“I’ll tell him,” he said between his teeth. “Thank you.”
Monk spent the rest of that day, and the next two as well, tracing Gilmer’s fairly rapid decline from one artist to another, each of lesser skill than the last, until finally he was destitute and on the street. In each case he had seemingly quarreled and left in some anger. No one had wished him well or given him any assistance. In the end, roughly the middle of the previous summer, he had been taken in by the master of a male brothel.
“Yeah, poor devil,” he said to Monk. “On ’is last legs, ’e were. Thin as a rake an’ pale as death. I could see as ’e were dyin’.” His scarred face was pinched with pity as he sat in the overstuffed chair in his crowded parlor. He was an extraordinarily ugly man with a humpbacked, misshapen body, but with beautiful hands. Who or what he might have been in other circumstances Monk would never know, but it crossed his mind to wonder. Had he been drawn to this, or taken it up out of greed? He chose to think it was the former.
“Did he tell you anything about himself?” Monk enquired.
The man looked at him narrowly. Monk had not asked his name. “A bit,” he answered. “What’s it to you?”
“Did he work for you?”
“When ’e was well enough … which weren’t often.”
Monk could understand it, but he was still disappointed.
“ ’E did the laundry,” the man said wryly. “Wot was you thinking?”
To his amazement Monk was blushing.
The man laughed. “ ’E weren’t o’ that nature,” he said firmly. “Yer can turn boys, but ’is age it’s ’arder, an’ beside that, the way ’e looked like death, an’ coughed blood, no one’d fancy ’im anyway. Whether you believe it or not, I took ’im in because I was sorry for ’im. I could see it wouldn’t be for long. ’E’d bin ’ard enough used as it was.”
“Any idea who knocked him around?” Monk tried to keep the anger out of his voice, and failed.
The man looked at him with a slight squint. “Why? Wot yer goin’ ter do about it?”
There was no point in being less than honest. The man had already seen his feelings. “Depends upon who it is,” he replied. “There are several people who would be happy to make life very difficult for whoever it was.”
“Startin’ wi’ you, eh?”
“No, I’m not the first. I’m several steps along the line. He quarreled with many of the artists he worked for. Was it one of them?”
“I reckon so.” The man nodded slowly. “But ’e didn’t rightly quarrel with them. The first one just got bored and threw him out. Found it more profitable ter paint women for a while. The second couldn’t afford to keep him. The third and fourth both asked favors of him like wot I sell—at an ’igh price. ’E weren’t willing—that’s why they threw ’im out. an’ by then ’e were losing ’is looks an ’e got iller an’ iller.”
“Was it one of them?”
The man sized up Monk carefully, the dark face, the lean bones, broad-bridged nose, unblinking eyes.
“Why? Yer gonna kill ’im?”
“Nothing so quick,” Monk replied. “There’s a police sergeant who would like to exact a slow vengeance … through the law.”
“An’ you’d tell ’im so ’e could?”
“I would. If I were sure it was the right one.”
“Customer o’ mine took a fancy to ’im an’ weren’t minded ter take no fer an answer. I’d ’ave ’ad ’im beat ter within an inch of ’is life, meself, but I can’t afford ter. Get a name fer that, an’ I’ll be out o’ business, an’ all me boys wi’ me.”
“Name?”
“Garson Dalgetty. A gent, but a right sod underneath it. Told me ’e’d ruin me if I laid an ’and on ’im. And ’e could!”
“Thank you. I’ll not say where I got this information. But I want a favor in return.”
“Yeah? Why don’t that surprise me none?”
“Because you’re not a fool.”
“Wot’s yer favor?”
Monk grinned. “Not your trade! I want to know if Gilmer told you of anyone giving him money to pay his debts, and I mean giving, not paying.”
The man was surprised. “So you know about that, do yer?”
“The man who gave it told me. I wondered if it was the truth.”
“Oh, yeah. Very generous, ’e were.” He rocked a little in his red chair. “I never asked why. But ’e kept it up till Gilmer come ’ere, an’ after. Stopped when ’e died.”
Monk realized with a jolt what the man had said.
“He went on incurring debts?”
“Medicine, poor sod. I couldn’t afford that.”
“Who was it?”
“Yer said yer knew.”
“I do. But do you?”
The man’s ugly face lit with bitter amusement. “Blackmail, is it? No, I don’t. Gilmer would never tell me, an’ I never asked.”
“Who did know?”
“God … and the devil! How do I know? Don’t suppose it would be that ’ard ter find out, if yer put yer mind ter it. I never wanted ter.”
Monk stayed a little longer, then thanked the man and took his leave, choosing not to look to either the right or the left as he went out. He had found compassion in the man, and he wanted to know nothing of his trade.
The man had been perfectly correct in saying that it would not be difficult to trace the payments, now that Monk knew they were made regularly. It took him the rest of that day, and required no skills beyond ordinary knowledge of banking and common sense. Any number of other people could have done the same.
He also wrote a note to Sergeant Walters, telling him the name of the man he was seeking was Garson Dalgetty.
Leaving Clerkenwell, he wondered why Alberton had not mentioned that he had made Gilmer an allowance of five guineas a month. It was not an enormous amount. It would get him a little extra food, enough sherry and laudanum to ease his worst distress, no more. It was an act of charity, nothing to be ashamed of, very much the opposite. But was it all it seemed?
He did not bother to trace any gift made by Casbolt. Alberton’s gift was enough for his purposes. If he found no blackmailer in that, he could go back to Casbolt again.
The next thing he would do was trace the gun dealers through whom Alberton was requested to make the payment. But before that he would report to Alberton, as he had promised.
The evening went far from the way Monk had planned. He arrived at the house in Tavistock Square and was received immediately. Alberton looked anxious and tired, as if some negotiations of his own had not been easy.
“Thank you for coming, Monk,” he said with a brief smile, welcoming him into the library. “Do sit down. Would you like a glass of whisky, or something else?” He gestured to the crystal-and-silver tantalus on a side table.
Monk was seldom treated as if he were a social equal, even in the most delicate cases. He had found that the more embarrassed people were by their need, the less did they wish to unbend to those whose help they asked. Alberton was a pleasant exception. Nevertheless he declined, wishing not only to keep a totally clear head, but also to be seen to.
Alberton did not take anything either. It seemed the invitation was purely hospitable, not a desire to excuse indulging himself.
Monk began to tell him briefly what he had learned of Gilmer and his life and death. He was giving an account of his visit to FitzAlan when the butler knocked on the door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” he apologized. “But Mr. Breeland is here again, and very insistent. Shall I ask him to wait, sir, or … or have one of the footmen show him out? I am afraid it could prove most unpleasant, and bearing in mind that he has been a guest …”
Alberton looked at Monk. “I’m sorry,” he said bleakly. “This is a very awkward situation. You met young Breeland the other evening. As you must have observed, he is fanatical in his cause and cannot see any other point of view. I am afraid he will wait until I do speak to him, and to tell you the truth, I would rather my daughter did not meet with him again, as she may do if I do not see him straightaway.” There was tenderness and exasperation in his face. “She is very young and full of ideals. She is rather like he is. She can see the justice of only one cause, and nothing at all of any other.”