Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [7]
“Why did you come here?” Hester asked. “Was somebody else attacked as well?”
He looked at her, his eyes narrow, his lips pulled tight. It was an expression of understanding and misery, not contempt. “Dead person wasn’t a woman,” he explained. “Wouldn’t expect you to be able to ’elp me if it was. Although sometimes they fight each other, but not to kill, far as I know. Never seen it, anyway.”
“A man?” She was surprised. “You think a pimp killed him? What happened? Someone drunk, do you suppose?”
He sipped his tea again, letting the hot liquid ease his throat. “Don’t know. Abel swears it in’t anything to do with ’is girls. . . .”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” She dismissed the idea without even weighing it.
Hart would not let it go so quickly. “Thing is, Mrs. Monk, the dead man was a toff . . . I mean a real toff. You should ’ave seen ’is clothes. I know quality. An’ clean. ’Is ’ands were clean too, nails an’ all. An’ smooth.”
“Do you know who he was?”
He shook his head. “No. Someone pinched ’is money an’ calling cards, if ’e’ad any. But someone’ll miss’im. We’ll find out.”
“Even men like that have been known to use prostitutes,” she said reasonably.
“Yeh, but not Abel Smith’s sort,” he replied. “Not that that’s what matters,” he added quickly. “Thing is, a man like that gets murdered an’ we’ll be expected to get whoever did it in double quick time, an’ there’ll still be a lot o’ shouting an’ wailing to clean up the area, get rid o’ prostitution and make the streets safe for decent people, like.” He said this with ineffable contempt—not a sneer of the lips or raising of his voice, just a soft, immeasurable disgust.
“Presumably if he’d stayed at home with his wife, he’d still be alive,” Hester responded sourly. “But I can’t help you. Why do you think a woman was hurt and could know something about it? Or that she’d dare tell you if she did?”
“You thinking ’er pimp did it?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Aren’t you?” she countered. “Why would a woman kill him? And how? Was he stabbed? I don’t know any women who carry knives or who attack their clients. Fingernails or teeth are about the worst I’ve heard of.”
“ ’Eard of?” he questioned.
She smiled with a slight downward curl of her lips. “Men don’t come here.”
“Just women, eh?”
“For medical reasons,” she explained. “Anyway, if a man’s been bitten or scratched by a prostitute, what are we going to do for him?”
“Beyond have a good laugh—nothing,” he agreed. Then his expression became grave again. “But this man’s dead, Mrs. Monk, an’ from the look of the body, ’e got’imself in a fight with a woman, an’ then somehow or other ’e came off worst. ’E’s got cuts an’ gashes in ’is back, an’ so many broken bones it’s hard to know where to begin.”
She was startled. She had imagined a fight between two men ending in tragedy, perhaps the larger or heavier one striking an unlucky blow, or possibly the smaller one resorting to a weapon, probably a knife.
“But you said he was robbed,” she pointed out, thinking now of an attack by several men. “Was he set on by a gang?”
“That don’t ’appen ’round these streets.” Hart dismissed it. “That’s what pimps are for. They make their money out of willing trade. It’s in their interest to keep the customers safe.”
“So why is this one dead?” she said quietly, beginning to understand now why Hart had come there. “Why would one of the women kill him? And how, if he was beaten the way you describe?”
Hart bit his lip. “Actually, more like ’e fell,” he answered.
“Fell?” She did not immediately understand.
“From an ’eight,” he explained. “Like down stairs, mebbe.”
Suddenly it was much clearer. If a man had been caught off balance, not expecting it, a woman could easily have pushed him.
“But what about the cuts and gashes you spoke of?” she