He had fallen in love with Evelyn von Seidlitz. At least he thought it was love. It was certainly delicious, exciting, filling his mind and very definitely quickening his pulse. He had been hurt, but not as profoundly surprised as he should have been, to discover she was shallow and, under the surface charm and wit, thoroughly selfish. By the end of the matter he had longed for Hester's leaner, harder virtues, her honesty, her love of courage and truth. Even her morality and frequently self-righteous opinions had a kind of cleanness to them, like a sweet, cold wind after heat and a cloud of flies.
He leaned forward and picked up the poker to move the coals. He prodded at them viciously. He did not wish to think of Hester. She was arbitrary, arrogant and at times pompous, a fault he had hitherto thought entirely a masculine one. He could not afford to be vulnerable to such thoughts.
He had no case of interest at present, which added to his dark mood.
There were petty thefts to deal with, usually either a servant who was tragically easy to apprehend, or a housebreaker who was almost impossible, appearing out of the massed tens of thousands of the slums, and disappearing into them again within the space of an hour.
But such cases were better than no work at all. He could always go and see if there was any information Rathbone wanted, but that was a last resort, as a matter of pride. He liked Rathbone. They had shared many causes and dangers together. They had worked with every ounce of imagination, courage and intelligence for too many common purposes not to know a certain strength in each other which demanded admiration. And because they had shared both triumph and failure, they had a bond of friendship.
But there was also an irritation, a difference which rankled too often, pride and judgements which clashed rather than complemented. And there was always Hester. She both drew them together, and kept them apart.
But he preferred not to think about Hester, especially in relation to Rathbone.
He was pleased when the doorbell rang and a minute la tera woman came in. She was in early middle-age, but handsome in a full-blown, obvious way. Her mouth was too large, but sensuously shaped, her eyes were magnificent, her bones rather too well padded with flesh. Her figure was definitely buxom. Her clothes were dark and plain, of indifferent quality, but there was an air about her which at once proclaimed a confidence, even a brashness. She was neither a lady, nor one who associated with ladies.
"Are you William Monk?" she asked before he had time to speak. "Yes, I can see you are." She looked him up and down very candidly. "Yer've changed. Can't say what, exac'ly, but yer different. Point is…
are yer still any good?”
"Yes, I am extremely good!" he replied warily. It seemed she knew him, but he had no idea who she was, except what he could deduce from her appearance.
She gave a sharp laugh. "Mebbe you 'aven't changed that much! Still gives yerself airs." The amusement died out of her face and it became hard and cautious. "I want ter 'ire yer. I can pay.”
It was not likely to be work he would enjoy, but he was not in a position to refuse. He could at least listen to her. It was unlikely she would have domestic problems. That sort of thing she would be more than capable of dealing with herself.
"Me name's Vida "Opgood," she said. "In case yer don' remember.”
He did not remember, but it was plain she knew him from the past, before the accident. He was reminded jarringly of his vulnerability.
"What is your difficulty, Mrs. Hopgood?" He indicated the large chair on the far side of the fire, and when she had made herself comfortable, he sat down opposite her.
She glanced at the burning coals, then around at the very agreeable room with its landscape pictures, heavy curtains and old but good-quality furniture. It was largely supplied by Monk's patroness, Lady i Callandra Daviot, from the surplus in her country house. But Vida Hopgood did not need to know that.
"Done well fer yerself," she said ungrudgingly. "Yer din't never marry good, or yer wouldn't be grubbin' around wi' other folks' troubles.
Besides, yer wasn't the marryin' sort. Too cussed. Only ever wanted the kind o' wives as'd never 'ave yer. So I guess yer in't lorst none oyer cleverness. That's why I come. This'll take it all, and then maybe more. But we gotter know. We gotter put a stop ter it.”
"To what, Mrs. Hopgood?”
"Me us band Tom, 'e runs a fact'ry, makin' shirts and the like…”
Monk knew what the sweatshops of the East End were like, huge, airless places, suffocating in summer, bitterly cold in winter, where a hundred or more women might sit from before dawn until nearly midnight sewing shirts, gloves, handkerchiefs, petticoats, for barely enough to feed one of them, let alone the family which might depend on them. If someone had stolen from him, Monk for one was not going to look for them.
She saw his expression.
"Wear nice shirts still, do yer?”
He looked at her sharply.
"Course yer do!" she answered her own question with a surprising viciousness twisting her mouth. "And what do yer pay for 'em, eh?
Wanner pay more? Wot dyer think tailors and outfitters pay us for 'em, eh? If we put up our prices, we lose the business. An' 'oo'll that 'elp? Gents 'oo like smart shirts'll buy 'em the cheapest they can get. Can't pay more'n I can, can I?”
He was stung. "I presume you aren't looking for me to alter the tailoring economy?”
Her face registered her scorn, but it was not personal, nor was it her principal emotion, far more urgent was the reason she had come. She chose not to quarrel with him. The reason she had come to him at all, defying the natural barrier between them, was a mark of how grave the matter was to her.
Her eyes narrowed. "Ere! W'os the matter wiv yer? Yer look diff rent. Yer don' remember me, do yer?”
Would she believe a lie? And did it matter?
She was staring at him. "W'y dyer leave the rozzers, then? D'yer get caught doin' sum mink as yer shouldn't a'?”
"No. I quarrelled with my supervisor.”
She gave a sharp laugh. "So mebbe yer 'aven't changed that much arter all! But yer don't look like yer used ter… 'arder, but not so cocky. Come down a bit, 'aven't yer!" It was a statement, not a question. "In't got the power yer used ter 'ave, not well yer was slingin' yer weight around Seven Dials afore.”
He said nothing.
She looked at him even more closely, leaning a fraction forward. She was a very handsome woman. There was a vitality in her which it was impossible to ignore.
"Wy don't yer remember me? Yer should!”
"I had an accident. I don't remember a lot of things.”
"Jeez!" She let out her breath slowly. "In't that the truth? Well I never…" She was too angry even to swear. "That's a turn up if yer like. So yer startin' over from the bottom." She gave a little laugh.
"No better'n the rest o' us, then. Well, I'll pay yer, if yer earns it.”
"I am better than the rest, Mrs. Hopgood," he said staring at her levelly. "I've forgotten a few things, a few people, but I haven't lost my brains, or my will. Why have you come to me?”
"We can get by… most of us," she replied levelly. "One way an' another. Least we could, until this started 'appinin'.”
"What started happening?”
"Rape, Mr. Monk," she answered, meeting his eyes unflinchingly and with an ice-hard anger.
He was startled. Of all the possibilities which had flickered through his mind, that had not been one of them.
"Rape?" He repeated the word with incredulity.
"Some o' our girls is getting' raped in the streets." Now there was nothing in her but hurt, a blind confusion because she did not see the enemy. For once she could not fight her own battle.
It could have been a ridiculous subject. She was not speaking of respectable women in some pleasant area, but sweatshop workers who eked out a living labouring around the clock, then going home to one room in a tenement, perhaps shared with half a dozen other people of all ages and both sexes. Crime and violence were a way of life with them. For her to have come to him, an ex-policeman, seeking to pay him to help her, she must be speaking of something quite outside the ordinary.