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“I heard you took in some pretty badly deformed girls in the past … real freaks.” He hated using the word.
“When was that, then?” she demanded. “ ’Oo said that?”
“Long time ago … more than twenty years,” he replied.
“So I did, then,” she agreed reluctantly. “But it was their faces wot was twisted up. See it as quick as look at ’em, yer did. Didn’t fool nobody fer an instant.”
“Why did you take them?” he pressed, although he knew the answer.
“ ’Cos I were paid!” she snapped. “Wot jer think? But it were all legal! An’ I don’t cheat no one. No one can say as I did. Sold ’em for exactly wot they was—ugly and stupid—both. I were quite plain about it.”
“No one has said you weren’t,” he replied coldly. “So far as I am aware. I should still like to know what happened to the Jackson girls. I am acquainted with their only living relative, who might be … obliged … if they were located.” He rubbed his fingers together suggestively at the word obliged.
“Ah …” She was obviously considering her possible advantage in the matter. She glanced at his polished boots, his beautiful jacket, and lastly at his face with its keen, hard lines, and judged him to be a man with a sharp eye to money and a much less discriminating one to principle—like herself. “When they was old enough ter work, I sent ’em ter the kitchens at the pub.”
“Coopers Arms?” he said hopefully.
“Yeah. But they din’t keep ’em. Too ugly even fer ’im. I dunno wot e’ did wi’ them, but you could ask ’im.”
“How long ago is that? Ten years?”
“Ten years?” she said scornfully. “Yer think I’m made o’ money? Fifteen years, an’ I waited even then. They was six an’ eight. That’s plenty old ter fetch fer yerself. I’d ’a sent ’em sooner if they ’adn’t bin so daft. Thought they might grow out of it an’ ’ave a better chance.” She prided herself on her charity.
“Thank you.” He stood up, straightening his coat.
Her face fell. “Wot abaht them girls? Yer’ll not find better anyw’ere, nor at a better price!”
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said with an icy smile. “I’ve decided I’d like plain girls after all. Thank you for your time.”
She swore at him with a string of language he had not heard since his last visit to the slums of the Devil’s Acre. He walked out of the door with a positive swagger, until he saw the girls lined up in the passage, scrubbed clean, their hair tied back, their thin faces alight with hope. Then instead he felt sick.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You’re fine. I’ve just changed my mind.” And he hurried away before he could think of it anymore.
It was close enough to noon that he could comfortably walk up to the Coopers Arms and order luncheon and casually make enquiries about the Jackson girls. Could it, after all, be so ridiculously easy that they were still in the immediate neighborhood? It was foolish to hope, and he was not even sure if he wanted to. It might easily bring Martha Jackson more distress. But it was not his job to foresee that and make decisions for her.
Was it?
He had knowledge she could not have. In telling her or not telling her, he was in effect making the decision.
He walked briskly in the bright sunlight up Putney High Street. It was full of people, mostly going about their business of buying or selling, haggling over prices, shouting their wares. Some were begging, as always. Some were standing and gossiping, women with heavy baskets, trailing children, men with barrows spilling out vegetables or bales of cloth, sacks of sticks or coal, bags of flour. The flower girl stood on a street corner with bunches of violets, another with matches. A one-legged soldier offered bootlaces. Two small boys swept the crossings clean of horse droppings. The wail of a rag and bone man drifted across, calling his wares. A brewer’s dray lumbered by.
Newspaper boys called out the headlines. A running patterer found himself a spot, and a gathering audience, and launched into a bawdy version of Killian Melville’s double life as a perverted woman who dressed as a man to deceive the world. It made Monk so angry he wanted to seize the man by the lapels and shout at him that he was a vicious, ignorant little swine who made his living on other people’s misery and that he had no idea what he was talking about. And if he did not keep his mouth shut in the affair, Monk would personally shut it for him.
He strode by with his fists clenched and his jaw so tight his teeth ached. Every muscle in him was knotted with rage at the injustice. Melville was dead. That was more tragedy than enough. This was monstrous.
Why was he walking past?
He stopped abruptly, swung around, and marched back to the patterer. He did seize him b
y the lapels, to his amazement, and said exactly what he had wished to, which gathered twice the previous audience and much ribald laughter. He left the man breathless with indignation and astonishment, and resumed his way feeling relieved of much immediate tension.
The Coopers Arms was a very ordinary public house, and at this time of the day, crowded with people. The smells of sawdust, ale and human sweat and dirt were pungent, and the babble of voices assailed him the moment he pushed open the doors. The barman was busy, and he had to wait several minutes before purchasing a mug of stout and ordering pork pie, pickles and boiled red cabbage.
He found himself a seat at one of the tables, deliberately joining with other people. He chose a group who looked like local small tradesmen, neat, comfortable, slightly shabby, tucking into their food with relish. They looked at him guardedly but not in an unfriendly manner. He was a stranger and might prove a diversion from their day-to-day affairs. And Monk wanted to talk.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said with a smile, taking his seat. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He was referring to the fact that they had moved up to make room for him.
“Not from ‘round ’ere,” one of them observed.
