"She won't believe me," Monk said reasonably.
"Yeah, she will, 'cos less'n I tell yer w'er ter finder yer'll be wand' ring around the rookeries for the rest oyer life!”
"That's the truth, so it is," MacPherson agreed.
"So tell me," Monk accepted.
Snaith shook his head. "In't yer never scared, Monk? In't it never entered yer 'ead as we'd cut yer throat an' drop yer in the midden, jus' for ol' time's sake?”
Monk grinned back. "Several times, and if you do there is nothing I can do now to stop you. I'm too far into St. Giles to yell for help, even supposing anyone would come. But you're a businessman, at least MacPherson is. You want what I want. You'll wait until I've got it before you do anything to me.”
"There are times when I could almost like yer," Snaith said, surprised at himself. "One thing I'll say for yer, yer in't never an 'ypocrite.
Got that much on Runcorn, poor sod.”
"Thank you," Monk said sarcastically. "Wee Minnie?”
It was a tortuous hour, and Monk got lost three times before he finally slipped through an alley gateway, across a brick yard and up the back steps into a series of rooms which finally ended in the airlessly hot parlour where Wee Minnie sat on a pile of cushions, her wrinkled face in a toothless smile, her gnarled hands clicking knitting needles of bone as she worked without looking at it on what appeared to be a sock.
"So yer got 'ere," she observed with a dry chuckle. "Thought as yer'd got lorst. Yer wanter know about rape, do yer?”
He should have known word would reach here before he did.
"Yes.”
"There was two. Bad, they was, so bad no one never said nothing.”
"I don't understand. It was bad, surely that was all the more reason to do something, warn people, stay together… anything…”
She shook her head, her fingers never losing their rhythm.
"Yer gets beat, yer tell people. It in't personal. Yer gets raped bad, it's different.”
"How do you know?”
"I know everything." There was satisfaction in her voice. Then suddenly it hardened and her eyes became cruel. "Yer get them bastards! Give 'em ter us an' we'll draw an' quarter 'em, like they did in the old days. Me gran'fer told me abaht it. Yer string 'em up, or by 'ell's door, we will!”
"Can I speak to the women who were raped?”
"Can yer wot?" she said incredulously.
"Can I speak to the women?" he repeated.
She swore under her breath.
"I need to ask them about the men. I have to be sure it was the same ones. They might remember something, a face, a voice, even a name, the feel of fabric, anything.”
"It were the same men," she said with absolute certainty. "Three of 'em. One tall, one 'eavier, an' one on the skinny side.”
He tried to keep the sense of victory out of his voice. "What age were they?”
"Age? I dunno. Don't yer know?”
"I believe so. When were these attacks?”
"Wot?”
"Before or after the murder in Water Lane?”
She looked at him with her head a trifle to one side, like a withered old sparrow.
"Afore, o' course. In't bin nuffink since. Wouldn't, would there now?”
"No, I think not.”
"That were 'im, then, wot got killed?" she said with satisfaction.
"One of them." He did not bother to correct her error. "I want the other two.”
She grinned toothlessly. "You an' a few others.”
"Where did they happen, exactly? I need to know. I need to speak to people who might have seen them coming or going, people in the street, traders, beggars, especially cabbies who might have brought them or taken them away afterwards.”
"Wot fer?" She was genuinely puzzled, it was plain in her face. "Yer know 'oo it were, don't yer?”
"I think so, but I need to prove it…”
"Wot fer?" she said again. "If yer think as the law'll take any notice, yer daft! An' yer in't daft, not yer worst enemy'd say that oyer Other things mebbe.”
"Do you want them caught?" he asked. "You imagine after what happened to one of them, they'll come back to St. Giles, for you to knife them and dump them on some midden? It'll be Limehouse, or the Devil's Acre, or Bluegate Fields next time. If we want justice, it will have to be in their territory, and that means with better weapons than yours. It means evidence, proof, not for the law, which as you say, doesn't care, but for society, which does.”
"Abaht prostitutes getting' raped or beat?" she said, her voice cracking high with disbelief. "Yer've lorst your wits, Monk! It's finally got toyer!”
"Society ladies know their men use prostitutes, Minnie," he explained patiently. "They don't like to think other people know it. They certainly don't like to marry their daughters to young men who frequent places like St. Giles to pick up stray women, who could have diseases, and who practise violence against women, extreme violence. What society knows, and what it acknowledges, can be very difficult. There are things which privately can be overlooked, but publicly are never forgiven or forgotten." He looked at her wrinkled face. "You have loyalties to your own. You understand that. You don't betray the tribe with someone else. Neither do they. These young men have let the side down, they will not be forgiven for that.”
"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, 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 he went to Evan and aft era 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 grey from the light in them, and the appearance of keen intelligence. Rhys was utterly different, and it was his face which troubled him. 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 them 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, pedlars, beggars, anyone who would answer him, if they recognised 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 on 'is luck, I reckon.”
"Dressed rough?" Monk said quickly. "What do you mean, exactly?" Was it 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 his intelligence. "I know wot gents look like. Overcoat, 'e 'ad, but nuthink special, no fur on the collar, no 'igh 'at, no stick. In fact no 'at at all, co meter think on it.”