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“I don’t know,” Monk replied. “But I shall find out.”
There was little more to be learned from the old woman. He thanked her, left, and went on along the street.
Almost opposite number fourteen he spoke to Mr. Clawson, who kept a general hardware store.
“Not that I know of,” Clawson said indignantly when Monk asked him if he had seen Zenia Gadney with anyone other than the one man he already knew had visited her. “We may be a bit shabby around ’ere, but we’re perfectly respectable,” he added, sniffing hard and wiping his hands on the sides of his apron.
Monk wondered if it was worthwhile trying to persuade Mr. Clawson that he had not meant to imply otherwise, but decided it was not worth the effort. Everyone around seemed concerned with keeping up appearances.
“So if she were on the streets, then she went somewhere else to do it?” Monk asked a trifle abruptly.
“I dunno wot she did!” Clawson was angry now. “I took it as she were a widow. Always looked a bit … sort o’ … sad. Put a good face on it, poor soul, but I think things were ’ard for ’er.”
“Did she ever come in here, Mr. Clawson?” Monk looked up and down the shelves of sewing articles, kitchenware, patent cleaning liquids, and boxes of nails, screws, and tin tacks. There were also neat wooden drawers for snuff and various potent remedies for one ache or another. He noticed one marked CLOVES for toothache, another with PEPPERMINT for indigestion. Several were unmarked except with letters representing longer words not spelled out, pills for liver or kidneys, creams for itching, ringworm, or burns. And of course there were the usual penny twists of opium, the cure for almost every pain from cramps to sleeplessness.
Clawson followed his glance. He looked less comfortable. “Now and then,” he said. “For ’eadaches, and so on. She didn’t always keep so well. People don’t.”
“Any illness in particular?”
“No.”
Monk knew the man was lying; the question that mattered was why. There was nothing wrong with selling remedies. Most small local shops did.
“It would be better, Mr. Clawson, if you told me whatever you know about her, rather than oblige me to pull facts out of you one by one.”
“You got some complaint about her?” Clawson asked. He was a small man, blinking up at Monk through black-rimmed spectacles, but just at that moment he looked angry and ready to defend a woman he knew against the intrusive questions of an outsider.
“None at all,” Monk answered him soberly. “The opposite. We are afraid that someone has hurt her, so we need to know who it could be.”
Clawson’s face tightened. “ ’Urt ’er? ’Ow’d they do that, then? She never done anything wrong. Why’d you want to go looking into that? ’Aven’t you got any proper crimes to go after? She was just a poor woman past ’er youth, ’oo got by best as she could. She didn’t bother no one. She didn’t go around the streets dressed cheap an’ she didn’t bother no man wot was mindin’ ’is business. Let ’er be.”
“Do you know where she is now, Mr. Clawson?” Monk asked gravely.
“No I don’t. Nor I wouldn’t tell yer if I did.” Clawson was defiant. “She in’t ’urting no one.”
Monk persisted. “Do I understand correctly, she used to have one friend who came to see her regularly, until about two months ago, and after that she fell on hard times and had to go out and find the odd bit of business, just to pay her way-but she was discreet about it?”
“Yes. What of it?” Clawson demanded. “There’s ’undreds o’ women like ’er, do the odd favor, to make ends meet. Fancy bastard like you comes round ’ere, wi’ yer swank clothes and shiny boots, askin’ questions. I don’t know where she is, an’ that’s all I’m saying.”
“Did you learn about the body that was found on the pier, the day before yesterday?”
Clawson’s response was instant. “She wouldn’t know anything about that, an’ neither do I.”
“I imagine you don’t,” Monk agreed, sorry for what he was about to say to this little man who was so quick to defend a woman he barely knew. “But if Mrs. Gadney is
not at home, and we don’t find her alive and well, then we will know that the body was hers.”
Clawson went white and grabbed the counter to steady himself. He stared at Monk, unable to find words.
“I’m sorry,” Monk said sincerely. “Now perhaps you understand my need to know more about her. I have to find out who did that to her, and to be frank, Mr. Clawson, I very much want to. The more I hear of her, the more I want to find him.”
Clawson closed his eyes, his fingers still white-knuckled. “She were a quiet little woman ’oo came in ’ere an’ bought a penny twist of opium for ’er ’eadaches, an’ ter pass the time o’ day, because she were lonely,” he said. “When ’er one … customer … stopped coming by, she were all on ’er own. If she went out there to make a few shillings for ’erself, or even for a bit o’ comfort, it don’t mean she should get cut up an’ murdered! You find that animal wot did it an’ cut ’im up the same! There’s a few folk around ’ere as’ll be glad ter ’elp yer.” He opened his eyes and glared at Monk.
“I’ll find him,” Monk promised rashly.
Clawson nodded slowly, happy to believe. “Good.” He nodded again. “Good.”
Monk left him and finished inquiring along the rest of the road, and in one or two local shops in the nearby streets. But by the end of the day he was tired and hungry, and he had learned nothing more that was of any value.
