer know 'oo it were, don't yer?”

"I think so, but I need to prove it…”

"Wot fer?" she said again. "If yer think as the law'll take any notice, yer daft! An' yer in't daft, not yer worst enemy'd say that oyer Other things mebbe.”

"Do you want them caught?" he asked. "You imagine after what happened to one of them, they'll come back to St. Giles, for you to knife them and dump them on some midden? It'll be Limehouse, or the Devil's Acre, or Bluegate Fields next time. If we want justice, it will have to be in their territory, and that means with better weapons than yours. It means evidence, proof, not for the law, which as you say, doesn't care, but for society, which does.”

"Abaht prostitutes getting' raped or beat?" she said, her voice cracking high with disbelief. "Yer've lorst your wits, Monk! It's finally got toyer!”

"Society ladies know their men use prostitutes, Minnie," he explained patiently. "They don't like to think other people know it. They certainly don't like to marry their daughters to young men who frequent places like St. Giles to pick up stray women, who could have diseases, and who practise violence against women, extreme violence. What society knows, and what it acknowledges, can be very difficult. There are things which privately can be overlooked, but publicly are never forgiven or forgotten." He looked at her wrinkled face. "You have loyalties to your own. You understand that. You don't betray the tribe with someone else. Neither do they. These young men have let the side down, they will not be forgiven for that.”

"Yer get 'em, Monk," she said slowly, and for the first time her fingers stopped moving on the needles. "Ye're a clever sod, you are.

Yer get 'em for us. We'll not ferget yer.”

"Where did they happen, the two in St. Giles?”

"Fisher's Walk, the first one, an' Ellicitt's Yard the second.”

"Time?”

"Jus' arter midnight, both times.”

"Dates?”

"Three nights afore the murder in Water Lane, night afore Christmas Eve.”

"Thank you, Minnie. You have been a great help. Are you sure you won't give me the names? It would help to talk to the victims themselves.”

"Yeah, I'm sure.”

The following day he went to Evan and aft era little persuasion obtained from him copies of the pictures of Rhys Duff and his father.

He looked at the faces with curiosity. It was the first time he had seen them, and they were neither as he had pictured them. Leighton Duff had powerful features, a strong, broad nose, clear eyes that were blue or grey from the light in them, and the appearance of keen intelligence. Rhys was utterly different, and it was his face which troubled him. It was the face of a dreamer. He should have been a poet or an explorer of ideas. His eyes were dark under winged brows, his nose good, if a trifle long, his mouth sensitive, even vulnerable.

But it was only a drawing, probably made after the incident, and perhaps the artist had allowed his sense of pity to influence his hand.

Monk put them in his pocket, thanked Evan, and set out through a light drizzle towards St. Giles again.

In Fisher's Walk he began asking street traders, pedlars, beggars, anyone who would answer him, if they recognised either of the two men.

It did not take long to find someone who identified Rhys.

"Yeah," he said, scratching his finger at the side of his head and knocking his cap askew. "Yeah, I seen 'im 'angin' around once or twice, mebbe more. Tall, eh? Nice-lookin' gent. Spoke proper, like them up west. Dressed rough, though. Down on 'is luck, I reckon.”

"Dressed rough?" Monk said quickly. "What do you mean, exactly?" Was it Rhys, or only someone who looked a little like him?

"Well, not like a gent," the man replied, looking at Monk earnestly as if he doubted his intelligence. "I know wot gents look like. Overcoat, 'e 'ad, but nuthink special, no fur on the collar, no 'igh 'at, no stick. In fact no 'at at all, co meter think on it.”

"But it was this man? You are sure?”

"Course I'm sure! Yer fink I dunno wot I sees, or yer fink I'm a liar, eh?”

"I think it's important you are sure," Monk said carefully. "Someone's life might hang on it.”

The man laughed uproariously, his breath coming in gasps between rich, rolling gurgles of merriment.

"Yer a caution, you are! I never 'card yer was a wit afore. On'y 'card yer was clever, an' never ter cross yer. Mean bastard, but fair, most o' the time, but one ter give a bloke enough rope ter 'ang is self an' then watch wile 'e does it. Pull the trap fer 'im, if 'e'd done yer wrong.”

Monk felt the cold close in on him, penetrating his skin. "I wasn't being funny," he said in a voice that caught in his throat. "I meant depend on it, not hang with a rope.”

"Well, if you ain't gonna 'ang them bastards wot raped those women over in Seven Dials, wot yer want 'em for? Ye gonna get 'em orff 'cos they're gents? That in't like yer. I never 'card from nobody, even yer worst enemy, as yer feared nor favoured no one, not for nuffink at all.”

"Well, that's something, I suppose. I'm not going to hang them because I can't. I'd be perfectly happy to." He was not sure of that being true. "Happy' might not be the right word, but he could certainly accede to it. He knew Hester would not, but that was irrelevant…

well, almost.

"It were 'im," the man said, shivering a little as he grew colder standing still on the street corner. "I seen 'im 'ere three, mebbe four times. Always at night.”

"Alone, or with others?”

"Wif others, twice. Once by is self "Who were the others? Describe them! Did you ever see him with women, and what were they like?”

"Ang on! "Ang on! Once 'e were wif an older man, 'cavy set, dressed very smart, like a gent. "E were real angry, shouting at 'im…”

"Who was shouting at whom?" Monk interrupted.

"They was shouting at each other, o' course.”

Monk produced the picture of Leighton Duff. "Was this him, or could it have been?”

The man studied it for several moments, then shook his head. "I dunno.

I don' fink so. W'y? "Oo is 'e?”

"That doesn't matter. Have you ever seen him, the older man?”

"Not as I knows of. Looks like a few as I seen.”

"And the other time? Who was the young man with then?”

"Woman. Young, mebbe sixteen or so. They went together inter an alley. Dunno after that, but I can guess.”

"Thank you. I don't suppose you know the name of the woman, or where I can find her?”

"Looked like Fanny Waterman terme, but that don't mean it were!”

Monk could scarcely believe his good fortune. He tried not to let his sense of victory show too much in his voice.

"Where can I find her?”

"Black "Orse Yard.”

Monk knew better than to try for a number. He would have to go there and simply start asking. He paid the man half a crown, a magnificent reward he feared he would regret later, and then set out for Black Horse Yard.

It took him two hours to find Fanny Waterman, and her answers left him totally puzzled. She recognised Rhys without hesitation.

"Yeah. So wot?”

"When?”

"I dunno. Mebbe free or four times. Wot's it toyer?" She was a slight, skinny girl, hardly handsome, but she had a face which reflected intelligence and some humour behind the belligerence, and in different circumstances she could well have had a kind of charm. She was certainly fluent enough with words, and there was a cockiness in her walk and the attitude of her head. There was nothing of self-pity in her. She seemed as curious about Monk as he was about her. "W'y dyer wanna know, eh? Wot's 'e done toyer? If 'e broke the law, I in't shoppin' 'im.”

"He didn't hurt you?”

"Urt me? Wo's matter wiv yer? Course 'e din't 'urt me! W'y'd 'e 'urt me?”

"Did he pay you?”

"W'y yer wanna know?" She put her head on one side, looking at him out of wide, dark brown eyes. "Like lookin' at fellas, do yer?" There was the beginning of contempt in her voice. "Cost yer!”

"No, I don't," he said tartly. "A lot of women have been raped and beaten, mostly in Seven Dials, but some here. I'm after whoever did it.”

"Geez!" she said in awe. "Well, nobody 'urt me. "E paid proper an' willin'.”

"When was that? Please try to recall.”

She thought for a moment.

"Was it before or after Christmas?" he prompted. "New Year?”

"It were between," she said with sudden enlightenment. "Then 'e came again arter New Year. W'y? Can't yer tell me wy? Ye don' think as it were 'im, do yer?”

"What do you think?”

"Never!" She tilted her head to one side. "Were it? "Onest?”

"When was the last time you saw him?”

"Dunno. I din' see 'im for a couple o' weeks afore them blokes was done in Water Lane. Rozzers all over the place arter that. In't good for business.”

He took out the picture of Leighton Duff. "Did you ever see this man?”

She studied it. "No.”

"Are you sure?”

"Yeah. I never seen 'im. "Oo is 'e? Is 'e the bloke wot got beat ter death?”

"Yes.”

"Well, I see'd Rhys, that's 'is name, wi' other gents, but this geezer weren't one of 'em. They was young, like 'im. One were real and some Called is self "King", or "Prince" or sum mink like that. The other were Arfur.”

"Duke, perhaps?" Monk felt his pulse beating like a hammer. This was it, this was the three of them seen together, and named.

"Yeah… that's right! Were he a duke, for real?”

"No. It's just short for Marmaduke!”

"Oh… Shame. Like ter fink as I'd 'ad a duke. Still, never mind, eh? All the same wif their pants orff." She laughed with genuine humour at the absurdity of pretension.

"And they all paid you?" he pressed one more time.

"Nah… that Duke were a nasty piece o' work. "E'd a 'it me if I'd 'a pushed, so I din't. Jus' took wot I could.”

"Did he hit you?”

"Nah. I knows well ter push me luck, an' well not ter.”

"Did you see him the night of the murder?”

"Nah.”

"None of them?”

"Nah.”

"I see. Thank you." He produced a shilling, all the change he had left, and gave it to her.

He continued in his search. As he was already aware, the word had spread whom he was seeking and why. For once co-operation was less grudgingly given. Once or twice it was even volunteered. He wanted one more piece, if possible. Had there been a victim that night? Had Leighton Duff caught them before they had attacked, or after? Was there any room at all for denial?

If they had been exultant, intoxicated with the excitement of their victory, dishevelled, perhaps marked with blood, then there was nothing else left to seek. Once Evan knew where to look, whom to question, and had the force of law behind him and the crime of murder, no more rape of women society chose to forget, but a man who was at the heart and core of their own, and the rest could be concerned, proof enough for any court.

It took him another complete day, but at last he found her, a woman in her forties, still pretty in spite of her tiredness and persistent cough. Her cheekbone was broken and she limped badly. She was severely bruised. Yes, they had raped her, but she had not had the strength to fight, and that in itself had seemed to anger them. She was lucky. They had been interrupted.

"Don' tell anyone!" she begged. "I'll lose me job!”

He wished he could promise her that. He said what he could.

"They went on to commit murder, within a few minutes of leaving you,” he said grimly. "You won't need to say you were raped. You can swear you were walking along the street and they fell on you… that will be good enough.”

"Yeah?" she looked doubtful.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Where was it?”

Her voice was husky, her face pale. "Just orff Water Lane.”

"Thank you. That will be enough… I promise.”

It was sufficient. He would have to take it to Evan. He could not conceal it any longer. It was material evidence on the murder of Leighton Duff. If Rhys and his friends had been using prostitutes in St. Giles, which was now unarguable, and it had escalated in violence over the months, then it seemed more than likely that Leighton Duff had found out and had followed him, going to St. Giles just the once. That was borne out by Monk's lack of ability to find anyone who had recognised him. That was ample motive for the quarrel which had followed, the battle which had gone so far it could only end in the death of the one person who knew the truth of what he had done… his father. Whether Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston had been present or not, what part they had played, would have to be proved.

But Monk must go to Evan.

First he would tell Hester. She should not learn it when Evan came to arrest Rhys. He hated having to tell her, but it would be worse if he evaded the issue. As the man in the street who had named Fanny had said, not even his worst enemies had accused him of cowardice.

It was late when he arrived at Ebury Street. A pale moon glittered in a frosty sky and over towards the east the clouds obscured the faint light and promised more snow.

The butler opened the door and said he would enquire whether Miss Latterly was able to receive him. Ten minutes later he was in the library beside a very small fire when Hester came in. She looked frightened. She closed the door behind her, her eyes fixed on his face, searching.

"What is it?" she said without preamble. "What has happened?”

She looked so fierce and vulnerable he ached to be able to shield her from it, but there was no way. He could lie now, but it would open a chasm between them, and in a few hours, a day or two at most, and it would happen anyway. She would be here, and see it. The shock, the sense of betrayal would only be worse.

"I've found someone who saw Rhys, and Arthur and Duke Kynaston together in St. Giles," he said quietly. He heard the regret in his own voice.

It sounded harsh, as if his throat hurt. "I'm sorry. I have to take it to Evan.”

She swallowed, her face white. "It doesn't prove anything!" She was struggling and they both knew it.

"Don't, Hester!" he begged. "Rhys was there, with two of his friends.

Together they answer to descriptions exactly. If Leighton Duff knew, or suspected, and followed Rhys to argue with him, to try to prevent him from doing it again, then there was plenty of motive to kill him.

He may even have found them immediately after they attacked the women that night. Then they would have no defence.”

"It… it could have been Duke, or… Arthur…" Her words trailed away. There was no belief in them, or in her eyes.

"Are they injured?" he asked gently, although he knew the answer from her face.

She shook her head minutely. There was nothing to say. She stared at him. The facts closed in like an iron mesh, unbendable, inescapable.

Her mind tried every direction, and he watched her do it, and fail each time. There was no real hope in her, and gradually even the determination died.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. He thought of adding how much he wished it had not been so, how hard he had looked for other answers, but she knew it already. There was no need for such explanations between them.

They understood pain and reality far too well, the dull ache of knowledge that must be faced, the familiarity of pity.

"Have you told Evan yet?" she asked when she had mastered the tension in her voice, or almost.

"No. I shall tell him tomorrow.”

"I see.”

He did not move. He did not know what to say, there was nothing, and yet he wanted to say something. He wanted to remain with her, at least to share the hurt, even though he could not ease it. Sometimes sharing was all there was left.

"Thank you… for telling me first." She smiled a little crookedly.

"I think…”

"Perhaps I-shouldn't have," he said with sudden doubt. "Maybe it would have been easier for you if you had not known? Then your response would have been honest. You would not have had to wait tonight, knowing, when they didn't. I…”

She started to shake her head.

"I thought honesty was best," he went on. "Perhaps it wasn't. I thought I knew that, now I don't.”

"It would have been hard either way," she answered him, meeting his eyes with the same candour as in the past, in their best moments. "If I know, tonight will be hard, and tomorrow. But when Evan does come, then I shall have prepared myself, and I shall have the strength to help, instead of being stunned with my own shock. I shan't be busy trying to deny it, to find arguments or ways to escape. This is best.

Please don't doubt it.”

He hesitated for an instant, wondering if she were being brave, taking the responsibility upon herself to spare his feelings. Then he looked at her again, and knew it was not so. There was a kind of understanding in her which bridged the singleness of this incident and was part of all the triumphs and disasters they had ever shared.

He walked over to her and very gently bent forward and kissed her temple above the brow, then laid his cheek against hers, his breath stirring the loose tendrils of her hair.

Then he turned and walked away without looking back. If he did, he might make an error he could never redeem, and he was not yet ready for that.