The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [78]
Another had said one of his fares had been limping badly. One had been wet as though he had rolled in a gutter or fallen in a water butt. One, caught briefly in the coachlight, had had a bloody face.
There was nothing to prove any of them were the men Monk was looking for.
On Sunday, when he knew he would find her at home, he told Vida Hopgood as much. They were seated in her red parlor in front of a very healthy fire and sipping dark brown tea with so strong a flavor he was glad of a sticky sweet bun to moderate it a little.
“Yer sayin’ yer beat?” she asked contemptuously, but he heard the note of disappointment in her and saw the shadow cross her eyes. She was angry, but her shoulders sagged beneath the burden of hope lost.
“No I’m not!” he responded sharply. “I’m telling you what I know so far. I promised I’d do that, if you remember?”
“Yeah …” she agreed grudgingly, but she was sitting up a little straighter. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Yer do believe they was raped, don’t yer?”
“Yes I do,” he said without doubt. “Not necessarily all by the same men, but at least eight of them probably were, and three of them I think may be provable.”
“Mebbe?” she said guardedly. “Wot use’s ‘mebbe’? Wot about the others? ’Oo done them, then?”
“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. If we prove two or three, that will be enough, won’t it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’ll do fine.” She stared at him, defying him to ask her what she planned to do about it.
He had not intended to ask. He was angry enough not to care.
“I’d like to speak to more women.” He took another sip of the bitter tea. The flavor was appalling, but it did have an invigorating effect.
“Wot fer?” She was suspicious.
“There are gaps in times, weeks when I know of no one attacked. Is that true?”
She sat in thought for several minutes.
“Well?” Monk asked.
“No, it in’t. Yer could try Bella Green. Din’t wanna bring ’er inter it, but if l’ave ter, then I will.”
“Why not?”
“Geez! Why the ’ell der yer care? Because ’er man’s an ol’ soljer an’ it’ll cut ’im up summink terrible ter know as she bin beat, an’ ’e couldn’t ’elp ’er, let alone that she goes aht ter earn wot ’e can’t that way. Poor sod lorst ’is leg at the Battle o’ the ’Alma. In’t good fer much now. ’Urt bad, ’e were. Never bin the same since ’e come back.”
He did not let his emotion show.
“Any others?”
She offered him more tea, and he declined.
“Any others?” he repeated.
“Yer could try Maggie Arkwright. Yer prob’ly won’t believe a word wot she says, but that don’ mean it in’t true … sometimes, anyway.”
“Why would she lie to me about that?”
“ ’Cos ’er geezer’s a thief, professional like, an’ she’ll never tell a rozzer the truth, on principle.” She looked at him with wry humor. “An’ if yer thinks as yer can kid ’er yer in’t, yer dafter ’n I took yer fer.”
“Take me to them.”
“I in’t got time nor money ter waste. Yer doin’ anythin’ ’cept keepin’ bread in yer belly, an’ yer pride?” Her voice rose. “Yer any damn use at all? Or yer gonna tell me in a monf’s time that yer dunno ’oo done it, any more ’n yer do now, eh?”
“I’m going to find who did it,” he said without even a shadow of humor or agreeability. “If you won’t pay, then I’ll do it myself. The information will be mine.” He looked at her with cold clarity, so she could not possibly mistake him.
“Or’ight,” she said at length, her voice very low, very quiet. “I’ll take yer ter Bella an’ ter Maggie. Get up then. Don’ sit all day usin’ up me fire.”
He did not bother to reply, but rose and followed her out, putting his coat back