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"No, wicked night, it were, for July, raining summink 'orrible. Nob'dy much abaht, an' everyone goin' as fast as veir legs'd carry 'em."
"How long have you been at this crossing?"
"Couple o' years." His faint fair eyebrows rose with surprise; obviously it was a question he had not expected.
"So you must know most of the people who live around here?" Monk pursued.
"Yers, reckon as I do." His eyes sparked with sudden sharp comprehension. "Yer means did I see anyone as don't belong?"
Monk nodded in appreciation of his sagacity. "Precisely. ''
" 'E were bashed ter deaf, weren't 'e?"
"Yes." Monk winced inwardly at the appropriateness of the phrase.
"Ven yer in't lookin' fer a woman?"
"No," Monk agreed. Then it flashed through his mind that a man might dress as a woman, if perhaps it were not some stranger who had murdered Grey, but a person known to him, someone who had built up over the years the kind of hatred that had seemed to linger in that room. "Unless it were a large woman," he added, "and very strong, perhaps."
The boy hid a smirk. “Woman as I saw was on the little side. Most women as makes veir way vat fashion gotta look fetchin' like, or leastways summink as a woman oughter. Don't see no great big scrubbers 'round 'ere, an' no dollymops." He sniffed again and pulled his mouth down fiercely to express his disapproval. "Only the class for gennelmen as 'as money like wot vey got 'ere." He gestured towards the elaborate house fronts behind him towards the square.
"I see." Monk hid a brief amusement. "And you saw some woman of that type going into Number Six that evening?" It was probably not worth anything, but every clue must be followed at this stage.
"No one as don't go vere reg'lar, guv."
"What time?"
"Jus' as I were goin' 'ome."
“About half past seven?''
"S' right."
"How about earlier?"
"Only wot goes inter Number Six, like?"
"Yes."
He shut his eyes in deep concentration, trying to be obliging; there might be another twopence. "One of ve gennelmen wot lives hi Number Six came 'ome wiv another gent, little feller wiv one o' vem collars wot looks like fur, but all curly."
"Astrakhan?" Monk offered.
"I dunno wot yer calls it. Anyway, 'e went in abaht six, an' I never sawed 'im come aht. Vat any 'elp to yer, guv?"
"It might be. Thank you very much." Monk spoke to him with all seriousness, gave him another penny, to Evan's surprise, and watched him step blithely off into the thoroughfare, dodging in between traffic, and take up his duties again.
Evan's face was brooding, thoughtful, but whether on the boy's answers or his means of livelihood, Monk did not ask.
"The ribbon seller's not here today." Evan looked up and down the Guilford Street footpath. "Who do you want to try next?"
Monk thought for a moment. "How do we find the cabby? I presume we have an address for him?"
"Yes sir, but I doubt he'd be there now."
Monk turned to face the drizzling east wind. "Not unless he's ill," he agreed. "Good evening for trade. No one will walk in this weather if they can ride." He was pleased with that—it sounded intelligent, and it was the
merest common sense. "We'll send a message and have him call at the police station. I don't suppose he can add anything to what he's already said anyway." He smiled sarcastically. "Unless, of course, he killed Grey himself!"
