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Monk had already decided his course.
“I don’t believe you, but then on the other hand, I don’t care either.”
“Yeah? Since when?” Wiggins’s face registered profound disbelief.
“Since you’re more use to me in business than in gaol,” Monk replied.
“Oh, yeah?” He leaned over the counter in the space between two stone jars on one side and a pile of pans and kettles on the other. “Gorn inter a bit o’ tradin’ on the side, ’ave yer?” It was meant as an insult, then as Monk failed to be angry, his expression suddenly changed to one of amazement. “Gorn a bit bent, ’ave we? Well I never. ’Oo’d a’ thought. Mr. Monk, an’ all, reduced ter a bit on the side. ’Urts does it, not gettin’ a reg’lar wage fer ’ounding folks? ’Ungry, are we, an’ cold now an’ agin? Must say as yer don’ look the dandy as yer used ter. Right come down in the world, we ’ave.” His smile grew with each new thought. “If yer wanter ’ock some o’ that fancy rig o’ yours, I daresay as I could see me way ter a fair price. Sell ’em up west, I could, for a nice penny. O’ course, that’s if yer don’ wanna be seen doin’ it yerself, like? Catches yer pride, do it?”
Monk made a powerful effort to control his temper. He considered returning at a later date in the very best clothes he had, and giving Wiggins a gold sovereign just to make the point.
“I’m a bad enemy when I’m hard-pressed,” he replied between his teeth. “And I’m hard-pressed now.”
“You was always a bad enemy,” Wiggins said sourly. “An’ a bad friend too, for all I know. D’jer wanna ’ock summink or not?”
“I want to do a little business,” Monk said carefully. “Not with you, with Caleb Stone.”
Wiggins’s face tightened.
“I’ve got a job for him,” Monk lied. “One I’ll pay him for, and from what I hear, he could use the money. I need to know where to find him, and you seem a good place to start.”
“I dunno w’ere ter find ’im, nor I wouldn’t tell you if I did.” Wiggins’s eyes were cold and hard. They did not flinch a fraction as they met Monk’s.
The door opened and an undersized woman came in, a thin shawl held around her hunched shoulders, a pair of boots in her hand. She peered at Monk anxiously to determine whether to wait for him to finish his affairs or not.
“Wotcher want, Maisie?” Wiggins asked, cutting across Monk. “Them your Billy’s boots agin? I’ll give yer sixpence. If’n I gives yer more, yer’ll not raise enough ter get ’em back.”
“ ’E’ll get paid Friday,” she said tentatively, as if she were saying it more in hope than belief. “ ’E’s got a bit o’ work. But I gotter feed the kids. Gimme a shilling, Mr. Wiggins. I’ll get it back to yer.”
“They in’t worth a shillin’,” Wiggins said immediately. “Got ’oles in ’em. I know them boots like the back o’ me ’and. Sevenpence. That’s the lot! Take it or leave it.”
“What work does Billy do?” Monk asked suddenly.
Wiggins drew in his breath to interrupt, but the woman was too quick.
“ ’E’ll do anyfink, mister. Yer got summink as yer wants done, my Billy’ll do it for yer.?
? Her thin face was full of hope.
“I want to find Caleb Stone,” Monk replied. “I just want to know where he lives, that’s all. I’ll speak to him myself. His brother has died, and I want to inform him officially. They were close, even though his brother lived up in the West End.”
“I kin tell yer w’ere Selina lives,” she said after taking a deep breath. “She’s ’is woman, like.”
Monk fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. “That’s for you now, and there’s another when you take me to her doorstep. Keep the boots.”
She grasped the shilling in a thin, dirty hand, shot Wiggins a look halfway between triumph and the knowledge that she would certainly need him again, then led the way out of the door with Monk close behind her. Wiggins swore and spat into a brass cuspidor on the floor.
Monk was led through lined and grimy streets down to the river and eastward, as he had expected, towards the Isle of Dogs. A raw wind blew up from the water, carrying the smell of salt, stale fish, the overspill of sewage and the cold dampness of the outgoing tide sweeping down from the Pool of London towards the estuary and the sea. Across the gray water endless strings of barges made their heavy way downstream, laden with merchandise for half the earth. Ships passed them outward bound, down towards the docks of Greenwich and beyond.
A brewers’ dray kept pace with them along the road, its wheels rumbling over the uneven cobbles. A rag-and-bone man called out dolefully, as if expecting an answer. Two women on the corner launched into a fierce quarrel and a cat scuttered across an alleyway with a rat in its mouth.
They were going down Bridge Street, with Limehouse Reach on one side and the West India Docks on the other. Tall masts broke the skyline, barely moving against the clouds. Chimneys belched thin streams of smoke up into the air. Maisie kept walking on past Cuba Street, then at Manilla Street she stopped.
“Fird ’ouse along ere,” she said huskily. “Dahn ve steps. On’y one door. Vat’s ’er. Selina, ’er name is.” She held out her hand tentatively, not sure if she would get the second shilling or not.
“What does she look like?” He wanted to see if her description tallied with Mr. Arbuthnot’s. If it did he would trust her, for a shilling.
“A tart,” she said quickly, then bit her lip. “Quite ’andsome, really, in a flashy sort o’ way. Thin, I suppose, sharp nose, but good eyes, real good eyes.” She looked at Monk to see if that was sufficient, and saw that it was not. “Sort o’ brownish ’air, good an’ thick. Always kind o’ sure of ’erself, least w’en I sees ’er. Walks cocky, wi’ a swing to ’er ’ips. Like I says, a tart.” She sniffed. “But she’s got guts, I’ll give ’er that. Never ’eard ’er moan, not like some. Put a good face on it, no matter wot. An’ she can’t ’ave an easy time, wi’ Caleb Stone bein’ like ’e is.”
