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. Monk believed it was the former. Duff was dead, and they had little to fear from answering Monk. He had not lost so much of his old character that he could not wring information from people who made their living on the edge of crime. He knew the balance too well not to use it.
He was walking along a short alley up towards Regent Street when he saw a cabby standing on the pavement talking to a sandwich seller, shivering as the wind whipped around the corner and caught him in its icy blast.
Monk offered a penny and bought a huge sandwich. He bit into it with pleasure. Actually, it was very good, fresh bread with a sharp crust to it, and a thick slice of ham, liberally laced with a rhubarb chutney.
“Good,” he said with his mouth full.
“Find yer rapists yet?” the cabby asked, raising his eyebrows. He had very sad, rather protuberant eyes of pale blue.
“Yes, thank you,” Monk replied, smiling. “You been on this patch long?”
“Baht eight years. Why?”
“Just wondered.” He turned to the sandwich seller. “And you?”
“Twenty-five,” he answered. “More or less.”
“Do you know me?”
The man blinked. “ ’Course I knows yer. Wot kinda question is that?”
Monk steeled himself. “Do you remember a raid in a brothel, a long time ago, where a magistrate was caught? He fell downstairs and hurt himself quite badly.” He had not finished before he saw from the man’s face that he did. It creased with laughter and a rich chortle of pure joy escaped his lips.
“Yeah!” he said happily. “Yeah, ’course I ’members it. Rotten bastard, ’e were, ol’ Gutteridge. Put Polly Thorp away for three years jus’ ’cos some feller wot she were doin’ a service fer said as she’d took ’is money—w’en ’is trousers was orff!” He laughed again, his cheeks puffing out and shining in the lamplight from across the street. “Got caught proper, ’e did … trousers down an’ all. Leff the bench arter that. No more ’andin’ down four years ’ere an’ five years there, an’ the boat all over the place. Yer could ’ear ’em laughin’ all over the ’Oly Land, yer could. I heard Runcorn got the credit for that one, but I always wondered if that was really down ter you, Mr. Monk. There was a lot o’ us as reckoned it were. Yer just wasn’t there at the time, so ter speak.”
“Did you?” Monk said slowly. “Well, it’s a long time ago now.” He wanted to change the subject. He was floundering. He could not afford to show his vulnerability to these people. His skill depended on their fear and respect for him. He pulled the picture of Leighton Duff out of his pocket and showed it to the sandwich seller. “Have you ever seen this man?”
The sandwich seller tipped the picture over a little towards the light of the distant street lamp. He thought for a few moments.
“Yeah, ’e were the geezer wot were done in Water Lane. A rozzer showed me this afore. W’y d’yer wanna know fer?”
“Just wondering if he came here any time before that,” Monk replied.
The cabby looked at it curiously.
“ ’Ere, jus’ a minute,” he said, his voice quickening. “I seen ’im. Not the night ’e were done, I din’t, but I see’d ’im afore that, ’bout a couple o’ weeks, or mebbe less. It were the night afore Christmas Eve, I know that. I’d swear ter it.”
Monk felt his body tighten and his heart beat a little faster. It was the scent of victory, familiar and sharp. “The night before Christmas Eve, and he was here, in St. Giles?”
“Yeah. Din’t I jus’ say so? ’E looked rough, real rough then, like ’e’d bin in a fight. Blood on ’is face, there were, an’ on ’is sleeves.”
Monk swallowed. “Look carefully. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Ears, yer see?” He looked at Monk with a smile. “I likes ears. Ears is all different. ’Ave yer ever noticed that?”
“Yes. Yes, I have. And what was it about the man’s ears that you remember so well?” As he said it he moved his hand over the picture to obscure the ears.
“Long,” the cabby said without hesitation. “Long an’ narrer, wi’ ’eavy lobes ter ’em. Yer take yer finger orff an’ look. I’m right.”
Monk obeyed. The man was right.
“And he had blood on him? Did you see any injury?” He did not want to ask. He almost did not. It was too easily disproved. He could feel the new thread slipping out of his grasp again.
“No, on’y blood. Don’t ’ave ter be ’is blood. Could ’a bin someone else’s. Looked kind o’ drunk, ’e did. Staggerin’ abaht a bit, but ’appy enough, like ’e’d just won summink. So maybe the other geezer got orff a bit worse, eh?”
“Yes, maybe. Was he alone? Did you see anyone else?” Had Rhys been with him, close behind, or left wherever the fight had taken place? This evidence was almost too good to be true. Perhaps he would be able to take Hester something after all. Or rather take Rathbone something.
“Saw someone else,” the cabby said thoughtfully. “But couldn’t say ’oo. Jus’ a shadow. Tall, like, an’ thinnish, though it in’t easy ter say, in a good coat. Covers a lot, a good coat does.”
