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The man wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to him.
Monk took it: it was just above the Elephant Stairs in Rotherhithe, across the river. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
"I won't spoil your case," he promised. "I only want to ask him one question, and it's to do with Grey, not the tobacco fraud."
"It's all right," the other man said, sighing happily. "Murder is always more important than fraud, at least it is when it's a lord's son that's been killed." He sighed and hiccupped together. "Of course if he'd been some poor shopkeeper or chambermaid it would be different. Depends who's been robbed, or who's been killed, doesn't it?"
Monk gave a hard little grimace for the injustice of it, ' then thanked him and left.
Robinson was not at the Elephant Stairs, and it took Monk all afternoon to find him, eventually running him down in a gin mill in Seven Dials, but he learned everything he wanted to know almost before Robinson spoke. The man's face tightened as soon as Monk came in and a cautious look came into his eyes.
"Good day, Mr. Monk; I didn't expect to see you again. What is it this time?"
Monk felt the excitement shiver through him. He swallowed hard.
"Still the same thing—"
Robinson's voice was low and sibilant, and there was a timber in it that struck Monk with an almost electric familiarity. The sweat tingled on his skin. It was real memory, actual sight and feelings coming back at last. He stared hard at the man.
Robinson's narrow, wedge-shaped face was stiff.
"IVe already told you everything I know, Mr. Monk. Anyway, what does it matter now Joscelin Grey is dead?"
"And you told me everything you knew before? You swear it?"
Robinson snorted with a faint contempt.
"Yes I swear it," h
e said wearily. "Now will you please go away? You're known around 'ere. It don't do me no good to 'ave the police nosing around and asking questions. People think I 'ave something to 'ide."
Monk did not bother to argue with him. The fraud detective would catch up with him soon enough.
"Good," he said simply. "Then I don't need to trouble you again." He went out into the hot, gray street milling with peddlers and waifs, his feet hardly feeling the pavement beneath. So he had known about Grey before he had been to see him, before he had killed him.
But why was it he had hated Grey so much? Marner was the principal, the brains behind the fraud, and the greatest beneficiary. And it seemed he had made no move against Marner.
He needed to think about it, sort out his ideas, decide where at least to look for the last missing piece.
It was hot and close, the air heavy with the humidity coming up from the river, and his mind was tired, staggering, spinning with the burden of what he had learned. He needed food and something to drink away this terrible thirst, to wash the stench of the rookeries from his mouth.
Without realizing it he had walked to the door of an eating house. He pushed it open and the fresh smell of sawdust and apple cider engulfed him. Automatically he made his way to the counter. He did not want ale, but fresh bread and sharp, homemade pickle. He could smell them, pungent and a little sweet.
The potman smiled at him and fetched the crusty bread, crumbling Wensleydale cheese, and juicy onions. He passed over the plate.
" 'Aven't seen yer for a w'ile, sir," he said cheerfully. "I s'pose you was too late to find that fellow you was looking for?"
Monk took the plate in stiff hands, awkwardly. He could
not draw his eyes from the man's face. Memory was coming back; he knew he knew him.
"Fellow?" he said huskily.
"Yes." The potman smiled. "Major Grey; you was looking for 'im last time you was 'ere. It was the same night 'e was murdered, so I don't s'pose you ever found •im."
Something was just beyond Monk's memory, the last piece, tantalizing, the shape of it almost recognizable at last.
"You knew him?" he said slowly, still holding the plate in his hands.
