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“Yes, I do!” She was angry now, defensive. “I just don’t think it was Rhys. I know him. You don’t.”
“And your judgment is clear, of course?” he challenged, sitting back in his chair. “You could not be biased, just a trifle?”
A couple passed by them, the woman’s skirt brushing Hester’s chair.
“That’s a stupid remark.” Her voice was sharp, her face flushed. “You’re saying that if you know something about a thing, then you are biased and your judgment is no good, whereas if you know nothing, your mind is clear and so your judgment is fine. If you know nothing, your mind isn’t clear, it’s empty. By that standard we could do away with juries, simply ask someone who’s never heard of the case, and they will give you a perfect, unbiased decision!”
“You don’t think perhaps it could be a good idea to know something about the victims as well?” he said sarcastically. “Or even the crimes? Or is all that irrelevant?”
“You’ve just told me what the crimes are, and the victims,” she pointed out, her voice rising. “And yes, in a way it is irrelevant in judging Rhys. The horror of a crime has nothing to do with whether a particular person is guilty or not. That is elementary. It only has to do with the punishment. Why are you pretending you don’t know that?”
“And liking somebody, or pitying them, has nothing to do with guilt or innocence,” he responded, his voice louder also. “Why are you pretending you’ve forgotten that? It doesn’t matter how much you care, Hester, you can’t change what has already happened.”
A man at the next table turned to look at them.
“Don’t be so patronizing,” she said furiously. “I know that. Don’t you care anymore that you find the truth? Are you so keen to take someone back to Vida Hopgood and prove you can do it that you’ll take anyone, right or wrong?”
He was hurt. It was as if she had suddenly and without warning kicked him. He was determined she should not know it.
“I’ll find the truth, comfortable or uncomfortable,” he said coldly. “If it is someone we can all be happy to dislike and rejoice in his punishment, so much the easier.” His voice dropped, the emotion tighter. “But if it is someone we like and pity, and his punishment will tear us apart along with him, that won’t make me turn the other way and pretend it is not so. If you think the world is divided into those who are good and those who are bad, you are worse than a fool, you are a moral imbecile, refusing to grow up—”
She stood up.
“Would you be so kind as to find me a hansom so I may return to Ebury Street? If not, I imagine I can find one for myself.”
He rose also and bowed his head sarcastically, remembering their meeting earlier. “I am delighted you enjoyed your dinner,” he replied cuttingly. “It was my pleasure.”
She blushed with annoyance, but he saw the flash of acknowledgment in her eyes.
They went out in silence into the now dense fog in the street. It was bitterly cold, the freezing air catching in the nose and throat. The traffic was forced to a walk and it took him several minutes to find a hansom. He climbed in and they sat side by side in rigid silence all the way back to Ebury Street. She refused to speak, and he had nothing he wanted to say to her. There were hundreds of things in his mind, but he was prepared to share none of them, not now.
They parted with a simple exchange of “Good night,” and he rode on to Fitzroy Street, cold, angry and alone.
In the morning he returned yet again to Seven Dials and his pursuit of witnesses who might have seen anything to do with the attacks, most particularly anyone who was a frequent visitor to the area. He had already exhausted the cabbies and was now trying street peddlers, beggars and vagrants. His pockets were full of all the small change he could afford. People often spoke more readily for some slight reward. It was his own money, not Vida’s.
The first three people he approached knew nothing. The fourth was a seller of meat pies, hot and savory smelling but probably made mostly of offal and other castoffs. He bought one, and overpaid, but without intention of eating it. He held it in his hand while talking to the man. There was a wind that morning. The fog had lifted, but it was intensely cold. The cobbles were slippery with ice. As he stood there the pie became more and more tempting and he was
less inclined to consider what was in it.
“Seen or heard anything about two or three strangers roaming around at night?” he said casually. “Gentlemen from up west?”
“Yeah,” the peddler replied without surprise. “They bin beatin’ the ’ell out o’ some o’ our women, poor cows. W’y d’yer wanna know, eh? In’t rozzers’ bus’ness.” He looked at Monk with steady dislike. “Want ’em for summink else, do yer?”
“No, I want them for that. Isn’t that enough for you?”
The man’s scorn was open. “Yeah? An’ yer gonna ’ave ’em up for it, are yer? Don’ give me that muck. Since w’en did yer sort give a toss wot ’appened ter the likes o’ us? I know you, yer evil bastard. Yer don’t even care fer yer own, never mind us poor sods.”
Monk looked at the man’s eyes and could not deny the recognition in them. He was not speaking of police in general, this was personal. Should he ask, capture some tangible fact of the past? Would it be the truth? Would it help? Would it tell him something he would rather not have known, ugly, incomplete, and without explanation?
Probably. But perhaps imagination alone was worse.
“What do you mean, ‘not even my own’?” The instant he had said it, he wished he had not.
The man gave a grunt of disgust.
A woman in a black shawl came past and bought two pies.
“I seen yer shaft yer own,” the peddler answered when she had gone. “Left ’im ’angin’ out ter dry, like a proper fool, yer did.”
