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“ ’Allo, Mr. Evan. Wot you want, then? This in’t your patch.”
Evan did not bother to lie; it would serve no purpose and evidence bad faith.
“Last night’s murder up west, in Queen Anne Street.”
“Wot murder was that?” Willie was confused, and it showed in his guarded expression, narrowed eyes, a trifle squinting in the streetlight over the pie stall.
“Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter, stabbed in her own bedroom—by a burglar.”
“Go on—Basil Moidore, eh?” Willie looked dubious. “ ’E must be worth a mint, but ’is ’ouse’d be crawlin’ with servants! Wot cracksman’d do that? It’s fair stupid! Damn fool!”
“Best get it sorted.” Evan pushed out his lip and shook his head a little.
“Dunno nuffin’,” Willie denied out of habit.
“Maybe. But you know the house thieves who work that area,” Evan argued.
“It wouldn’t be one o’ them,” Willie said quickly.
Evan pulled a face. “And of course they wouldn’t know a stranger on the patch,” he said sarcastically.
Willie squinted at him, considering. Evan looked gullible; his was a dreamer’s face; it should have belonged to a gentleman, not a sergeant in the rozzers. Nothing like Monk; now there was someone not to mess about with, an ambitious man with a devious mind and a hard tongue. You knew from the set of his bones and the gray eyes that never wavered that it would be dangerous to play games with him.
“Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter,” Evan said almost to himself. “They’ll hang someone—have to. Shake up a lot of people before they find the right man—if it becomes necessary.”
“O’right!” Willie said grudgingly. “O’right! Chinese Paddy was up there last night. ’E din’t do nothin’—din’t ’ave the chance, so yer can’t bust ’im. Clean as a w’istle, ’e is. But ask ’im. If ’e can’t ’elp yer, then no one can. Now let me be—yer’ll gimme a bad name, ’anging ’round ’Ere wi’ the likes o’ you.”
“Where do I find Chinese Paddy?” Evan caught hold of the man’s arm, fingers hard till Willie squeaked.
“Leggo o’ me! Wanna break me arm?”
Evan tightened his grip.
“Dark ’ouse Lane, Billingsgate—termorrer mornin’, w’en the market opens. Yer’ll know ’im easy, ’e’s got black ’air like a chimney brush, an’ eyes like a Chinaman. Now le’ go o’ me!”
Evan obliged, and in a minute Willie disappeared down Mincing Lane towards the river and the ferry steps.
Evan went straight home to his rooms, washed off the worst surface dirt in a bowl of tepid water, and slipped into bed.
At five in the morning he rose again, put on the same clothes and crept out of the house and took a series of public omnibuses to Billingsgate, and by quarter past six in the dawn light he was in the crush of costers’ barrows, fishmongers’ high carts and dray wagons at the entrance to Dark House Lane itself. It wa
s so narrow that the houses reared up like cliff walls on either side, the advertisement boards for fresh ice actually stretching across from one side to the other. Along both sides were stacked mountains of fresh, wet, slithering fish of every description, piled on benches, and behind them stood the salesmen crying their wares, white aprons gleaming like the fish bellies, and white hats pale against the dark stones behind them.
A fish porter with a basket full of haddock on his head could barely squeeze past the double row of shoppers crowding the thin passageway down the middle. At the far end Evan could just see the tangled rigging of oyster boats on the water and the occasional red worsted cap of a sailor.
The smell was overpowering; red herrings, every kind of white fish from sprats to turbot, lobsters, whelks, and over all a salty, seaweedy odor as if one were actually on a beach. It brought back a sudden jolt of childhood excursions to the sea, the coldness of the water and the sight of a crab running sideways across the sand.
But this was utterly different. All around him was not the soft slurp of the waves but the cacophony of a hundred voices: “Ye-o-o! Ye-o-o! ’ere’s yer fine Yarmouth bloaters! Whiting! Turbot—all alive! Beautiful lobsters! Fine cock crabs—alive O! Splendid skate—alive—all cheap! Best in the market! Fresh ’addock! Nice glass o’ peppermint this cold morning! Ha’penny a glass! ’Ere yer are, sir! Currant and meat puddings, a ha’penny each! ’Ere ma’am! Smelt! Finny ’addock! Plaice—all alive O. Whelks—mussels—now or never! Shrimps! Eels! Flounder! Winkles! Waterproof capes—a shilling apiece! Keep out the wet!”
And a news vendor cried out: “I sell food for the mind! Come an’ read all abaht it! Terrible murder in Queen Anne Street! Lord’s daughter stabbed ter death in ’er bed!”
Evan pushed his way slowly through the crowd of costers, fishmongers and housewives till he saw a brawny fish seller with a distinctly Oriental appearance.
“Are you Chinese Paddy?” he asked as discreetly as he could above the babble and still be heard.
“Sure I am. Will you be wantin’ some nice fresh cod, now? Best in the market!”
“I want some information. It’ll cost you nothing, and I’m prepared to pay for it—if it’s right,” Evan replied, standing very upright and looking at the fish as if he were considering buying it.
