The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [113]
10
MONK SENT EVAN to try pawnshops for the pink jade, and then himself went to look for Josiah Wigtight. He had no trouble finding the address. It was half a mile east of Whitechapel off the Mile End Road. The building was narrow and almost lost between a seedy lawyer’s office and a sweatshop where in dim light and heavy, breathless air women worked eighteen hours a day sewing shirts for a handful of pence. Some felt driven to walk the street at night also, for the extra dreadfully and easily earned silver coins that meant food and rent. A few were wives or daughters of the poor, the drunken or the inadequate; many were women who had in the past been in domestic service, and had lost their “character” one way or another—for impertinence, dishonesty, loose morals, or because a mistress found them “uppity,” or a master had taken advantage of them and been discovered, and in a number of cases they had become with child, and thus not only unemployable but a disgrace and an affront.
Inside, the office was dim behind drawn blinds and smelled of polish, dust and ancient leather. A black-dressed clerk sat at a high stool in the first room. He looked up as Monk came in.
“Good morning, sir; may we be of assistance to you?” His voice was soft, like mud. “Perhaps you have a little problem?” He rubbed his hands together as though the cold bothered him, although it was summer. “A temporary problem, of course?” He smiled at his own hypocrisy.
“I hope so.” Monk smiled back.
The man was skilled at his job. He regarded Monk with caution. His expression had not the nervousness he was accustomed to; if anything it was a little wolfish. Monk realized he had been clumsy. Surely in the past he must have been more skilled, more attuned to the nuances of judgment?
“That rather depends on you,” he added to encourage the man, and allay any suspicion he might unwittingly have aroused.
“Indeed,” the clerk agreed. “That’s what we’re in business for: to help gentlemen with a temporary embarrassment of funds. Of course there are conditions, you understand?” He fished out a clean sheet of paper and held his pen ready. “If I could just have the details, sir?”
“My problem is not a shortage of funds,” Monk replied with the faintest smile. He hated moneylenders; he hated the relish with which they plied their revolting trade. “At least not pressing enough to come to you. I have a matter of business to discuss with Mr. Wigtight.”
“Quite.” The man nodded with a smirk of understanding. “Quite so. All matters of business are referred to Mr. Wigtight, ultimately, Mr.—er?” He raised his eyebrows.
“I do not want to borrow any money,” Monk said rather more tartly. “Tell Mr. Wigtight it is about something he has mislaid, and very badly wishes to have returned to him.”
“Mislaid?” The man screwed up his pallid face. “Mislaid? What are you talking about, sir? Mr. Wigtight does not mislay things.” He sniffed in offended disapproval.
Monk leaned forward and put both hands on the counter, and the man was obliged to face him.
“Are you going to show me to Mr. Wigtight?” Monk said very clearly. “Or do I take my information elsewhere?” He did not want to tell the man who he was, or Wigtight would be forewarned, and he needed the slight advantage of surprise.
“Ah—” The man made up his mind rapidly. “Ah—yes; yes sir. I’ll take you to Mr. Wigtight, sir. If you’ll come this way.” He closed his ledger with a snap and slid it into a drawer. With one eye still on Monk he took a key from his waistcoat pocket and locked the drawer, then straightened up. “Yes sir, this way.”
The inner office of Josiah Wigtight was quite a different affair from the drab attempt at anonymous respectability of the entrance. It was frankly lush, everything chosen for comfort, almost hedonism. The big armchairs were covered in velvet and the cushions were deep in both color and texture; the