The Silent Cry (22 page)

"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.