by Anne Perry
“Are you sure that’s Mrs. Gadney?” Monk said quietly.
She looked at him again, then saw something in his eyes, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Gawd!” she said in no more than a sigh. Her other hand instinctively reached for the younger of the children and gripped his hand. “That … that wa’n’t ’er, was it?”
“I think it may be,” Monk answered. “I’m sorry.”
The woman seized the boy and picked him up, holding him close to her. He was perhaps two. Sensing her fear, he began to cry.
“What number did she live at?” Monk persisted.
“Number fourteen,” the woman replied, nodding her head in the direction of the house opposite and to the left.
“Has she family?”
“Not as I ever saw. She were very quiet. Didn’t bother no one.”
“Who else might know more about her?”
“I dunno. Mebbe Mrs. ’Iggins up at number twenty. I seen ’em talking once or twice.”
“Do you know if she worked anywhere?”
“In’t none o’ my business. I can’t ’elp yer.” She held the child tighter and moved to close the door.
“Thank you.” Monk stepped back and he and Orme turned away. There was nothing further to ask her.