Anne Perry_William Monk 08 by The Silent Cry

Author:The Silent Cry
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Private Investigators, Historical, London (England), Mystery & Detective, Historical Fiction, Political, Monk, Fiction, Suspense, William (Fictitious Character), Legal Stories, Traditional British, Mystery Fiction, General, Private Investigators - England - London
ISBN: 9780754011491
Publisher: Chivers P.
Published: 1997-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

In the morning he returned yet again to Seven Dials and his pursuit of witnesses who might have seen anything to do with the attacks, most particularly anyone who was a frequent visitor to the area. He had already exhausted the cabbies and was now trying street peddlers, beggars and vagrants. His pockets were full of all the small change he could afford. People often spoke more readily for some slight reward. It was his own money, not Vida’s.

The first three people he approached knew nothing. The fourth was a seller of meat pies, hot and savory smelling but probably made mostly of offal and other castoffs. He bought one, and overpaid, but without intention of eating it. He held it in his hand while talking to the man. There was a wind that morning. The fog had lifted, but it was intensely cold. The cobbles were slippery with ice. As he stood there the pie became more and more tempting and he was less inclined to consider what was in it.

“Seen or heard anything about two or three strangers roaming around at night?” he said casually. “Gentlemen from up west?”

“Yeah,” the peddler replied without surprise. “They bin beatin’ the ’ell out o’ some o’ our women, poor cows. W’y d’yer wanna know, eh? In’t rozzers’ bus’ness.” He looked at Monk with steady dislike. “Want ’em for summink else, do yer?”

“No, I want them for that. Isn’t that enough for you?”

The man’s scorn was open. “Yeah? An’ yer gonna ’ave ’em up for it, are yer? Don’ give me that muck. Since w’en did yer sort give a toss wot ’appened ter the likes o’ us? I know you, yer evil bastard. Yer don’t even care fer yer own, never mind us poor sods.”

Monk looked at the man’s eyes and could not deny the recognition in them. He was not speaking of police in general, this was personal. Should he ask, capture some tangible fact of the past? Would it be the truth? Would it help? Would it tell him something he would rather not have known, ugly, incomplete, and without explanation?

Probably. But perhaps imagination alone was worse.

“What do you mean, ‘not even my own’?” The instant he had said it, he wished he had not.

The man gave a grunt of disgust.

A woman in a black shawl came past and bought two pies.

“I seen yer shaft yer own,” the peddler answered when she had gone. “Left ’im ’angin’ out ter dry, like a proper fool, yer did.”

Monk’s stomach turned cold and a little fluttery. It was what he had feared.

“How do you know?” he argued.

“Saw ’is face, an’ seen yours.” The peddler sold another pie and fished for change for a threepenny piece.

“ ’E weren’t ’spectin’ it. Caught ’im proper, poor sod.”

“How? What did I do?”

“Wot’s the matter wiv yer?” The man looked at him incredulously. “Want the pleasure of it twice, do yer? I dunno. Jus’ know yer came ’ere tergether, an’ yer done ’im some’ow. ’E trusted yer, an’ finished up in the muck.

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