The Silent Cry

Chapter Six

As he had told Evan, Monk was having peripheral success in finding the men responsible for the rapes and violence in Seven Dials. He was still not sure if there were generally three, or only two. No cabby could reliably describe three men at any one time. Everything that was said was imprecise, vague, little more than an impression: hunched figures in the fog and cold of the winter night, voices in the darkness, orders given for a destination, shadows moving in and out, a sudden shift in weight in the cab. One driver was almost certain that a third person had got out at an intersection where he had been obliged to stop because of the traffic.

Another had said one of his fares had been limping badly. One had been wet as though rolling in a gutter or fallen in a water butt. One, caught briefly in the coach light had had a bloody face.

There was nothing to prove any of them were the men Monk was looking for.

On Sunday, when he knew he would find her at home, he told Vida Hopgood as much. Seated in her red parlour before a very healthy fire, and sipping dark brown tea with so strong a flavour, he was glad of a sticky sweet bun to moderate it a little.

"Yer sayin' yer beat?" she asked contemptuously, but he heard the note of disappointment in her and saw the shadow cross her eyes. She was angry, but her shoulders sagged beneath the burden of hope lost.

"No, I'm not!" he responded sharply. "I'm telling you what I know so far. I promised I'd do that, if you remember?”

"Yeah…" she agreed grudgingly, but she was sitting up a little straighter. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Yer do believe they was raped, don't yer?”

"Yes, I do," he said without doubt. "Not necessarily all by the same men, but at least eight of them probably were, and three of them I think may be provable.”

"Mebbe?" she said guardedly. "Wot use's "mebbe"? Wot about the others? "Oo done them, then?”

"I don't know, and it doesn't matter. If we prove two or three, that will be enough, won't it?”

"Yeah! Yeah, it'll do fine." She stared at him, defying him to ask her what she planned to do about it.

He had not intended to ask. He was angry enough not to care.

"I'd like to speak to more women." He took another sip of the bitter tea. The flavour was appalling, but it did have an invigorating effect.

"Wot fer?" She was suspicious.

"There are gaps in times, weeks when I know of no one attacked. Is that true?”

She thought for several minutes before she answered.

"Well?”

"No, it in't. Yer could try Bella Green. Din't wanna bringer inter it, but if I 'ave ter, then I will.”

"Why not?”

"Geez! Why the 'ell der yer care? Because 'er man's an ol' sol'jer an' it'll cut 'im up sum mink terrible ter know as she bin beat, an' 'e couldn't 'elp 'er, let alone that she goes aht ter earn wot 'e can't, that way. Poor sod lorst 'is leg at the Battle o' the Alma. In't good fer much now. "Urt bad, 'e were. Never bin the same since 'e come back.”

He did not let his emotion show.

"Any others?”

She offered him more tea, and he declined.

"Any others?" he repeated.

"Yer could try Maggie Arkwright. Yer prob'ly won't believe a word wot she says, but that don' mean it in't true… sometimes, anyway.”

"Why would she lie to me about that?”

"Cos 'er geezer's a thief, professional like, an' she'll never tell a rozzer the truth, on principle." She looked at him with wry humour.

"An' if yer thinks as yer can kid 'er yer in't, yer dafter 'n I took yer fer.”

"Take me to them.”

"I in't got time nor money ter waste. Yer doin' anythin' 'cept keepin' bread in yer belly, an' yer pride?" Her voice rose. "Yer any damn use at all? Or yer gonna tell me in a monfs time that yer dunno 'oo done it, any more'n yer do now, eh?”

"I'm going to find who did it," he said without even a shadow of humour or agreeability. "If you won't pay, then I'll do it myself. The information will be mine." He looked at her with cold charity, so she could not possibly mistake him.

"Or'ight," she said at length, her voice very low, very quiet. "I'll take yer ter Bella, anter Maggie. Get up then. Don' sit all day usin' up me fire!”

He did not bother to reply, but rose and followed her out, putting his coat back on as they went through the door into the street where it was nearly dark and the fog was thicker. It caught in his throat, damp, cold and sour with the taste of soot and old smoke.

They walked in silence, their footsteps without echo, sound swallowed instantly. It was a little after five o'clock. There were many other people on the streets, some idling in doorways, having lost heart in begging, or seeing no prospects. Others still waited hopefully, peddling matches, bootlaces and similar odds and ends. Some went briskly about business, legal or illegal. Pickpockets and cut purses loitered in the shadows, and disappeared again, soft-footed. Monk knew better than to carry anything of value.

As he followed Vida Hopgood along the narrow alleys, staying close to the walls, memory hovered at the edge of his mind, fleeting impressions of having been somewhere worse than this, of urgent danger and violence. He passed a window, half filled with straw and paper, ridiculous as a barrier against the cold. He turned as if thinking he knew what he would see, but it was only a blur of yellow faces in the candlelight, a bearded man, a fat woman, and others equally meaningless to him.

Who had he expected? His only feeling was of danger, and that he must hurry. Others were depending upon him. He thought of narrow passages, crawling on hands and knees through tunnels, and the knowledge all the time that he could fall head first into the abyss of the sewers below and drown. It was a favourite trick of the thieves and forgers who hid in the great festering tenements of the "Holy Land', seven or eight acres between St. Giles and St. George's. They would lead a pursuer along a deliberate track, through alleys and up and down stairs. There were trap doors to cellars leading one to another for hundreds of yards. A man might emerge half a mile away, or he might wait and stick a knife into his pursuer's throat, or open up a trap to a cesspool. The police went there only armed, and in numbers, and even then rarely. If a man disappeared into the rookeries he might not be seen again for a year. It hid its own, and trespassers went there at their peril.

How long ago had that been? "Stunning Joe's' public house had gone. He knew that much. He had passed the corner where it used to be. At least he thought he knew it. The "Holy Land' itself had certainly opened up. The worst of the creaking tenements were gone, collapsed and rebuilt. The criminal strongholds had crumbled, their power dissipated.

Where had the memory come from, and how far back was it? Ten years, fifteen? When he and Runcorn had both been new and inexperienced, they had fought there side by side, guarding each other's backs. It had been a comradeship. There had been trust.

When had it gone? Gradually, a dozen, a score of small issues, a parting of the paths of choice, or one sudden ugly incident?

He could not remember.

He followed Vida Hopgood across a small yard with a well in it, under an archway and then across a surprisingly busy street and into another alley. It was bone-achingly cold, the fog an icy shroud. He racked his brain, and there was nothing there at all, only the present, his anger with Runcorn now, his contempt for him, and the knowledge that Runcorn hated him, that it was deep and bitter and that it governed him. Even when it was against his own interest, his dignity and all that he wanted to be, it was so passionate in him he could not control it. It consumed his judgement. "Ere! Wot's the matter wivyer?" Vida's voice cut across his thoughts, dragging him back to Seven Dials, and the rape of the sweatshop women.

"Nothing!" he said sharply. "Is this Bella Green's?”

"Course it is! Wot the 'ell dyer think we're 'ere fer?" She banged on the rickety door and shouted Bella's name.

It was several minutes before it was answered by a girl somewhere between twelve and fifteen. Her long hair was curling and knotted, but her face was clean and she had nice teeth.

Vida asked for Bella Green.

"Me ma's busy," the girl replied. "She'll be back in a wile. You wanna wait?”

"Yeah." Vida was not going to be put off, even had Monk allowed it.

But they were not permitted in. The child had obviously been warned about strangers. She slammed the fragile door and Monk and Vida were left on the step in the cold.

"The gin mill," Vida said immediately, taking no offence. "She'll 'a gorn ter get Jimmy a bottle. Dulls the pain, poor sod.”

Monk did not bother to enquire whether the pain was physical, or the bleak despair of the mind. The difference was academic, the burden of living with it was the same.

Vida's guess was right. Inside the noise and filth of the gin shop, the sound of laughter, the shards of broken glass and the women huddled together for warmth and the comfort of living flesh rather than the cold stones, they found Bella Green. She was coming towards them cradling a bottle in her arms, holding it as if it were a child. It was a few moments' oblivion for her husband, a man she must have seen answer his country's call whole and full of courage and hope, and received back again broken in body and fast sinking in mind as he looked at the long, hopeless years ahead, and daily pain.

Beside her a woman wept and sank slowly to the floor in the maudlin self-pity of gin drunkenness.

Bella saw Vida Hopgood and her tired face showed surprise, and something that might have been embarrassment.

"Need ter see yer, Bella," Vida said, ignoring the gin as if she had not seen it. "Din' wanner. Know yer busy wi' yer own troubles, but need yer 'elp.”

"Me 'elp!" Bella could not grasp it. "Per wot?”

Vida turned and went out into the street, stepping over a woman fallen on the cobbles, insensible to the cold. Monk followed, knowing the uselessness of trying to pick anyone up. At least on the ground they could fall no further. They'd be colder, wetter, but less bruised.

They walked quickly back to the door where Monk and Vida had knocked.

Bella went straight in. It was cold and the damp had seeped through the walls. It smelled sour, but there were two rooms, which was more than some people had. The second had a small black stove in it, and it gave off a faint warmth. Sitting beside it was a man with one leg. His empty trouser hung flat over the edge of his chair, fastened up with a pin. He was clean shaven, his hair combed, but his skin was so pale it seemed grey, and there were dark shadows around his blue eyes.

Monk was reminded of Hester with a jolt so sharp it caught his breath.

How many men like this must she have known, have nursed, have seen them when they were carried in from the battlefield, still stunned with horror and disbelief, not yet understanding what had happened to them, what lay ahead, only wondering if they would survive, hanging on to life with the grim, brave desperation that had brought them so far.

She had helped them during the worst days and nights. She had dressed the appalling wounds, encouraged them, bullied them into fighting back, into hanging on when there seemed no point, no hope. As she had done to him, at the end of the Grey case. He had wanted to give up then.

Why waste energy and hope and pain on a battle you could not win? It was exhausting, futile. It had not even dignity.

But she had refused to give up on him, on the struggle. Perhaps she was used to going on, enduring, keeping up the work, the sense of purpose, the outward calm, even when it seemed utterly useless. How could exhausted men fight against absurd odds, survive the pain and the loss, support their fellows, except if the women who nursed them showed the same courage and blind pointless faith?

Or perhaps faith was never pointless. Maybe faith itself was the point? Or courage?

But he had not meant to think of Hester. He had promised himself he would not. It left an emptiness inside him, a sense of loss which pervaded everything else, spoiling his concentration, darkening his mood. He needed his energy to think of details he was storing in his mind about the violence in Seven Dials. These women had no help but that which Vida Hopgood could wring from him. They deserved his best.

He must forget the man slumped in the chair, waiting with desperation for the few hours' release the gin would give him, and concentrate on the woman. Perhaps it could even be done without him realising his wife had been raped. Monk could word it so it sounded like a simple assault. There was a great difference between what one thought one knew, privately, never acknowledging directly, and what one was forced to admit, to hear spoken, known by others where it could never after be forgotten.

"How many men where there?" he asked quietly.

She knew what he was referring to, the understanding and the fear were plain in her eyes.

"Three.”

"Are you sure?”

"Yeah. First there was two, then a third one came. I din't see where from.”

"Where was it?”

"The yard orff Foundry Lane.”

"What time?”

"About two, near as I can remember." Her voice was very low, never once did she look sideways at her husband. Perhaps she wanted to pretend he was not there, that he did not know.

"Do you remember anything about them? Height, build, clothes, smell, voices?”

She thought for several minutes before she replied. Monk began to feel a lift of hope. Perhaps that was foolish.

"One o' them smelled like sum mink odd," she said slowly. "Like gin, on'y it weren't gin. Kind o'… sharper, cleaner, like.”

"Tar? Creosote?" he guessed, as much to keep her mind on it as in hope of defining it quickly.

"Nah… cleaner 'n that. I know tar. An' I know creosote. Weren't paint nor nuffink. Anyway, 'e weren't a labourer, 'cos 'is 'ands was all smooth… smoother 'n mine!”

"A gentleman…”

"Yeah Vida gave an ugly snort expressive of her opinion.

"Anything else?" Monk pressed. "Fabric of clothes, height, build?

Hair thick or thin, whiskers?”

"No w'iskers." Bella's face was white as she recalled, her eyes dark and hollow. She was speaking in little more than a whisper. "One o' them was taller than the others. One were thin, one 'eavier. The thin one were terrible angry, like there were a rage eatin' 'im up inside. I reckon as mebbe 'e were one o' them lunatics from down Lime'ouse way, wot eats them Chinese drugs an' goes mad.”

"Opium doesn't make you violent like that," Monk replied. "They usually go off into dreams of oblivion, lying on beds in rooms full of smoke, not wandering around alleys…" he stopped just before using the word 'rape', '… attacking people. Opium-eating is a very solitary pursuit, in mind if not in body. These men seemed to work together, didn't they?”

"Yeah… yeah, they did." Her face tightened with bitterness. "I'd o' thought wot they did terme were sum mink a man'd do by is self "But they didn't?”

"Nah… proud o'theirselves, they was." Hervoice sank even lower.

"One o' them laughed. I'll remember that till the day I die, I will.

Laughed, 'e did, just afore 'e 'it me.”

Monk shivered, and it was more than the cold of the room.

"Were they old men, or young men?" he asked her.

"I dunno. Mebbe young. They was smooth, no whiskers, no…" she touched her own cheek. "Nuffink rough.”

Young men out to savour first blood, Monk thought to himself, tasting violence and intoxicated with the rush of power; young men inadequate to make their mark in their own world, finding the helpless where they could control everything, inflict their will with no one to deny them, humiliate instead of being humiliated.

Was that what had happened to Evan's young man? Had he and one or two of his friends come to Seven Dials in search of excitement, some thrill of power unavailable to them in their own world, and then violence had for once met with superior resistance? Had his father followed him this time, only to meet with the same punishment?

Or had the fight been primarily between father and son?

It was possible, but he had no proof at all. If it was so, then at least one of the perpetrators had met with a terrible vengeance already, and Vida Hopgood need seek no more.

He thanked Bella Green, and glanced across to see if it was worth speaking to her husband. It was impossible to tell from his eyes if he had been listening. He spoke to him anyway.

"Thank you for giving us your time. Good day to you.”

The man opened his eyes with a sudden flash of clarity, but he did not answer.

Bella showed them out. The child was nowhere to be seen, possibly in the other room. Bella did not speak again either. She hesitated, as if to ask for hope, but perhaps as if to thank him. It was in her eyes, a moment's softness. But she remained silent, and they went out into the street and were swallowed instantly by the ever-thickening fog, now yellow and sour with smoke, catching in the throat, settling as ice on the cobbles.

"Well?" Vida demanded.

"I'll tell you when I'm ready," Monk retorted. He wanted to stride out, he was too angry to walk slowly to keep pace with her, and too cold, but he did not know where he was, or where he was going. He was forced against his will to wait for her.

The next house they went to was a trifle warmer. They came out of the now freezing fog into a room where a pot-bellied stove smelled of stale soot, but gave off quite a comforting heat. Maggie Arkwright was plump and comfortable, black-haired, ruddy-skinned. It was easy to understand that she might do very well at her part-time profession.

There was a good humour about her, even a look of health which was attractive. Glancing around at the room with two soft chairs, a table with all four of its original legs, a stool, and a wooden chest with three folded blankets, Monk wondered if they were bought with the proceeds of her trade.

Then he remembered that Vida had said her husband was a petty thief, and realised that may be the source of their relative prosperity. The man came in a moment after them. His face was genial, eyes lost in wrinkles of general goodwill, but his head was close shaved in what Monk knew was a 'terrier crop', a prison haircut. He had probably been out no more than a week or ten days. Presumably she kept the household going when he was accepting Her Majesty's hospitality in Millwall, or the Coldbath Fields.

There was a burst of laughter from the next room, an old woman's high cackle, and the giggling of children. It was a sound of hilarity, unguarded and carefree.

"Wot yer want?" Maggie asked civilly, but with eyes wary on Monk's face. Vida she knew, but he had an air of authority about him she did not trust.

Vida explained, and bit by bit Monk drew from Maggie the story of the attack upon her. It was one of the earliest, and seemed to be far less vicious than those more recently. The account was colourful, and he thought very possibly embellished a trifle for his benefit. It was of no practical value, except that it told him of yet another victim, one Vida had not known of. She told him where to find her, but tomorrow, not today. Today she would be drunk, and no use to him at all. She laughed as she said it, a sound rich with mocking pleasure, but little unkindness.

When Monk found the woman, she was at her stall selling all kinds of household goods, pots, dishes, pails, the occasional picture or ornament, candlesticks, here and there a jug or ewer. Some of them were of moderate value. She was not young, maybe in her late thirties or early forties, it was hard to tell. Her bones were good, as if she had been handsome in her youth, but her skin was clouded by too much gin, too little clean air or water, and a lifetime's ingrained grime.

She looked at Monk as a prospective customer, mildly interested, never giving up hope. To lose interest was to lose money, and to lose money was death.

"Are you Sarah Blaine?" he asked, although she fitted Maggie's description, and she was in the right place. It was rarely a person allowed their place to be taken, even for a day. "Oo wants ter know?” she said carefully. Then her eyes widened and filled with unmistakable loathing, a deep and bitter remembrance. She drew in her breath and let it out in a hiss between her teeth. "Geez! "Oped I'd never see yer again, yer bastard! Thought yer was dead! "Eard yer was, in fifty-six. Went out an' shouted the 'ole o' the "Grinnin' Rat" tera free drink on it. Danced an' sang songs, we did. Danced on yer grave, Monk, only yer wasn't in it! Wot 'appened? Devil din't want yer? Too much, even fer 'is belly, was yer?”

Monk was stunned. She knew him. It was impossible to deny. And why not? He had not changed. He still had the same lean body, the same hard, steady eyes, the high, smooth bones in his face, the same beautiful precise voice.

He had no idea who she was, or what their relationship had been, except what was obvious, which was that she hated him, more than simply because he was police, but from some individual or personal cause.

"I was injured," he replied with the literal truth. "Not killed.”

"Yeah? Wot a shame," she said laconically. "Never mind, better luck next time!" The brilliance of her eyes and the curl of her lip made her meaning obvious. "Well, none o' this lot' sot so naff orff! In't nuffink 'ere for yer. An' I in't tellin' yer nuffink abaht nobody.”

He debated whether or not to tell her he was no longer with the police, or if it would be useful for her to believe he was. It lent him power, a certain authority, the loss of which still hurt him.

"The only people I want to know about are the men who raped and beat you in Steven's Alley a couple of weeks ago…”

He watched her face and was gratified to see the total amazement in it, making it blank of all other expression for a moment.

"I dunno wot yer talkin' abaht!" she said at length, her jaw set hard, her eyes flat and still filled with hatred. "Nobody never raped me!

Yer wrong again! Damn' sure oyer self yare! Come down 'ere in yer fancy kit like yer was Lord Muck, flingin' yer weight arahnd, an' yer knows nuffink!”

He knew she was lying. It was nothing he could define, not a matter of intelligence but an instinct. He was met with disbelief and contempt.

"I overestimated you," he said witheringly. "Thought you had more loyalty to your own." It was the one quality he was certain she would value.

He was right, she flinched as if he had struck her.

"Yer not one o' me own, any more'n them rats in that pile o' dirt over there. Mebbe you should go an' try one o' them, eh? Yer want loyalty ter yer own… they might speak toyer, if yer ask 'em pretty, like!”

She laughed loudly at her own joke, but there was a brittle edge to it.

She was afraid of something, and as he looked at her, sitting huddled in her grey-black shawl, shoulders hunched, hair blowing across her face in the icy air, the more the conviction hardened in him that it was him she feared.

Why? He posed no possible threat to her.

The answer had to lie in the past, whatever it was that had brought them together before, and which had made her rejoice when she had believed him dead.

He raised his eyebrows sarcastically.

"You think so? Would they be able to describe the men who beat you…

. and all the other women, the poor devils that work in the sweatshop all day, and then go out in the streets a few hours in the night to try to get a little extra to feed their children? Would they tell me how many there were, if they were old or young, what their voices were like, which way they came from and which way they went… after they beat fourteen-year-old Carrie Barker, and broke her younger sister's arm?”

He had achieved his effect. She looked hurt and surprised. The pain in her was real. For a moment her anger against him was forgotten and it was against these men, the world of injustice which allowed such a thing, the whole monstrosity of the fear and the misery she saw closing in on her and her kind, and the certainty that there was no redress, and no vengeance.

He was the only living thing within her immediate reach, the only one to share the hurt.

"So wad da you care, yer bloody jackal! Filth, that's all you are!”

Her voice was hoarse with bitterness and the knowledge of her own helplessness, even to hurt him beyond a mere scratch to the skin, nothing like the jagged wound which was killing her. She hated him for it, with all the passion of futility. "Filth! Livin' orff other folk's sins… if we don't sin, you in't worth nothin' at all. Shovel the gutters, you do clean out other folk's middens that's all you are!

Can't tell yer from the muck!" There was a gleam of satisfaction in her face at the simile.

It was not worth retaliating.

"There is no need to be frightened of me, I'm not after stolen candlesticks or teapots…”

"I in't afraid oyer!" she spat, fear sharp in her eyes, hating him the more because she knew he saw it as certainly as he had before.

"I'm not with the police," he went on, ignoring her interruptions.

Tm working privately, for Vida Hopgood. She's paying me, and she doesn't give a damn where your goods come from, or go to. She wants the rapes stopped, and the beatings.”

She stared at him, trying to read truth in his face.

"Who beat you, Sarah?”

"I dunno, yer eejut!" she said furiously. "If n I knew, don't yer think I'd 'a got somebody ter cut 'is throat fer 'im, the bastard!”

"It was only one man?" he said with surprise.

"No, it were two. Least I think so. It were black as a witch's 'eart an' I couldn't see nuffink! Ha! Should say black as a rozzer's 'eart, shou'n't I? "Ceptin' 'oo knows if a rozzer's got an 'eart? Mebbe we should get one an' cut 'im open, jus ter see, like?”

"What if he does, and it's just as red as yours?" he asked.

She spat.

"Tell me what happened," he persisted. "Maybe it will help me to find these men.”

"An' wot if yer do? "Oo cares? "Oo'll do anyfin' abaht it?" she said derisively.

"Wouldn't you, if you knew who they were?" he asked.

It was enough. She told him all she could remember, drawn from her a piece at a time, and he thought largely honestly. It was of little use, except that she also remembered the strange smell, sharp, alcoholic, and yet unlike anything she could name.

He left, walking into the wind, turning over in his mind what she had said, but against his will, more and more preoccupied, wondering what he had done in the past to earn the intensity of her hatred.

In the evening, on impulse, he decided to go and see Hester. He did not give himself a reason. There was not any. He had already decided to keep her from his mind while he was on this case. There was nothing to say to her, nothing to pursue, or to discuss. He knew where she was because Evan had told him. He had mentioned the name Duff, and Ebury Street. It was not very difficult from there to find himself on the front step of the correct house.

He explained to the maid who answered the door that he was acquainted with Miss Latterly, and would be obliged if he might visit with her if she could be spared for a few minutes. The answer from Mrs. Sylvestra Duff was most gracious. She was to be at home herself, and if Miss Latterly cared to, she might spend the entire evening away from Ebury Street. She had worked extremely hard lately, and would be most welcome to a complete respite and change of scene, if she so desired.

Monk thanked her with the feeling of something close to alarm. It seemed Mrs. Duff had read more into the relationship than was founded in fact. He did not want to spend all evening with her. He had nothing to say. In fact now that he was here, he was not sure he wanted to see her at all. But to say so now would make him look absurd, a complete coward. It could be interpreted all sorts of ways, none of them to his advantage.

She seemed ages in coming. Perhaps she had no desire to see him either? Why? Had she taken offence at something? She had been very brittle lately. She had made some waspish remarks about his conduct in the slander case, especially his trip to the continent. It was as if she were jealous of Evelyn von Seidlitz, which was idiotic. His temporary fascination with Evelyn did not affect their friendship, unless she forced it to.

He was pacing back and forth across the morning room while he waited, nine steps one way, nine steps back.

Evelyn von Seidlitz could never be the friend Hester was. She was beautiful, certainly, but she was also as shallow as a puddle, innately selfish. That was the kind of ugliness which touched the soul. Whereas Hester with her angular shoulders and keen face, eyes far too direct, tongue too honest, had no charm at all, but a kind of beauty like a sweet wind off the sea, or light breaking on an upland when you can see from horizon to horizon, as it had in his youth on the great hills of Northumberland. It was in the blood and the bone, and one never grew tired of it. It healed the petty wounds and laid a clean hand on the heart, gently.

There was a noise in the hall.

He swung round to face it just as she came through the door. She was dressed in dark grey with a white, lace collar. She looked very smart, very feminine, as if she had made a special effort for the occasion. He felt panic rise up inside him. This was not a social call, certainly the furthest thing from a romantic one! What on earth had Mrs. Duff told her?

"I only came for a moment!" he said hastily. "I did not wish to interrupt you! How are you?”

The colour burned up her cheeks.

"Quite well, thank you," she said sarcastically. "And you?”

"Tired, chasing an exhausting and un hopeful case," he answered. "It will be difficult to solve, even harder to prove, and I am not optimistic the law will prosecute it even should I succeed. Am I interrupting you?”

She closed the door and leaned against the handle.

"If you were I should not have come. The maid is perfectly capable of carrying a message.”

She might look less businesslike than usual, but she had absolutely no feminine charm. No other woman would have spoken to him like that.

"You have no idea how to be gracious, have you?" he criticised.

Her eyes widened. "Is that what you came for, someone to be gracious to you?”

"I would hardly have come here, would I?”

She ignored him. "What would you like me to say? That I am sure you know what you are doing, and your skill will triumph in the end? That a just cause is well fought, win or lose?" Her eyebrows rose. "The honour is in the battle, not the victory? I'm not a soldier. I have seen too much of the cost of ill-planned battles, and the price of loss.”

"Yes, we all know you would have fought a better war than Lord Raglan,” he snapped. "If the War Office had had the good sense to put you in charge instead!”

"If they had picked someone at random off the street, they would have,” she rejoined. Then her face softened a little. "What is your battle?”

"I would rather tell you somewhere more comfortable, and more private,” he replied. "Would you like to dine?”

If it was a surprise, she hid it very well… too well! Perhaps it was what she had expected. It was not what he had intended to say! But to retreat now would make it even worse. It would draw attention to it, and to his feelings about it. He could not even pretend he thought she was busy, Mrs. Duff had told him she was not.

"Thank you," she said with an aplomb he had not expected. She seemed very cool about it. She turned and opened the door, leading the way out into the hall. She asked the footman for her cloak, and then together she and Monk went outside to the bitter evening, again dimmed by fog, the streetlamps vague moons haloed by drifting ice, the footpaths slippery.

It took just under ten minutes to find a hansom and climb into it. He gave directions to an inn he knew quite well. He would not take her to an expensive place, in case she misunderstood his intent, but to take her to a cheap one would find her thinking he could not afford better, and possibly even offering to pay.

"What is your battle?" she repeated when they were sitting side by side in the cold as the cab lurched forward then settled into a steadier pace. It was miserably cold, even inside. There was very little to see, just gloom broken by hazes of light, sudden breaks in the mist when outlines were sharp, a carriage lamp, a horse's head and forequarters, the high, black silhouette of a hansom driver, and then the shroud of fog closed in again.

"At first, just women being cheated in Seven Dials," he answered. "To begin with it was no more than using a prostitute and refusing to pay…”

"Don't they have pimps and madams to help prevent that?" she asked.

He winced, but then he should have expected her to know such things.

She had hardly been sheltered from many truths.

"These were amateurs," he explained. "Mostly women who work in factories and sweatshops during the day, and just need a little more now and again.”

"I see.”

"Then they were raped. Now it has escalated until they are being beaten… increasingly violently.”

She said nothing.

He glanced sideways at her; as they passed close to another carriage, the light from the lamps caught her face. He saw the pity and anger in it, and suddenly his loneliness vanished. All the times of resentment and irritation and self-protectiveness telescoped into the causes they had shared, and disappeared, leaving only the understanding. He went on to describe to her his efforts to elicit some facts about the men, and from his questioning of the cabbies and street vendors, in order to learn where they had come from.

They arrived at the hostelry where he planned to eat. They alighted, paid the driver, and went in. He was barely aware of the street, or the noise and warmth once they were inside. He ordered without realising he had done it for both of them, and she made a very slight face, but she did not interrupt, except to ask for clarification as he omitted a point, or was vague on an issue.

"I'm going to find them," he finished with hard, relentless commitment.

"Whether Vida Hopgood pays me for it or not. I'll stop them, and I'll make damned sure everyone like them knows they've paid the price, whether it's the justice of the law, or of the streets." He waited, half expecting her to argue with him, to preach the sanctity of keeping the civilised law, of the descent into barbarism, if it were abandoned, whatever the cause or the provocation.

But she sat in thoughtful silence for several minutes before she replied.

The room around them swirled with the clatter of crockery, the sound of voices and laughter. The smells of food and ale and damp wool filled the air. Light glinted on glass and was reflected on faces, white shirt fronts and the white of plates.

"The young man I'm nursing was beaten, nearly to death, in St. Giles,” she said at last. "His father did die." She looked across at him.

"Are you sure enough you can get the right man? If you make a mistake, there can be no undoing it. The law will try them, there will have to be proof, weighed and measured, and someone to speak in their defence.

If it is the streets, then it will simply be execution. Are you prepared to be accuser, defender, and jury… and to let the victims judge?”

"What if the alternative is freedom?" he asked. "Not only freedom to enjoy all the pleasures and rewards of life, without hindrance or answer ability for wrong, but the freedom to go on committing it, creating new victims, on and on, until someone is murdered, maybe one of the young ones, twelve or fourteen, too weak to fight back at all?”

He stared at her, meeting her clear eyes. "I am involved. I am the jury, whatever I decide. Omission is a judgement as well. To walk away, to pass on the other side, is as much a decision.”

"I know," she agreed. "Justice may be blindfolded, but the law is not.

It sees when and whom it chooses, because it is administered by those who see when and whom they choose." She was still frowning.

He broached the subject which was hanging unspoken between them. He knew it, and he thought perhaps she did also. With anyone else, he would have let the moment pass. It was too delicate and had all the possibilities of being too painful as well. With Hester, to have thought it was almost the same as to have spoken it to her.

"Are you sure it cannot be your young man, and his father, or his friends? Tell me about him…”

Again she waited several moments before she replied. At the next table an old man broke into a fit of coughing. Beyond him a woman laughed, they could hear her but not see her. It was a high, braying sound. The room was getting warmer all the time.

"No, I'm not sure," she said so quietly he had to lean forward to hear her, ignoring the last of his food. "Evan is investigating the case. I assume you know that. He has not been able to find out what they were doing in St. Giles. It is hardly likely to be anything admirable." She hesitated, unhappiness profound in her face. "I don't think I believe he would do such a thing, not willingly, not intentionally…

.”

"But you are not sure?" he said quickly.

Her eyes searched his face, longing to find some comfort there, and failing.

"No… I'm not sure. There is a cruelty in him which is very ugly to see. I don't know why. It seems directed largely at his mother…

.”

"I'm sorry…" Without thinking he reached forward and put his hand over hers where it lay on the table. He felt the slenderness of her bones, a strong hand, but so slight his own covered it.

"It doesn't have to be anything to do with this," she said slowly, and he thought it was more to convince herself than him. "It's just… it could be… because he cannot speak. He's alone…" She looked at him with an intensity oblivious of the room around her, or anything else. "He's utterly alone! We don't know what happened to him, and he can't tell us. We guess, we talk to each other, we work at the possibilities, and he can't even tell us where we are wrong, where it is ludicrous or unjust. I can't imagine being more helpless.”

He was torn whether to say what was in his mind or not. She looked so hurt, so involved with the pain she saw.

But this was Hester, not a woman he needed to protect, gentle and vulnerable, used only to the feminine things of life. She had already known the worst, worse than he had.

"Your pity for him now does not alter what he may have done before," he answered her.

She drew her hand away.

He felt vaguely hurt, as if she had withdrawn something of herself. She was so independent. She did not need anyone. She could give, but she could not take!

"I know," she said quietly.

"No, you don't!" He was answering his own thoughts. She did not know how arrogant she was, how so much of her giving was a form of taking; whereas if she had taken, it would have been a gift.

"Yes, I do!" She was angry now, defensive. "I just don't think it was Rhys. I know him! You don't.”

"And your judgement is clear, of course?" he challenged, sitting back in his chair. "You could not be biased, just a trifle?”

A couple passed by them, the woman's skirt brushing Hester's chair.

"That's a stupid remark!" Her voice was sharp, her face flushed.

"You're saying that if you know something about a thing, then you are biased and your judgement is no good, whereas if you know nothing, your mind is clear and so your judgement is fine. If you know nothing, your mind isn't clear, it's empty! By that standard we could do away with juries, simply ask someone who's never heard of the case, and they will give you a perfect, unbiased decision!”

"You don't think perhaps it could be a good idea to know something about the victims as well?" he said sarcastically. "Or even the crimes? Or is all that irrelevant?”

"You'vejust told me what the crimes are, and the victims," she pointed out, her voice rising. "And yes, in a way it is irrelevant in judging Rhys. The horror of a crime has nothing to do with whether a particular person is guilty or not. That is elementary. It only has to do with the punishment. Why are you pretending you don't know that?”

"And liking somebody, or pitying them, has nothing to do with guilt or innocence," he responded, his voice louder also. "Why are you pretending you've forgotten that? It doesn't matter how much you care, Hester, you can't change what has already happened.”

A man at the next table turned to look at them.

"Don't be so patronising!" she said furiously. "I know that! Don't you care any more that you find the truth? Are you so keen to take someone back to Vida Hopgood and prove you can do it, that you'll take anyone, right or wrong?”

He was hurt. It was as if she had suddenly and without warning kicked him. He was determined she should not know it.

"I'll find the truth, comfortable or uncomfortable," he said coldly.

"If it is someone we can all be happy to dislike and rejoice in his punishment, so much the easier." His voice dropped, the emotion tighter. "But if it is someone we like and pity, and his punishment will tear us apart along with him, that won't make me turn the other way and pretend it is not so. If you think the world is divided into those who are good and those who are bad, you are worse than a fool, you are a moral imbecile, refusing to grow up…”

She stood up.

"Would you be so kind as to find me a hansom so I may return to Ebury Street? If not, I imagine I can find one for myself.”

He rose also and bowed his head sarcastically, remembering their meeting earlier. "I am delighted you enjoyed your dinner," he replied cut tingly "It was my pleasure.”

She blushed with annoyance, but he saw the flash of acknowledgement in her eyes.

They went out in silence into the now dense fog in the street. It was bitterly cold, the freezing air catching in the nose and throat. The traffic was forced to a walk and it took him several minutes to find a hansom. He climbed in and they sat side by side in rigid silence all the way back to Ebury Street. She refused to speak, and he had nothing he wanted to say to her. There were hundreds of things in his mind, but none of them he was prepared to share, not now.

They parted with a simple exchange of 'goodnight', and he rode on to Grafton Street, cold, angry and alone.

In the morning he returned yet again to Seven Dials and the pursuit of witnesses who may have seen anything to do with the attacks, most particularly anyone who was a frequent visitor to the area. He had already exhausted the cabbies and was now trying street pedlars, beggars and vagrants. His pockets were full of all the small change he could afford. People often spoke more readily for some slight reward.

It was his own money, not Vida's.

The first three people he approached knew nothing. The fourth was a seller of meat pies, hot and savoury-smelling, but probably made mostly of offal and other cast-offs. He bought one, and overpaid, but without intention of eating it. He held it in his hand while talking to the man. There was a wind this morning. The fog had lifted, but it was intensely cold. The cobbles were slippery with ice. As he stood there the pie became more and more tempting and he was less inclined to consider what was in it.

"Seen or heard anything about two or three strangers roaming around at night?" he said casually. "Gentlemen from up west?”

"Yeah," the pedlar replied without surprise. "They bin beatin' the 'ell out o' some o' our women, poor cows. Wy dyer wanna know, eh? In't rozzers' bus' ness He looked at Monk with steady dislike. "Want 'em for sum mink else, do yer?”

"No, I want them for that. Isn't that enough for you?”

The man's scorn was open. "Yeah? An' yer gonna 'ave 'em up for it, are yer? Don' give me that muck. Since well did your sort give a toss wot 'appened ter the likes o' us? I know you, yer evil bastard. Yer don't even care fer yer own, never mind us poor sods.”

Monk looked at his eyes and could not deny the recognition in them. He was not speaking of police in general, this was personal. Should he ask, capture some tangible fact of the past? Would it be the truth?

Would it help? Would it tell him something he would rather not have known, ugly, incomplete, and without explanation?

Probably. But perhaps imagination alone was worse.

"What do you mean, "not even my own"?" The instant he had said it, he wished he had not.

The man gave a grunt of disgust.

A woman in a black shawl came past and bought two pies.

"I seen yer shaft yer own," the pedlar answered when she had gone.

"Left 'im 'angin' out ter dry, like a proper fool, yer did.”

Monk's stomach turned cold and a little fluttery. It was what he had feared.

"How do you know?" he argued.

"Saw 'is face, an' seen yours." The pedlar sold another pie and fished for change for a threepenny piece. "E weren't spec ting it. Caught improper, poor sod.”

"How? What did I do?”

"Wot's the matter wiv' yer?" the man looked at him incredulously.

"Want the pleasure of it twice, do yer? I dunno. Jus' know yer came 'ere tergether, an' yer done 'im some'ow. "E trusted yer, an' finished up in the muck. I guess it's 'is own fault. "E should 'a knowed better. It were writ in yer face. I wouldn't 'a trusted yer far as I can spit!”

It was ugly and direct, and it was probably the truth. He would like to think the man lied, find some way out of it, but he knew there was no hope. He felt cold inside in his stomach, in his chest.

"What about these men you've seen?" he asked, his voice sounding hollow. "Don't you want them stopped?”

The man's face darkened. "Course I do… an' we'll do it… without your 'elp!”

"Haven't done a very good job so far," Monk pointed out. "I'm not with the police any more. I'm working for Vida Hopgood… in this.

Anything I find out, I tell her.”

The man's disbelief was plain.

"Why? P'lice threw yer out, did they? Good! Guess that fella got the best oyer in the end!" He smiled, showing yellow teeth. "So there's some justice arterall.”

"You don't know what happened between us!" Monk said defensively. "You don't know what he did to me first!" It sounded childish, even as he said it, but it could not be taken back. Very little ever could.

The man smiled. "Agin you? I reckon as yer a first-class swine, but I'd back yer ter win agin anyone!”

Monk felt a shiver of apprehension, and perhaps pride as well, perverse, hurting pride, a salvage from the wreck of other things.

"Then help me to find these men. You know what they've done. Let Vida Hopgood learn who they are, and stop them.”

"Yeah… right." The man's face eased, the anger melting. "I s'pose if anyone can find them, it's you. I dunno much, or I'd 'a done 'em myself.”

"Have you seen them, or anyone who could be them?" "Ow do I know? I seen lots o' geezers wot don't belong 'ere, but usual yer knows wot they're 'ere for. Reg'lar brothels, or gamblin', or ter 'ock sum mink as they daren'tock closer ter 'ome.”

"Describe them!" Monk demanded. "I don't care about the others. Tell me all you saw of these men, where and when, how many, how dressed, anything else you know…”

The man thought carefully for a few moments before giving his answer.

His description established what Monk had already heard regarding build, and that there were three men on several occasions, on others only two. The one new fact he added was that he had seen them meet, on the outskirts of Seven Dials, as if they had arrived from different directions, but he had only ever seen them leave together.

He could no longer avoid putting his theory to the test. He would much rather not have, because he was afraid it was true, and he did not wish it to be. Hester was being foolish about it, of course, but he did not wish her to be hurt, and she would be, when she was forced to accept that Rhys Duff had been one of the rapists.

It took him all day, moving from one grey and bitter street to another, asking, cajoling, threatening, but by dusk he had found not only others who had seen the men immediately after one of the attacks, and only a mere fifty yards from the place. They had been dishevelled, staggering a little, and one of them had been marked with blood, as his face was caught for a moment in the glare of a passing hansom's carriage lights.

It was not what he wanted. It was bringing him inevitably closer to a tragedy he was now almost certain would involve Rhys Duff, but he still felt a kind of elation, a surge inside him of the knowledge of power, the taste of victory. He was turning a corner into a wider street, stepping off the narrow pavement, avoiding the gutter, when he remembered doing exactly the same before, with the same surge of knowledge that he had won.

Then it had been Runcorn. He did not know what about, but there had been men who had told him something he needed to know, and they had been afraid of him, as they were now. It was an unpleasant knowledge to look back on, the guarded eyes, the hatred in them and the defeat because he was stronger, cleverer and they knew it. But he could not remember it hurting them. It was only now, in retrospect, that he doubted he had been wholly right.

He shivered and increased his pace. There was no going back.

He had enough now to go to Runcorn. It should be a police matter. That would protect Vida Hopgood, forestall the mob justice Hester was afraid of. This way there would be a trial, and proof.

He found a cab and gave the address of the police station. Runcorn would have to listen. There was too much to ignore.

"Beatings?" Runcorn said sceptic ally sitting back in his chair and staring up at Monk. "Sounds domestic. You know better than to bring that to us. Most women withdraw the complaints. Anyway, a man is entitled to hit his wife to chastise her, within reason." His lip curled in a mixture of irritation and amusement. "It's not like you to waste your time on lost causes. Never saw you as a man to tilt at windmills…" He left the sentence hanging in the air, a wealth of unspoken meaning in it. "You have changed! Had to come down a bit, have you?" He tipped his chair back a trifle. "Take on the cases of the poor and desperate…”

"Victims of beating and rape are often desperate," Monk said with as much control of his temper as he was able, but he heard the anger coming through his voice.

Runcorn responded immediately. It woke memories of a score of old quarrels. They were replaying so many past scenes, Runcorn's anxiety, stubbornness, provocation, Monk's anger and contempt, and quicker tongue. For an instant for Monk it was as if he were removed from himself, a spectator seeing two men imprisoned in re-enacting the same pointless tragedy over and over again.

"I told you before," Runcorn said, sitting forward, banging the chair legs down, leaning his elbows on his desk. "You'll never prove some men got violent with a prostitute. She's already sold herself, Monk!

You may not approve of it!" He wrinkled his long nose as if imitating Monk, although there had been no scorn in Monk's voice, or in his mind.

"You may find it an immoral and contemptible way to make a living, but we'll never get rid of it. It may offend your sensibilities, but I assure you, a great many men you might call gentlemen, or might aspire to join, with your social airs and graces, a great many of them come to the Haymarket, and even to places like Seven Dials, and make use of women they pay for the privilege.”

Monk opened his mouth to argue, but Runcorn ploughed on, talking over him deliberately.

"Maybe you would like to think differently, but it's time you looked at some of your gentry as they really are." He jabbed his finger at the desk. "They like to marry their wives for social nicety, to wear on their arms when they dine and dance with their equals. They like to have a cool and proper wife." He kept on jabbing his finger, his face sneering. "A virtuous woman who doesn't know anything about the pleasures of the flesh, to be the mother of their children, the guardian of all that's safe and good and uplifting and morally clean.

But when it comes to their appetites, they want a woman who doesn't know them personally, doesn't expect anything of them except payment for services rendered, and who won't be horrified if they exhibit a few tastes that would disgust and terrify their gentle wives. They want the freedom to be any damned thing they like! And that can include a great deal you may not approve of, Monk!”

Monk leaned over the desk towards him, his jaw tight, spitting the words through his teeth.

"If a man wants a wife he won't satisfy and can't enjoy, that's his misfortune," he retorted. "And his hypocrisy… and hers. But it is not a crime. But if he joins with two of his friends and comes to Seven Dials and then rapes and beats the sweatshop women who practise a little prostitution on the side… that is a crime. I intend to stop it before it becomes murder as well.”

Runcorn's face was dark with anger and surprise, but this time it was Monk who overrode him, still leaning forward, looking down on him.

Runcorn's earlier advantage of being seated while Monk stood was now the opposite, but he refused to move back. They were less than two feet away from each other.

"I thought you had the courage and the sense of your own duty to the law to have felt the same!" Monk went on. "I expected you to ask for my information, and be glad to take it. What you think of me doesn't matter…" He snapped his fingers in the air with a sharp sound.

"Aren't you man enough to forget it, for as long as it takes to catch these men who rape and beat women, and even girls, for their "pleasure” as you put it? Or do you hate me enough to sacrifice your honour just to be able to deny me this? Have you really lost that much of yourself?”

"Lost?" Runcorn's face was a dull purple, and he leaned even closer.

"I haven't lost anything, Monk. I have a job. I have a home. I have men who respect me… some of them even like me… which is more than you could ever say! I haven't lost any of that!" His eyes were brilliant, accusing and triumphant, but his voice was rising higher and there was a sharpness that betrayed old wounds between them which none of this could heal. There was no ease on his face, no peace with himself.

Monk felt his own body rigid. Runcorn had struck home with his words, and they both knew it.

"Is that your answer?" he said very quietly, stepping back. "I tell you that women are being raped and beaten in the area in which you are responsible for the law, and you reply by rehearsing old quarrels with me as a justification for looking the other way? You may have the job, the money for it, and the liking of some of your juniors… do you think you have any claim to their respect… or anyone's, if they heard you say this? I had forgotten why I despised you… but you remind me. You are a coward, and you put your personal, petty dislikes before honour.”

He straightened up, squaring his shoulders. "I shall go back and tell Mrs. Hopgood that I told you I had evidence, and wanted to share it with you; but you were so intent on having your personal revenge on me, you would not look at it. It will get out, Runcorn. Don't imagine this is between you and me, because it isn't! Our dislike for each other is petty and dishonourable. These women are being injured, maybe the next one will be killed, and it will be our fault, because we couldn't work together to stop these men…”

Runcorn rose to his feet, his skin sweating, white around the lips.

"Don't you dare tell me how to do my job! And don't try coercing me with threats! Bring me one piece of evidence I can use in a court, and I'll arrest any man it points to! So far you've told me nothing that means a thing! And I'm not wasting men until I know there's a probable crime and some chance of prosecution. One decent woman who's been raped, Monk! One woman who will give evidence I can use…”

"Who are you trying?" Monk retaliated. "The man or the woman, the rapist or the victim?”

"Both," Runcorn said, suddenly lowering his voice. "I have to deal with reality. Have you forgotten that, or are you just pretending you have, because that is easier? Gives you a high moral note, but it's hypocrisy, and you know it.”

Monk did know it. It infuriated him. He hated it with all the passion of which he was capable. There were times when he hated people, almost all people, for their willing blindness. It was injustice, burning, callous, self-righteous injustice.

"Have you got anything, Monk?" Runcorn asked, this time quietly and seriously.

Still standing, Monk told him everything he knew, and how he knew it.

He told him the victims he had spoken to, collating it all chronologically, showing how the attacks had increased in violence, each time the injuries worse, and more viciously given. He told Runcorn how he had traced the men to specific hansom drivers, times and places. He gave him the most consistent physical descriptions.

"All right," Runcorn said at last. "I agree crimes have been committed. I don't doubt that. I wish I could do something about it.

But set your outrage aside for long enough to let your brain think clearly, Monk. You know the law. When did you ever see a gentleman convicted of rape? Jurors are made up of property owners. You can't be a juror if you're not! They are all men… obviously. Can you imagine any jury in the land convicting one of their own of raping a series of prostitutes from Seven Dials? You would put the women through a terrible ordeal… for nothing.”

Monk did not speak.

"Find out who they are, if you can, by all means," Runcorn went on.

"And tell your client. But if she provokes the local men into attacking those responsible, even killing them, then we will step in.

Murder's another thing. We'll have to go on with it until we find them. Is that what you want?”

Runcorn was right. It was choking to have to concede it.

"I'll find out who they are," Monk said almost under his breath. "And I'll prove it… not to Vida Hopgood, or to you! I'll prove it to their own bloody society! I'll see them ruined!" And with that he turned on his heel and went out of the door.

It was dark and snowing outside, but he barely noticed. His rage was blazing too hotly for mere ice in the wind to temper it.