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"Oh, I'm so glad. I thought perhaps I was in error."
Monk muttered something polite, probably meaningless—he did not want to be unkind to the little man—and made his way out onto the landing again. He was hardly aware of going down the stairs, nor did he register the drenching weight of the rain when he passed Grimwade and went outside into the street with its gaslight and swirling gutters.
He began to walk, blindly, and it was not until he was spattered with mud and a cab wheel missed him by less than a foot that he realized he was on Doughty Street.
" 'Ere!" the cabby shouted at him. "Watch w'ere yer going', guv! Yer want ter get yerself killed?"
Monk stopped, staring up at him. "You occupied?"
"No guv. Yer want ter go somewhere? Mebbe yer'd better, afore yer get someb'dy into a haccident."
"Yes," Monk accepted, still without moving.
"Well come on then," the cabby said sharply, leaning forward to peer at him. "Not a night fer man ner beast ter be out in, it ain't. Mate o' mine were killed on a night like this, poor sod. 'Orse bolted and 'is cab turned over. Killed, 'e were. 'It 'is 'ead on the curb an' 'e died, jes' like that. And 'is fare were all smashed abaht too, but they say as 'e were o'right, in the end. Took 'im orf ter 'orspital, o' course. 'Ere, are yer goin' ter stand there all night, guv? Come on now, either get in, or don't; but make up yer mind!"
"This friend of yours." Monk's voice was distorted, as if from far away. "When was he killed, when was this accident, exactly?"
"July it were, terrible weather fer July. Wicked night.
'Ailstorm wot lay like snow. Swear ter Gawd—I don't know wot the wevver's comin' ter."
"What date in July?" Monk's whole body was cold, and idiotically calm.
"Come on now, sir?" the cabby wheedled, as one does a drunk or a recalcitrant animal. "Get in aht o' the rain. It's shockin' wet aht there. Yer'll catch yer death."
"What date?"
"I fink as it were the fourf. Why? We ain't goin' ter 'ave no haccident ternight, I promises yer. I'll be as careful as if you was me muwer. Jus' make up yer mind, sir!"
"Did you know him well?"
"Yes sir, 'e were a good mate o' mine. Did yer know 'im too, sir? Yer live 'rahnd 'ere, do yer? 'E used ter work this patch all ve time. Picked up 'is last fare 'ere, right in vis street, accordin' ter 'is paper. Saw 'im vat very night meself, I did. Nah is yer comin', sir, or ain't yer? 'Cos I 'aven't got all night. I reckon w'en yer goes a henjoyin' yerself, yer oughter take someone wiv yer. Yer in't safe."
On this street. The cabby had picked him, Monk, up on this street, less than a hundred yards from Mecklenburg Square, on the night Joscelin Grey was murdered. What had he been doing here? Why?
"Yer sick, sir?" The cabby's voice changed; he was suddenly concerned. " 'Ere, yer ain't 'ad one too many?" He climbed down off his box and opened the cab door.
"No, no I'm quite well." Monk stepped up and inside obediently and the cabby muttered something to himself about gentlemen whose families should take better care of them, stepped back up onto the box and slapped the reins over his horse's back.
As soon as they arrived at Grafton Street Monk paid the cabby and hurried inside.
"Mrs. Worley!"
Silence.
"Mrs. Worley!" His voice was hard, hoarse.
She came out, rubbing her hands dry on her apron.
"Oh my heavens, you are wet. You'd like an 'ot drink.
You'll 'ave to change them clothes; you've let yourself get soaked through! What 'ave you bin thinking of?"
"Mrs. Worley."
The tone of his voice stopped her.
"Why, whatever is the matter, Mr. Monk? You look proper poorly."
