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As he stood on Limehouse Pier waiting for the ferry, he went over what he knew in his mind. Was that what had got her killed? Inexperience and desperation caused by the sudden death of her solitary supporter? Had he died, or merely abandoned her? Or had some domestic crisis meant he could no longer indulge himself in keeping a mistress? It seemed tragically likely.
Who was he? No one had given a description of him that would identify him out of thousands of outwardly respectable, middle-aged men in London, or even beyond it. Perhaps he saw her so infrequently because he lived some distance away and came to London on business? Then he could be as far as Manchester, Liverpool, or Birmingham. It would be almost impossible to find him.
“We’d better find this man who knew her,” Orme said the next morning as they stood by the riverside on the dock at Wapping New Stairs. The tide was high and the river was running fast, just after the turn. The wind was rising again and there was a keen edge to it. There usually was when it came from the east, and the open water.
Monk pulled his coat collar a little higher. “I’ll do what I can to find him. He could have come from anywhere.”
“Hansom cab,” Orme suggested. “Sounds from what you say as if he wasn’t local. He wouldn’t come by omnibus. Want me to help? I got nothing to follow up or down Narrow Street. All blind, or she never went there, except with a woman friend once or twice. Mostly she were just alone.”
“No. You’ll do better with the locals around Limehouse Pier up to Kidney Stairs,” Monk replied. “Somebody saw her, and they must have seen him, too. They’d notice anyone not local. We just need to waken their memories.”
“They’re terrified,” Orme replied grimly. “Papers aren’t helping. They’ve got everyone in such a sweat they’re looking for a monster, something raving and slavering like an animal with a kill.”
“Only on the inside,” Monk said, shaking his head. “On the outside he probably looks like anyone else. How long does it take people to learn that? Poor woman probably thought he was perfectly ordinary, maybe just awkward.”
“What a trade,” Orme stared across the water. “God know how many of them get beaten or killed.”
“Not as many as die of disease,” Monk said grimly, thinking of all those whom Hester had helped in her clinic on Portpool Lane.
“I’ll start looking,” Orme promised, fastening his coat. Giving a little salute, he turned and walked along the dockside, hunched against the wind, then down the steps to the boat.
IN THE END IT took Monk only two days to trace the man who had visited Zenia Gadney every month. He began with asking all the local hansom cab drivers, but they were unable or unwilling to help. They did not look closely at faces, and early October was a long time ago. It seemed that the man Monk was looking for had picked cabs at random, sometimes on Commercial Road East, at other times on the West India Dock Road, or even walking east to Burdett Road. It was painstaking and time-consuming to find out even this much, but finally he narrowed down his search to half a dozen people and eliminated them one by one.
In the end he was left with Joel Lambourn of Lower Park Street in Greenwich.
Rather than approach him at home, Monk decided to ask a little about him at the local police station, and thus face the man armed with at least a degree of knowledge.
The desk sergeant looked up at Monk as he came in. His round face was politely blank. “Morning, sir. Can I help you?”
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Monk replied, introducing himself. “I am making inquiries about an event that may involve a Mr. Joel Lambourn, who lives in your area.” He saw the man’s face crease in sudden, sharp sadness.
“I’m not sure as I can ’elp you, sir,” the sergeant said coldly. “Don’t really know nothing about it, sir. Sorry to be a bit formal, like, but may I see summink as proves to me ’oo you are? Can’t go talking about people without knowing.” He did not bother to hide his hostility.
Puzzled, Monk produced his warrant card as proof of who he was.
“Thank you, sir.” The chill remained. “What is it you think we may be able to ’elp you with, Mr. Monk?” Deliberately he omitted the courtesy of rank.
“Do you know Mr. Lambourn?”
“Dr. Lambourn, sir,” the sergeant corrected him smartly. “Yes, I did know ’im to speak to.”
“You did? You don’t any longer?” Monk was puzzled.
“Seein’ as ’e’s dead, may God rest ’im, no I don’t,” the sergeant snapped.
“I’m sorry.” Monk felt clumsy. He could not have known, but perhaps he should have guessed. “Would that have been about two months ago?”
The sergeant winced. “Are you tellin’ me as you didn’t know?” Clearly that was incredible to him.
“No, I didn’t,” Monk answered. “I’m inquiring into the murder of a woman whose body was found on Limehouse Pier, five days ago. It was likely that Dr. Lambourn knew her. I was hoping he might be able to tell us something more about her.”
The sergeant looked startled. “That poor soul what was cut up by some bleedin’ butcher? Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you got that wrong. Dr. Lambourn was a quiet, very respectable gentleman. Wouldn’t ’urt anyone. An’ ’e wouldn’t know any woman in that way o’ business.”
Monk wished to point out that many people appeared different in public from the way they might be in private, in the darkness of a backstreet far from where they lived. However, he could see in the man’s face that he was not open to any such suggestion about Lambourn.
“What kind of a doctor was he?” he asked instead. “I mean, what sort of patients did he treat?”
“ ’E din’t treat patients,” the sergeant replied. “ ’E studied, learned things about sickness an’ medicines an’ such.”
