by Anne Perry
Hester would have told him he was arrogant, claiming for himself a position in judgment 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 the door was opened by a man whose hair stood up in spikes on his head. His face was full of humor 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 said, replying before Monk could speak.
Jimmy 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 anymore,” MacPherson explained, going farther 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 fixed ’im meself.”
“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 ’eard. ’Ow does that ’elp yer?”
“It doesn’t,” Monk answered him. “It was not what I was hoping you would say.” Then he realized 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 fer a lie, ’e din’t. ’E’d believe yer w’en 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, y’are! Still, nobody crossed yer twice, not even yer own.”
“You said that before.” Monk was 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’ind yer’s another. I don’ know wot yer dun ter ’im, but it fair broke ’im, an’ ’e weren’t ’spectin’ it from yer. Learned me summink abaht yer. Never took yer light arter that. Yer an ’ard 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. Ol’ Bertha dunno nuthink. Find Wee Minnie an’ tell ’er I sent yer.”
“She won’t believe me,” Monk said reasonably.
“Yeah, she will, ’cos less’n I tell yer w’er ter find ’er, yer’ll be wand’rin’ around the rookeries for the rest o’ yer life.”
“That’s the truth, so it is,” MacPherson agreed.
“So tell me,” Monk said.
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’ times’ sake?”
Monk grinned. “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 parlor 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 on what appeared to be a sock without looking at it.
“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 her before he did.
“Yes.”
“There was two. Bad, they was, so bad no one never said nothing.”
“I don’t understand. If 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.
&nb
sp; “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 o’ yer. 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 gettin’ raped or beat?” she said, her voice cracking high with disbelief. “Yer’ve lorst your wits, Monk. It’s finally got to yer.”
“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 practice violence against women, extreme violence. What society knows and what it acknowledges can be very different. 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, an’ 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 Monk went to Evan and, after a 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 gray from the light in them, and the appearance of keen intelligence. Rhys was utterly different, and it was his face which troubled Monk. 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 the drawings 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, peddlers, beggars, anyone who would answer him, if they recognized 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 in ’is luck, I reckon.”
“Dressed rough?” Monk said quickly. “What do you mean, exactly?” Had it been 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 Monk’s intelligence. “I know wot gents look like. Overcoat, ’e ’ad, but nuffink special, no fur on the collar, no ’igh ’at, no stick. In fact, no ’at at all, come ter 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 ’eard yer was a wit afore. On’y ’eard 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 ’isself, an’ then watch w’ile ’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 ’eard from nobody, even yer worst enemy, as yer feared nor favored 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 that that was 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 ’isself.”
“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, ’eavy-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 ter me, 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 recognized
Rhys without hesitation.
“Yeah. So wot?”
“When?”
“I dunno. Mebbe free or four times. Wot’s it to yer?” She was a slight, skinny girl, hardly handsome, but she had a face which reflected intelligence and some humor 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 d’yer wanna know, eh? Wot’s ’e done to yer? If ’e broke the law, I in’t shoppin’ ’im.”
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“ ’Urt me? Wo’s matter wive yer? ’Course ’e din’t ’urt me! W’y’d ’e ’urt me?”
“Did he pay you?”
“W’y yer wanna know?” She cocked her head to 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 w’y? 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.”