Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [50]
Her face hardened. “So what’s that ter you, then? Yer got ideas about her, yer can forget ’em. She’s an artists’ model now, and good at it she is, too.” She stopped abruptly, defiance in her stare.
“Very good,” Monk agreed, seeing in his mind the pictures Allardyce had painted of Sarah. “But she was killed, and I want to know who did it.”
It was brutal, and Mrs. Clark swayed a little before leaning against the table heavily, the color draining from her face.
“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized. It had not occurred to him that she might not know and that she had cared about Sarah, and suddenly he realized how much he had concentrated on the reality of Elissa Beck and forgotten the other woman and those who might have known her and would be wounded by her death. On the other hand, if Mrs. Clark knew her well enough to feel her loss deeply, then perhaps she could give him some better information about her.
She fumbled behind her for the chair, and he stepped forward quickly and placed it so she could sit down.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t know you were close to her.”
She sniffed fiercely and glared at him, ignoring her brimming eyes and daring him to comment. “I liked ’er, poor little cow,” she said tartly. “ ’Oo wouldn’t? Did ’er best. So wot yer want ’ere, then? I don’t know ’oo killed ’er!”
He fetched the other chair and sat down opposite her. “You might be able to tell me something about her which would help.”
“Why? Wot der you care?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “ ’Oo are yer, any’ow? Yer never said. Yer just came bargin’ in ’ere like the rent collector, only I don’t owe no rent. This place is me own. So explain yerself. I don’t care ’ow swell yer look, I in’t tellin’ yer nothin’ as I don’t want ter.”
He tried to put it in terms she would grasp. “I’m a kind of private policeman. I work for people who want to know the truth of something and pay me to find out.”
“An’ ’oo cares ’oo killed a poor little cow like Sarah Mackeson, then?” she said derisively. “She in’t got nobody. ’Er pa were a navvy wot got killed diggin’ the railways an’ ’er ma died years ago. She’s got a couple o’ brothers someplace, but she never knew where.”
“The wife of a friend of mine was murdered with her,” he replied. There was a kind of dignity in this woman, with her crooked apron and straggling hair, that demanded the truth from him, or at least no lies.
“There were two of ’em done?” she said with horror. “Geez! ’Oo’d do a thing like that? Poor Sarah!”
He smiled at her very slightly, an acknowledgment.
She sniffed and stood up, turning her back to him. Without explaining, she filled the kettle and put it on the hob, then fetched a china teapot and two mugs.
“I’ll tell yer wot I know,” she remarked while she waited for the water to boil. “Wot in’t much. She used ter do quite well sometimes, and bad others. If she were in an ’ard patch she’d come ’ere an’ I’d find ’er a bed for a spell. She’d always turn ’er ’and ter cookin’ an’ cleanin’ as return. Din’t expec’ summink fer nuffink. Honest, she were, in ’er own fashion. An’ generous.” She kept her back to him as the steam started to whistle in the spout.
He did not press her in what way; he understood it from her turned back. She was not willing to put words to it.
“Anyone in particular?” he asked, quite casually.
“Arthur Cutter,” she said, bringing the teapot over to the table and putting it down. “ ’E’s a right waster, but ’e wouldn’t ’ave ’urt ’er. It would ’a bin some o’ them daft artist people. I always told ’er they was no good.” She sniffed again and reached for a piece of cloth in her apron pocket. She blew her nose savagely and then poured the tea for both of them, not bothering to ask if he wanted milk or sugar, but assuming both. Monk disliked sugar intensely, but he made no comment, simply thanking her.
“How did she get in with the artists?” he asked.
Now she seemed willing to talk. She rambled on, telling and retelling, but a vivid picture of Sarah Mackeson emerged from a mixture of memory, opinion and anger. Fourteen years ago, aged eighteen, she had arrived