The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [77]
“Or else Rhys was in it with his mother.” Monk swallowed and took a mouthful of his stout. “Have you any way of looking into that?” He ignored Evan’s expression of distaste.
“Hester’s there. She’s nursing Rhys,” Evan replied. He saw the emotion cross Monk’s face, the momentary flicker, the light and then the shadow. He knew something of what Monk felt for her, even though he did not understand the reasons for its complexity. He had seen the trust between them. Hester had fought for Monk when no one else would. She had also quarreled with Monk when, at least to Evan, it made no sense at all. But he knew the dark areas of Monk’s heart prevented him from committing himself as Evan would have. Half memories and fears of what he did not know made it impossible for him. What Evan did not know was whether it was fear for Hester and the hurt he might cause her in that part of himself which lay secret, or simply fear for himself and his own vulnerability if he allowed her to know him so well, to become even more important to him, and to understand it himself.
Nothing in Monk’s behavior let him know. He thought perhaps Hester did not know either.
Monk was halfway through his meal.
“She won’t tell you,” he said, looking at his plate.
“I know that,” Evan replied. “I’m not placing her in the position of asking.”
Monk looked up at him quickly, then down again.
“Made any advance in your case?” Evan asked.
Monk’s expression darkened, the skin on his face tight with the anger inside him.
“Two or three men came into Seven Dials quite regularly, usually a Tuesday or Thursday, about ten in the evening up until two or three in the morning. As far as I can tell they were not drunk, nor did they go into any public houses or brothels. No one seems to have seen their faces clearly. One was of above average height, the other two ordinary, one a little heavier than the other. I’ve found cabbies who have taken them back to Portman Square, Eaton Square …”
“They’re miles apart!” Evan exclaimed. “Well, a good distance.”
“I know,” Monk said. “They’ve also been taken to Cardigan Place, Belgrave Square and Wimpole Street. I am perfectly aware that they may live in three different areas, or more likely very simply have changed cabs. I don’t need you to tell me the obvious. What I need is for the police to care that over a dozen women have been beaten, some of them badly injured, and could have been dead, for all these animals cared. What I need is a little sense of outrage for the poor as well as the inhabitants of Ebury Street, a little blind justice, instead of justice that looks so damned carefully at the size and shape of your pockets and the cut of your coat before it decides whether to bother with you or not.”
“That’s unfair,” Evan replied, staring back at Monk with equal anger. “We have only so much time, so many men, which you know as well as I do. And even if we find them, what good would it do? Who’s going to prosecute them? It will never get to court, and you know that too.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What are you hoping for, Monk? Private vengeance? You’d better be damned sure you are right.”
“I shall be,” Monk said between his teeth. “I shall have the proof before I act.”
“And then what—murder?” Evan demanded. “You have no right to take the law into your own hands or to put it in the hands of men you know will take it for themselves. The law belongs to all of us, or we are none of us safe.”
“Safe!” Monk exploded. “Tell that to the women in Seven Dials! You’re talking about theory … I’m dealing with fact!”
Evan stood his ground. “If you find these men and tell whoever has hired you, and they commit murder, that will be fact enough.”
“So what is your alternative?” Monk said.
“I haven’t one,” Evan admitted. “I don’t know.”
6
As he had told Evan, Monk was having peripheral success in finding the men responsible for the rapes and violence in Seven