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“Other side of the river,” Monk replied. “Bloomsbury way.”
“Wot brings you down ’ere, then?” another asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and picking up a thick roll of bread stuffed with ham. “Sellin’, are yer? Or buyin’?”
“Neither,” Monk answered, sipping his stout. His meal had not yet come. Looking at the food already on the table, he was remarkably hungry. It seemed like a long day already. “Probably on a pointless errand. Did any of you know a Samuel Jackson, lived here about twenty years ago?”
The third member, who had not yet spoken, pushed his cap back on his head and looked at Monk curiously. “Yeah, I knew ’im. Decent feller, ’e were. Poor devil. Died. Din’t yer know that?”
“Yes, yes, I did know. I was wondering what became of his family,” Monk continued.
The man guffawed with laughter, but there was a hard edge to it and his eyes were angry. “Little late, in’t yer? Why d’yer wanna know fer now? ‘Oo cares after all this time?”
“His sister,” Monk replied truthfully. “She cared all the time but was in no position to employ anyone to find out.”
“So wot’s changed?” the man said, yanking his cap forward again.
A smiling girl brought Monk his meal and he thanked her and gave her threepence for herself. The man at the table frowned. Monk was setting a precedent they would not be able to follow.
“Thank you,” Monk said graciously, still looking at the girl. “Do you have scullery maids in the kitchen?”
“Yes sir, three o’ them,” she said willingly. Any gentleman who tipped her threepence deserved a little courtesy. And he was certainly handsome looking, in a grim sort of way. Quite appealing, really, a bit mysterious. “An’ two kitchen maids, an’ o’ course a cook … sir. Was yer wantin’ ter speak ter anyone?”
“Do you have a girl with a deformed mouth?”
“A wot?”
“A twisted mouth, a funny lip?”
She looked puzzled. “No sir.”
“Never mind. Thank you for answering me.” It was foolish to have hoped. The woman at Buxton House had said the publican had got rid of the girls. It might not even be the same publican now. It was fifteen years ago.
The girl smiled and left and Monk began his meal.
“Yer really mean it, don’t yer?” one of the men said in surprise. “You’ll not find ’em now, yer know? They put people like that away inter places w’ere they can’t upset folk … they’ll be cleanin’ up arter folk somewhere, if they’re still alive. They wasn’t only ugly, yer know; they was simple as well. I saw ’em w’en they was ’ere. There’s summink about ‘avin’ yer face twisted as bothers folk more ‘n if it were yer body or yer ‘ands. One of ’em looked like she were sneerin’ at yer, an the other like she was barin’ ’er teeth. Couldn’t ’elp it, o’ course, but strangers don’ know that.”
Monk should have kept quiet. Instead he found himself asking, “Where might they be sent to, exactly?”
The man gulped down his ale. “Exac’ly? Gawd knows! Any places as’d ’ave ’em, poor little things. Pity fer Sam. ’E loved them little girls.”
There was only one more avenue Monk should try, then duty was satisfied.
“What about his widow? Do you know what happened to her?”
“Dolly Jackson? I dunno.” He looked around the table. “D’you know, Ted? D’you know, Alf?”
Ted shrugged and picked up his tankard.
“She left Putney. I know that,” Alf said decisively. “Went north, I ’eard. Up city way. Lookin’ fer a soft billet, I shouldn’t wonder. She were pretty enough ter please any man, long as she didn’t ’ave them two little one’s wif ’er.”
“That’s a downright cruel thing ter say!” Ted criticized.
Alf’s face showed resignation. “It’s true. Poor Sam. Turnin’ over in ‘is grave, I shouldn’t wonder,”
As Monk had foreseen, the public house had changed hands, and the present landlord, with the best will in the world to oblige, had no idea whatever what had happened to two little girls fifteen years ago, nor could he make any helpful suggestions.
Monk had acquitted his obligations, and he left with thanks.
The obvious course was to tell Martha Jackson that he had done what he could and further pursuance was fruitless. He would not tell her his fears, only phrase things in such a manner she would not wish to waste his time on something which could not succeed.
