William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

around his waist, and a delicious smell issuing from the inside of containers balanced in front of him.
    Evan bought a pie and ate it with enjoyment, the hot pastry crunching and flaking and the eel flesh delicate on his tongue.
    “Seen Willie Durkins?” he said presently.
    “Not ternight.” The man was careful: it did not do to give information for nothing, and without knowing to whom.
    Evan had no idea whether to believe him or not, but he had no better plan, and he settled back in the shadows, chilly and bored, and waited. A street patterer came by, singing a ballad about a current scandal involving a clergyman who had seduced a schoolmistress and then abandoned her and her child. Evan recalled the case in the sensational press a few months ago, but this version was much more colorful, and in less than fifteen minutes the patterer, and the eel stand, had collected a dozen or more customers, all of whom bought pies and stood around to listen. For which service the patterer got his supper free—and a good audience.
    A narrow man with a cheerful face came out of the gloom to the south and bought himself a pie, which he ate with evident enjoyment, then bought a second and treated a scruffy child to it with evident pleasure.
    “Good night then, Tosher?” the pie man asked knowingly.
    “Best this month,” Tosher replied. “Found a gold watch! Don’t get many o’ them.”
    The pie man laughed. “Some flash gent’ll be cursin’ ’is luck!” He grinned. “Shame-eh?”
    “Oh, terrible shame,” Tosher agreed with a chuckle.
    Evan knew enough of street life to understand. “Tosher”was the name for men who searched the sewers for lost articles. As far as he was concerned, they, and the mudlarks along the river, were more than welcome to what they found; it was hard won enough.
    Other people came and went: costers, off duty at last; a cab driver; a couple of boatmen up from the river steps; a prostitute; and then, when Evan was stiff with cold and lack of movement and about to give up, Willie Durkins.
    He recognized Evan after only a brief glance, and his round face became careful.
    “ ’Allo, Mr. Evan. Wot you want, then? This in’t your patch.”
    Evan did not bother to lie; it would serve no purpose and evidence bad faith.
    “Last night’s murder up west, in Queen Anne Street.”
    “Wot murder was that?” Willie was confused, and it showed in his guarded expression, narrowed eyes, a trifle squinting in the streetlight over the pie stall.
    “Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter, stabbed in her own bedroom—by a burglar.”
    “Go on—Basil Moidore, eh?” Willie looked dubious. “ ’E must be worth a mint, but ’is ’ouse’d be crawlin’ with servants! Wot cracksman’d do that? It’s fair stupid! Damn fool!”
    “Best get it sorted.” Evan pushed out his lip and shook his head a little.
    “Dunno nuffin’,” Willie denied out of habit.
    “Maybe. But you know the house thieves who work that area,” Evan argued.
    “It wouldn’t be one o’ them,” Willie said quickly.
    Evan pulled a face. “And of course they wouldn’t know a stranger on the patch,” he said sarcastically.
    Willie squinted at him, considering. Evan looked gullible; his was a dreamer’s face; it should have belonged to a gentleman, not a sergeant in the rozzers. Nothing like Monk; now there was someone not to mess about with, an ambitious man with a devious mind and a hard tongue. You knew from the set of his bones and the gray eyes that never wavered that it would be dangerous to play games with him.
    “Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter,” Evan said almost to himself. “They’ll hang someone—have to. Shake up a lot of people before they find the right man—if it becomes necessary.”
    “O’right!” Willie said grudgingly. “O’right! Chinese Paddy was up there last night. ’E din’t do nothin’—din’t ’ave the chance, so yer can’t bust ’im. Clean as a w’istle, ’e is. But ask ’im. If ’e can’t ’elp yer, then no one can. Now let me be—yer’ll gimme a bad name, ’anging ’round ’Ere wi’ the likes o’ you.”
    “Where do I find Chinese Paddy?” Evan caught hold of the man’s arm, fingers hard till Willie squeaked.
    “Leggo o’ me! Wanna break me arm?”
    Evan tightened his grip.
    “Dark ’ouse Lane, Billingsgate—termorrer mornin’, w’en the market opens. Yer’ll know ’im easy, ’e’s got black ’air like a chimney brush, an’ eyes like a Chinaman. Now