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The man squirmed. “Gawd! I don't know! ‘E said she were about fifty, or summink like that, so she weren't no ‘ore. Not any longer, anyway. She could ‘a been any o’ them other things. All ‘e said were ‘er name an’ that she ‘ad goldy-brown eyes an’ curly ‘air, little fine curls.”
“Why did he want her? When did he first ask you?”
“I dunno!” The man shivered and moved an inch or two away from Monk, shrinking into himself. “D'yer think I wouldn't ‘a told ‘im if I'd ‘a known?”
Monk felt the fear eat inside him also, for an utterly different reason. “When?” he insisted. “When did he first ask you about Mary Webber? What else did he ask?”
“Nuffin’! Were about two year ago, mebbe less. Winter. I mind because ‘e stood out in the cold an’ I were near freezin’. Me ‘ands were blue.”
“Did he ever find her?”
“I dunno! Nobody round ‘ere never ‘eard of ‘er. An’ I know all the fences and receivers, all the ‘ock shops an’ moneylenders from Wappin’ ter Blackwall, an’ back.”
Monk swiveled to face him and the man flinched again.
“Stop it!” Monk snapped. “I'm not going to hit you!” He heard the anger in his voice, almost out of control. The names of Durban and Mary Webber were enough to cause fear.
But the man either could not or would not tell him any more.
He tried other contacts along the water that he had made in the six months since he had been in the River Police, and names that had been in Durban's notes, people Orme or any of the other men had mentioned.
“‘E were lookin’ for fat Tilda's boy,” an old woman told him with a shake of her head that set her battered straw hat swiveling on her head. They were on the corner of an alley a hundred feet from the dockside. It was noisy, dusty, and hot. She had a basket of shoelaces on her arm, and so far did not seem to have sold many. “Gorn missin’, ‘e ‘ad. Told ‘er ‘e'd possibly gone thievin’ an’ been caught, but she were ‘fraid that Phillips'd got ‘im. Could ‘ave. Daft as a brush ‘e is, an’ all.”
“What happened?” Monk asked patiently.
“Stupid little sod fell in the water an’ got fished out by a lighterman who took ‘im all the way down ter Gravesend. Come back three days later, right as rain.” She grinned at the memory as if she found acute satisfaction in it.
“But Mr. Durban looked for the boy?”
“Yeah, I said so. It were ‘im as found ‘im at Gravesend an’ brought ‘im back. Otherwise ‘e could ‘a been took ter sea an’ ended up dinner for some cannibal in the South Seas. That's wot I told my boys: do as I tell yer, or yer'll get run off an’ be boiled an’ ate up.”
Monk cringed inwardly at the thought.
“Reckon ‘e thought Phillips could ‘a got ‘im right enough,” the old woman said dourly, her smile vanished. “It's a bad shame Mr. Durban is dead. ‘E were the one as mebbe could ‘a done for Phillips. Didn't take no nonsense from no one, ‘e din't, but ‘e were fair, an’ nothin’ weren't too much trouble if yer was down.”
Scuff stood suddenly upright.
Monk swallowed. “Durban?”
“‘Course, Durban,” she snapped, glaring at him. “‘Oo d'yer think I was talkin’ about, the Lord Mayor o’ London? ‘Ard man if yer was bad, but soft as muck if yer was sick or poor, or old, like me. ‘E wouldn't ‘ave stood ‘ere in the sun leavin’ me on me feet, an’ me mouth dry as a wooden boot. ‘E'd ‘a gave me a cup o’ tea, an’ bought a couple o’ pairs o’ shoelaces an’ all.”
“Why was he looking for Tilda's son?” Monk had to examine the moment of kindness, so it would not later fade and slip out of his grasp.
“‘Cause ‘e were afraid Phillips might ‘ave got ‘im, yer fool!” she said in disgust.
“Was that likely?”
“‘E knew. Tried ‘is ‘ardest ter get the bastard, then ‘e got killed ‘isself. Now them stupid sods o’ the river police in't good for nothin’ ‘cept smugglers, pickpockets, an’ a few ‘eavy ‘orsemen.” She was referring to the thieves who stole goods from the ships and brought them ashore in specially designed pockets inside their coats. The reproof stung less than Monk would have expected, and he shot a glance at Scuff to prevent him from leaping to his defense.
“Then he was going to catch Phillips?” he asked mildly.
She looked him up and down. “Yer want a pair o’ laces?” she asked.
He fished tuppence out of his pocket and passed it to her.
She gave him the laces. “Yer in't man enough to do it,” she responded. “Yer gotter ask an old woman like me the way?”
Scuff could take it no more. “You mind yer gob, yer ol’ mare!” he said furiously. “Mr. Monk's strung up more murderers than yer've ‘ad ‘ot dinners or like ter ‘ave! Mr. Durban never got Phillips neither, an’ you in't no ‘elp. Where's ‘is boat, eh? ‘Oo goes on an’ off it? ‘Oo puts burns on them boys when they get out o’ line? ‘Oo kills ‘em, an’ why, eh? D'yer even know wot yer talkin’ about, yer ol’ bag o’ bones?”
