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“Yer get ’em, Monk,” she said slowly, and for the first time her fingers stopped moving on the needles. “Ye’re a clever sod, you are. Yer get ’em for us. We’ll not ferget yer.”
“Where did they happen, the two in St. Giles?”
“Fisher’s Walk, the first one, an’ Ellicitt’s Yard, the second.”
“Time?”
“Jus’ arter midnight, both times.”
“Dates?”
“Three nights afore the murder in Water Lane, an’ night afore Christmas Eve.”
“Thank you, Minnie. You have been a great help. Are you sure you won’t give me the names? It would help to talk to the victims themselves.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
The following day Monk went to Evan and, after a little persuasion, obtained from him copies of the pictures of Rhys Duff and his father. He looked at the faces with curiosity. It was the first time he had seen them, and they were neither as he had pictured them. Leighton Duff had powerful features, a strong, broad nose, clear eyes that were blue or gray from the light in them, and the appearance of keen intelligence. Rhys was utterly different, and it was his face which troubled Monk. It was the face of a dreamer. He should have been a poet or an explorer of ideas. His eyes were dark under winged brows, his nose good, if a trifle long, his mouth sensitive, even vulnerable.
But it was only a drawing, probably made after the incident, and perhaps the artist had allowed his sense of pity to influence his hand.
Monk put the drawings in his pocket, thanked Evan, and set out through a light drizzle towards St. Giles again.
In Fisher’s Walk he began asking street traders, peddlers, beggars, anyone who would answer him, if they recognized either of the two men.
It did not take long to find someone who identified Rhys.
“Yeah,” he said, scratching his finger at the side of his head and knocking his cap askew. “Yeah, I seen ’im ’angin’ around once or twice, mebbe more. Tall, eh? Nice-lookin’ gent. Spoke proper, like them up west. Dressed rough, though. Down in ’is luck, I reckon.”
“Dressed rough?” Monk said quickly. “What do you mean, exactly?” Had it been Rhys, or only someone who looked a little like him?
“Well, not like a gent,” the man replied, looking at Monk earnestly as if he doubted Monk’s intelligence. “I know wot gents look like. Overcoat, ’e ’ad, but nuffink special, no fur on the collar, no ’igh ’at, no stick. In fact, no ’at at all, come ter think on it.”
“But it was this man? You are sure?”
“ ’Course I’m sure! Yer fink I dunno wot I sees, or yer fink I’m a liar, eh?”
“I think it’s important you are sure,” Monk said carefully. “Someone’s life might hang on it.”
The man laughed uproariously, his breath coming in gasps between rich, rolling gurgles of merriment.
“Yer a caution, you are! I never ’eard yer was a wit afore. On’y ’eard yer was clever, an’ never ter cross yer. Mean bastard, but fair, most o’ the time, but one ter give a bloke enough rope ter ’ang ’isself, an’ then watch w’ile ’e does it. Pull the trap fer ’im, if e’d done yer wrong.”
Monk felt the cold close in on him, penetrating his skin. “I wasn’t being funny,” he said in a voice that caught in his throat. “I meant depend on it, not hang with a rope.”
“Well, if you ain’t gonna ’ang them bastards wot raped those women over in Seven Dials, wot yer want ’em for? Ye gonna get ’em orff ’cos they’re gents? That in’t like yer. I never ’eard from nobody, even yer worst enemy, as yer feared nor favored no one, not for nuffink at all.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. I’m not going to hang them because I can’t. I’d be perfectly happy to.” He was not sure that that was true. Happy might not be the right word, but he could certainly accede to it. He knew Hester would not, but that was irrelevant … well, almost.
“It were ’im,” the man said, shivering a little as he grew colder standing still on the street corner. “I seen ’im ’ere three, mebbe four times. Always at night.”
“Alone, or with others?”
“Wif others, twice. Once by ’isself.”
“Who were the others? Describe them. Did you ever see him with women, and what were they like?”
“ ’Ang on! ’Ang on! Once ’e were wif an older man, ’eavy-set, dressed very smart, like a gent. ’E were real angry, shouting at ’im—”
