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“Yeah,” Scuff said, as if he thoroughly agreed. “‘E might, an’ all.”
However, it took them the rest of the day to find the boy, and he was clearly very unhappy about speaking with Monk about anything. They stood where the narrow entrance of an alley opened into the Shadwell Dock. The tide was ebbing and slapping over the stairs a few yards away, leaving the higher steps slimy as it retreated. There was a large ship in the New Basin behind them, its spars and yards black against the fading sky.
“I dunno nothin’ more,” the boy said urgently. “I told yer ‘oo ‘e were, same like I told Mr. Durban. I dunno ‘oo done ‘im, an I can't ‘elp yer.”
“‘E won't leave yer alone ‘til yer tell ‘im.” Scuff gestured towards Monk. “So yer might as well get on wif it. It don't do ter be seen talkin ter the cops, if yer can ‘elp it.” He gave a philosophical shrug. “It's a bit late for me, but you could save yerself.”
The boy gave him a filthy look.
Scuff was impervious. “Wot else did Mr. Durban ask yer?” He looked at Monk, then back at the boy. “Yer don't want ‘im as an enemy, believe me. If yer like, ‘e'll pretend ‘e never ‘eard of yer.”
The boy knew when to give up. “‘E were askin’ fer a woman called Mary Webster, Walker … Webber! Summink like that,” he said. “Like a dog wif a bone, ‘e were. Where was she? ‘Ad I seen ‘er? ‘Ad anybody said anything, even ‘er name? I told ‘im I'd never ‘eard of ‘er, but ‘e wouldn't leave it. I told ‘im I'd ask me sister, just ter shut ‘im up, like. ‘E said as ‘e'd be back. This Mary whatever were ‘bout ‘is age, ‘e said, but ‘e dint know much more about ‘er ‘n that.”
Scuff looked across at Monk.
There was a pleasure boat passing down the river, hurdy-gurdy music playing. The sound drifted on the air, loud and then soft, loud and then soft, as the wind carried it.
“So did you ask your sister?” Monk said, curious to know what Durban was looking for. There had been no mention of a middle-aged woman before.
“Not the first time,” the boy answered, sucking in his breath. “But Mr. Durban come back an’ ‘e wouldn't let it go. I seen pit bull terriers as couldn't ‘ang on to a thing and worry it like ‘e did. So I told ‘im ter ask Biddie ‘isself, an’ told ‘im where ter find ‘er.”
“Where can we find Biddie?”
The boy rolled his eyes, but he told him.
Monk had no desire to take Scuff with him to a brothel, but the alternative was to leave him alone. He could have told him to go to Paradise Place, but it would be bitterly unfair to oblige him to explain to Hester that he had come to stay. And anyway, she might not even be there if they had had some crisis at Portpool Lane. There was nothing to do but allow him to come.
It was completely dark, even on this clear summer night, by the time they found Biddie. She had apparently been plying her trade earlier in the evening, but was now cheerfully available to take a glass of ale and merely talk, for a couple of shillings. She was a plain girl, but buxomly built and relatively clean in a blue dress disturbingly low cut, which did not bother Scuff as much as Monk thought it should have.
“Yeah, Mary Webber,” Biddie said, nodding, keeping both hands around her glass as if she feared having it taken from her. “Lookin’ fer ‘er summink fierce, ‘e were. I kep’ tellin’ ‘im I dint know no Mary Webber, which I din't! I never ‘eard of ‘er.” She managed to look aggrieved, even while wiping the foam off her upper lip. “‘E got a temper on ‘im, that one. Right paddy ‘e were in. Clocked Mr. ‘Opkins summink awful. ‘It ‘im on the side o’ the ‘ead an’ near sent ‘im inter the middle o’ next week. An ‘e's a nasty sod, too, but ‘e never ‘eard o’ Mary Webber no more'n I ‘ad.”
Monk felt an acute sense of dismay. It sounded nothing like the man he had known. “What did he look like?” he asked. Perhaps this was a case of mistaken identity.
Biddie had a good eye for faces. Perhaps it was part of her trade. It might be the way to remember certain people it would be advisable to avoid. “‘Bout your ‘eight, bit less, but more solid. Nice-lookin’, specially fer a cop. Nice eyes, dark they were. Grayish ‘air, wi’ sort o’ little waves in it. Walked easy, but a bit like mebbe ‘e'd once been a sailor.”
That was Durban. Monk swallowed. “Did he say why he wanted to find Mary Webber?”
A couple wove their way past them, talking loudly and bumping into people.
“No, an’ I din't ask,” Biddie said vehemently. “I ‘eard ‘e went ter old Jetsam, the pawnbroker, an’ gave ‘im an ‘ell of a time. Duffed ‘im up summink rotten. Still got the scars, ‘e ‘as. Not that ‘e were ever much ter look at, but ‘is own ma wouldn't take ter ‘im now.” She finished her ale with relish. “Wouldn't mind if yer got me another,” she remarked.
Monk dispatched Scuff with the empty glass and threepence. He took a breath. There was no escaping now, whatever the truth was.
“Do you mean that Durban beat the pawnbroker?” She must be lying. Why would he believe her, rather than everything he knew of Durban? And yet he could not leave it alone. In his own past people had been frightened of him. Was he violent too? It was so easy. “Who told you that?” he asked.
“I saw ‘im,” she said simply. “Told yer. ‘Orrible ‘e looked.”
“But how do you know it was Durban who struck him, or that it was deliberate? Perhaps Jetsam hit him first?”
She gave him a look of incredulity. “Ol’ Jetsam? Get on wi’ yer. Jetsam's as big a coward as ever were born. ‘E wouldn't go ‘ittin’ a cop even if ‘e were soused as an ‘erring. Lie ‘is way out of a paper bag, cheat ‘is own mother out o’ sixpence, but ‘e wouldn't never ‘it nobody face-ter-face.”
Monk's stomach clenched and he felt a coldness through him. “Why would Durban hit him?”
“Probably lost ‘is temper ‘cause Jetsam lied ter ‘im,” she answered reasonably.
“If Jetsam is that kind of a liar, how do you know it wasn't some customer he cheated who hit him?”
Scuff came back with the ale and gave it to Biddie, and the change to Monk, who thanked him.
