Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [57]
Several times Drusilla looked at Monk, question and horror in her eyes.
“Do you want to go back?” he asked, knowing the pity and the dismay she must feel, a woman who had never seen or imagined such things before. It said much for her courage that she had come this far.
“We haven’t learned anything yet,” she said doggedly, gritting her teeth. “Thank you, but I can continue.”
He smiled at her with a warmth he had no need to affect. He held her arm a little closer as they went on past the West India Docks towards the Isle of Dogs.
On West Ferry Road Monk stopped a woman with a large bosom and short, very bowed legs. She was carrying a bundle of rags and was about to go through a doorway which emitted a smell of burned fat and blocked drains.
“Hey!” Monk called out.
The woman stopped and turned, too tired for curiosity. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Monk began, as he had so many times before. “It’s worth something to me to find him.”
“Oh yeah?” There was a slight flicker across the impassivity of the woman’s face. “ ’Oo yer lookin’ fer, then?”
Drusilla passed her Enid’s drawing of Angus. She peered at it in the gray light. Then her face tightened and she thrust the drawing back at Monk, anger harsh in her voice.
“If yer wants Caleb Stone, yer’ll find ’im wivaht my ’elp! Stuff yer money. In’t no use ter mie in me grave!”
“It isn’t Caleb Stone,” Monk said quickly.
“Yeah ’tis!” The woman thrust the picture back at him. “Wotcha take me fer? I know Caleb Stone w’en I sees ’im!”
“It isn’t Caleb,” Drusilla said urgently, stepping forward for the first time. “He is related to him, that’s why there is such a resemblance. But look more closely.” She took the picture back from Monk and passed it to the woman. “Look at his face again. Look at his expression. Does he appear the sort of man Caleb Stone is?”
The woman screwed up her face in concentration. “Looks like Caleb Stone ter me. All got up like a toff, but got them same eyes, an’ nose.”
“But he isn’t the same,” Drusilla insisted. “This is his brother.”
“Garn! ’E in’t got no bruvver.”
“Yes, he has.”
“Well …” the woman said dubiously. “Mebbe ’e do look a bit different, abaht the marf, partic’lar. But I in’t seen ’im!”
“He’d be well-dressed and well-spoken,” Drusilla added.
“I tol’jer, I in’t seen ’im, an’ wot’s more, I don’ wanter!” She shoved the picture back.
But before Drusilla could take it the door swung open and a lean man with a swarthy, unshaven face poked his head out.
“In’t yer ever goin’ ter stop yer yappin’, yer fat cow? w’ere’s me dinner? I don’ work me guts aht ter come ’ome an’ listen ter yer yap, yap, yap in the street wi’ some tart! Get in ’ere!”
“Shut yer face an’ come an’ look at this pikcher, will yer?” the woman yelled back, no particular venom in her voice at being thus spoken to.
“Still worf money ter yer?” she asked Monk.
“Yes,” Monk agreed.
The man came out reluctantly, his face creased with suspicion. He glared at Drusilla, looked at Monk narrowly, then finally at the picture.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I seen ’im. So wot’s it ter yer? ’Ad a pint down the Artichoke, then went dahn towards the river. W’y?”
“It wasn’t Caleb Stone you saw?” Monk said doubtfully.
“No, it wasn’t Caleb Stone I saw.” The man mimicked his voice viciously. “I know the difference ’atween Caleb Stone an’ some geezer wi’ fancy manners an’ dressed like a toff.”
“When was this?” Monk asked.
“ ’Ow do I know?” the man said irritably. “Las’ week, or week afore.”
Monk put both hands harder into his pockets.
“ ’Course yer knows, yer stupid sod!” the woman said sharply. “Fink, an’ it will come back ter yer. Wot day was it? Was it afore