William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

bloody noses and a lot of blasphemous language. A drunken coachman ran straight over a junction at something close to a gallop, and several other horses either shied or bolted. Monk’s ownhansom had gone a full block before the driver managed to bring it under control again.
    Monk alighted onto the Whitechapel Road, paid the driver, who by now was in an unspeakable temper, then began walking toward the address he had been given at the milliner’s shop.
    At first he thought he had made a mistake. It was a butcher’s. There were pies and strings of sausages in the window. If he were right, someone had a macabre sense of humor—or none at all.
    Three thin children in dirty clothes stood on the pavement watching him. They were all white-faced. One, about ten or eleven years old, had broken front teeth. A dog with mange in its fur crept around the corner and went in the doorway.
    After a moment’s hesitation Monk went in after it.
    Inside was hot and dim, little light getting through the grimy windows—the smoke of countless factory chimneys and domestic fires had grayed them over the months, and the summer thunderstorms had done nothing to help. The air was heavy and smelled stale and rancid. A large fly buzzed lazily and settled on the counter. The young woman apparently awaiting customers picked up an old newspaper and slammed it down, killing the fly instantly.
    “Gotcher!” she said with satisfaction. “What can I do for yer?” she asked Monk cheerfully. “We got fresh mutton, rabbit pie, pigs’ trotters, calves’-foot jellies, brawn, best in the East End, and tripes, sheeps’ brains, pigs’ liver, and sausages o’ course! What yer want then?”
    “Sausages look good,” he lied. “But what I really want is to see Mrs. Anderson. Is this the right address?”
    “That depends,” she said guardedly. “There are lots of Mrs. Andersons. What did yer want ’er for?”
    “She was recommended to me by a lady who sells hats….”
    “Was she now.” She looked him up and down. “I can’t think what for.”
    “For a lady of my acquaintance who would rather not be seen in this neighborhood until it is absolutely necessary.”
    “So she sent you, did she?” She smiled with a mixture of satisfaction, amusement, and contempt. “Well, maybe Mrs. Anderson’ll see you an’ maybe not. I’ll ask ’er.” And she turned and walked slowly toward the back of the room and through a paint-peeled door.
    Monk waited. Another fly came in and buzzed lazily around, settling on the blood-spotted counter.
    The woman came back and wordlessly held the door open. Monk accepted the invitation and went through. The room beyond was a large kitchen opening onto a yard with coal scuttles, bins overflowing with rubbish, several broken boxes, and a cracked sink full of rainwater. A tomcat slunk across the yard, his body low like a leopard’s, a dead rat in his mouth.
    Inside the kitchen was chaotic. Bloodstained linen filled one of the two stone sinks by the wall to the right, and the thick, warm smell of blood hung in the air. To the left was a wooden dresser with plates, bowls, knives, scissors, and skewers heaped haphazardly on it. Several bottles of gin lay around, some open, some still sealed.
    In the center of the room was a wooden table, dark with repeated soaking of blood. Dried blood made black lines in the cracks and there were splashes of it on the floor. A girl with an ashen face sat in a rocking chair, hugging herself and weeping.
    Two dogs lay by the dead ashes of the fire. One scratched itself, grunting with each movement of its leg.
    Mrs. Anderson was a large woman with sleeves rolled up to show immense forearms. Her fingernails were chipped and dark with immovable dirt.
    “ ’Allo,” she said cheerfully, pushing her fair gold hair out of her eyes. She cannot have been more than thirty-five at the most. “Need a spot of ’elp do yer, dearie? Well there ain’t nothin’ I can do for yer, now is there? She’ll ’ave to come in ’ere ’erself, sooner or later. ’Ow far gorn is she?”
    Monk felt a wave of anger so violent it actually nauseatedhim. He was forced to breathe deeply for several seconds to regain his composure. With a flood of memory so vivid the sounds and smells returned to him, the thick sweetness of blood, the sounds of a girl whimpering in pain and terror, rats’ feet scuttering across a stained floor. He had been in back-street abortionists like this before, God knew how many