The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [113]
“Age? I dunno. Don’t yer know?”
“I believe so. When were these attacks?”
“Wot?”
“Before or after the murder in Water Lane?”
She looked at him with her head a trifle to one side, like a withered old sparrow.
“Afore, o’ course. In’t bin nuffink since. Wouldn’t, would there now?”
“No, I think not.”
“That were ’im, then, wot got killed?” she said with satisfaction.
“One of them.” He did not bother to correct her error. “I want the other two.”
She grinned toothlessly. “You an’ a few others.”
“Where did they happen, exactly? I need to know. I need to speak to people who might have seen them coming or going, people in the street, traders, beggars, especially cabbies who might have brought them or taken them away afterwards.”
“Wot fer?” She was genuinely puzzled; it was plain in her face. “Yer know ’oo it were, don’t yer?”
“I think so, but I need to prove it.…”
“Wot fer?” she said again. “If yer think as the law’ll take any notice, yer daft. An’ yer in’t daft, not yer worst enemy’d say that o’ yer. Other things mebbe.”
“Do you want them caught?” he asked. “You imagine after what happened to one of them, they’ll come back to St. Giles, for you to knife them and dump them on some midden? It’ll be Limehouse, or the Devil’s Acre, or Bluegate Fields next time. If we want justice, it will have to be in their territory, and that means with better weapons than yours. It means evidence, proof, not for the law, which, as you say, doesn’t care, but for society, which does.”
“Abaht prostitutes gettin’ raped or beat?” she said, her voice cracking high with disbelief. “Yer’ve lorst your wits, Monk. It’s finally got to yer.”
“Society ladies know their men use prostitutes, Minnie,” he explained patiently. “They don’t like to think other people know it. They certainly don’t like to marry their daughters to young men who frequent places like St. Giles to pick up stray women, who could have diseases, and who practice violence against women, extreme violence. What society knows and what it acknowledges can be very different. There are things which privately can be overlooked but publicly are never forgiven or forgotten.” He looked at her wrinkled face. “You have loyalties to your own. You understand that. You don’t betray the tribe with someone else. Neither do they. These young men have let the side down; they will not be forgiven for that.”
“Yer get ’em, Monk,” she said slowly, and for the first time her fingers stopped moving on the needles. “Ye’re a clever sod, you are. Yer get ’em for us. We’ll not ferget yer.”
“Where did they happen, the two in St. Giles?”
“Fisher’s Walk, the first one, an’ Ellicitt’s Yard, the second.”
“Time?”
“Jus’ arter midnight, both times.”
“Dates?”
“Three nights afore the murder in Water Lane, an’ night afore Christmas Eve.”
“Thank you, Minnie. You have been a great help. Are you sure you won’t give me the names? It would help to talk to the victims themselves.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
The following day Monk went to Evan and, after a little persuasion, obtained from him copies of the pictures of Rhys Duff and his father. He looked at the faces with curiosity. It was the first time he had seen them, and they were neither as he had pictured them. Leighton Duff had powerful features, a strong, broad nose, clear eyes that were blue or gray from the light in them, and the appearance of keen intelligence. Rhys was utterly different, and it was his face which troubled Monk. It was the face of a dreamer. He should have been a poet or an explorer of ideas. His eyes were dark under winged brows, his nose good, if a trifle long, his mouth sensitive, even vulnerable.
But it was only a drawing, probably made after the incident, and perhaps the artist had allowed his sense of pity to influence his hand.
Monk put the drawings in his pocket, thanked Evan, and set out through a light drizzle towards St. Giles again.
In Fisher’s Walk he began asking street traders, peddlers, beggars, anyone who would answer him, if they recognized either of