"Then there was more than one," Evan argued. "He hired somebody, two people, and it was coincidence Rhys was there. He was following Leighton Duff, and happened to come on him when he had found Rhys.”
"Or else Rhys was in it with his mother," Monk swallowed and took a mouthful of his stout. "Have you any way of looking into that?" He ignored Evan's expression of distaste.
"Hester's there. She's nursing Rhys," Evan replied. He saw the emotion cross Monk's face, the momentary flicker, the light and then the shadow. He knew something of what Monk felt for her, even though he did not understand the reasons for its complexity. He had seen the trust between them. Hester had fought for Monk when no one else would.
She had also quarrelled when, at least to Evan, it made no sense at all. But he knew the dark areas of Monk's heart prevented him from committing himself as Evan would have. Half-memories and fears of what he did not know made it impossible for him. What he did not know was whether it was fear for Hesterand the hurt he might cause her in that part of himself which lay secret, or simply fear for himself and his own vulnerability if he allowed her to know him so well, to become even more important to him, and to understand it himself.
Nothing in Monk's behaviour let him know. He thought perhaps Hester did not know either.
Monk was halfway through his meal.
"She won't tell you," he said, looking at his plate.
"I know that," Evan replied. "I'm not placing her in the position of asking.”
Monk looked up at him quickly, then down again.
"Made any advance in your case?" Evan asked.
Monk's expression darkened, the skin on his face tight with the anger inside him.
"Two or three men came into Seven Dials quite regularly, usually a Tuesday or Thursday, about ten in the evening up until two or three in the morning. As far as I can tell they were not drunk, nor did they go into any public houses or brothels. No one seems to have seen their faces clearly. One was of above average height, the other two ordinary, one a little heavier than the other. I've found cabbies who have taken them back to Portman Square, Eaton Square…”
"They're miles apart!" Evan exclaimed. "Well, a good distance.”
"I know," Monk snapped. "They've also been taken to Cardigan Place, Belgrave Square and Wimpole Street. I am perfectly aware that they may live in three different areas, or more likely very simply have changed cabs. I don't need you to tell me the obvious. What I need is for the police to care that over a dozen women have been beaten, some of them badly injured and could have been dead, for all these animals cared!
What I need is a little sense of outrage for the poor as well as the inhabitants of Ebury Street: a little blind justice, instead of justice that looks so damned carefully at the size and shape of your pockets, and the cut of your coat before it decides whether to bother with you or not!”
"That's unfair," Evan replied, staring back at him with equal anger.
"We have only so much time, so many men, which you know as well as I do. And even if we find them, what good would it do? Who's going to prosecute them? It will never get to court, and you know that too!" He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What are you hoping for, Monk? Private vengeance? You'd better be dammed sure you are right!”
"I shall be!" Monk said between his teeth. "I shall have the proof before I act.”
"And then what murder?" Evan demanded. "You have no right to take the law into your own hands, or to put it in the hands of men you know will take it for themselves. The law belongs to all of us, or we are none of us safe!”
"Safe!" Monk exploded. "Tell that to the women in Seven Dials! You're talking about theory… I'm dealing with fact!”
Evan stood his ground. "If you find these men and tell whoever has hired you, and they commit murder, that will be fact enough.”
"So what is your alternative?" Monk said.
"I haven't one," Evan admitted. "I don't know.”
Chapter Six
As he had told Evan, Monk was having peripheral success in finding the men responsible for the rapes and violence in Seven Dials. He was still not sure if there were generally three, or only two. No cabby could reliably describe three men at any one time. Everything that was said was imprecise, vague, little more than an impression: hunched figures in the fog and cold of the winter night, voices in the darkness, orders given for a destination, shadows moving in and out, a sudden shift in weight in the cab. One driver was almost certain that a third person had got out at an intersection where he had been obliged to stop because of the traffic.
Another had said one of his fares had been limping badly. One had been wet as though rolling in a gutter or fallen in a water butt. One, caught briefly in the coach light had had a bloody face.
There was nothing to prove any of them were the men Monk was looking for.
On Sunday, when he knew he would find her at home, he told Vida Hopgood as much. Seated in her red parlour before a very healthy fire, and sipping dark brown tea with so strong a flavour, he was glad of a sticky sweet bun to moderate it a little.
"Yer sayin' yer beat?" she asked contemptuously, but he heard the note of disappointment in her and saw the shadow cross her eyes. She was angry, but her shoulders sagged beneath the burden of hope lost.
"No, I'm not!" he responded sharply. "I'm telling you what I know so far. I promised I'd do that, if you remember?”
"Yeah…" she agreed grudgingly, but she was sitting up a little straighter. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Yer do believe they was raped, don't yer?”
"Yes, I do," he said without doubt. "Not necessarily all by the same men, but at least eight of them probably were, and three of them I think may be provable.”
"Mebbe?" she said guardedly. "Wot use's "mebbe"? Wot about the others? "Oo done them, then?”
"I don't know, and it doesn't matter. If we prove two or three, that will be enough, won't it?”
"Yeah! Yeah, it'll do fine." She stared at him, defying him to ask her what she planned to do about it.
He had not intended to ask. He was angry enough not to care.
"I'd like to speak to more women." He took another sip of the bitter tea. The flavour was appalling, but it did have an invigorating effect.
"Wot fer?" She was suspicious.
"There are gaps in times, weeks when I know of no one attacked. Is that true?”
She thought for several minutes before she answered.
"Well?”
"No, it in't. Yer could try Bella Green. Din't wanna bringer inter it, but if I 'ave ter, then I will.”
"Why not?”
"Geez! Why the 'ell der yer care? Because 'er man's an ol' sol'jer an' it'll cut 'im up sum mink terrible ter know as she bin beat, an' 'e couldn't 'elp 'er, let alone that she goes aht ter earn wot 'e can't, that way. Poor sod lorst 'is leg at the Battle o' the Alma. In't good fer much now. "Urt bad, 'e were. Never bin the same since 'e come back.”
He did not let his emotion show.
"Any others?”
She offered him more tea, and he declined.
"Any others?" he repeated.
"Yer could try Maggie Arkwright. Yer prob'ly won't believe a word wot she says, but that don' mean it in't true… sometimes, anyway.”
"Why would she lie to me about that?”
"Cos 'er geezer's a thief, professional like, an' she'll never tell a rozzer the truth, on principle." She looked at him with wry humour.
"An' if yer thinks as yer can kid 'er yer in't, yer dafter 'n I took yer fer.”
"Take me to them.”
"I in't got time nor money ter waste. Yer doin' anythin' 'cept keepin' bread in yer belly, an' yer pride?" Her voice rose. "Yer any damn use at all? Or yer gonna tell me in a monfs time that yer dunno 'oo done it, any more'n yer do now, eh?”
"I'm going to find who did it," he said without even a shadow of humour or agreeability. "If you won't pay, then I'll do it myself. The information will be mine." He looked at her with cold charity, so she could not possibly mistake him.