Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [70]
Shortly after noon he saw a woman approaching from West Ferry Road, where Bridge Street swept around the curve of the river which formed the Isle of Dogs. She was of average height, but she strode with her head high and a kind of swing in her step. Even across the street he could see that her face was highly individual. Her cheekbones were high, giving her eyes a slanted look, her nose well formed, if a little sharp, and her mouth generous. He had no doubt that this was Selina. Her face had the courage and the originality to hold the attention of men like Caleb Stone, who might be violent and degraded now, but who had been born to better things.
He moved from his position, his legs aching, joints locked from having maintained his stillness for so long. He almost stumbled off the curb; his feet were so cold he had lost sensation in them. He made his way across the street, stepping in the filth and regaining his balance by flailing his arms. Furious with himself, he caught up with her just as she started down the steps.
She swung around when he was a yard away from her, a knife in her hand.
“You watch yerself, mister!” she warned. “Try anyfink, an’ I’ll cut yer gizzard out, I warn yer!”
Monk stood his ground, though she had taken him by surprise. If he backed away she would tell him nothing.
“I don’t pay for women,” he said with a tight smile. “And I’ve never had to take one who wasn’t willing. I want to talk to you.”
“Oh yeah?” Disbelief was plain in her face, and yet she was looking at him squarely. There was no broken spirit behind her dark eyes, and her fear was only physical.
“I’ve come from your sister-in-law.”
“Well, that’s a new one.” She arched her fine brows with amusement. “I in’t got no sister-in-law, so that’s a lie. Best try again.”
“I was being polite,” he said between his teeth. “The benefit of the doubt. She is certainly married to Angus. I thought it possible you might be married to Caleb.”
Her body tightened. Her slim hands on the broken railing were grasping it till the knuckles were white. But her face barely changed.
“Did yer. So wot if I are? ’Oo are yer?”
“I told you, I represent Angus’s wife.”
“No yer don’t.” She looked him up and down with immeasurable scorn. “She wouldn’t give yer ’ouse room! She’d call the rozzers if summink like you even spoke to ’er, less’n it were to ask her for an ’alfpenny’s charity.”
Monk enunciated very carefully in his best diction.
“And if I were to come here in my usual clothes, I would be as obvious as you would be dressed like that at a presentation to the Queen. Young ladies wear white for such occasions,” he added.
“An’ o’ course yer invited ter such fings, so you’d know!” she said sarcastically, but her eyes were searching his face, and the disbelief was waning.
He put out a strong, clean hand, slim-fingered, immaculate-nailed, and grasped the railing near hers, but did not touch her.
She looked at his hand a moment, then back at his face.
“Wotcher want?” she said slowly.
“Do you want to discuss it on the step? You’ve got nosy neighbors—upstairs, if nowhere else.”
“Fanny Bragg? Jealous ol’ cow. Yeah, she’d love the chance ter throw a bucket o’ slops over me. Come on inside.” And she took out a key and inserted it in the door, turned it and led him in.
The room was dark, being lit by only one window, and that below street level, but it was larger than he would have guessed from outside, and surprisingly clean. The black potbellied stove gave out a considerable warmth, and there was a rug of knotted rags on the floor. There were three chairs of various colors and in different states of repair, but all of them comfortable enough, and the large bed in the shadows at the farther end was made up and covered with a ragged quilt.
He closed the door behind him and looked at her with a new regard. Whatever else she was, she had done