William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

cobbles. A rag-and-bone man called out dolefully, as if expecting an answer. Two women on the corner launched into a fierce quarrel and a cat scuttered across an alleyway with a rat in its mouth.
    They were going down Bridge Street, with Limehouse Reach on one side and the West India Docks on the other. Tall masts broke the skyline, barely moving against the clouds. Chimneys belched thin streams of smoke up into the air. Maisie kept walking on past Cuba Street, then at Manilla Street she stopped.
    “Fird ’ouse along ere,” she said huskily. “Dahn ve steps. On’y one door. Vat’s ’er. Selina, ’er name is.” She held out her hand tentatively, not sure if she would get the second shilling or not.
    “What does she look like?” He wanted to see if her description tallied with Mr. Arbuthnot’s. If it did he would trust her, for a shilling.
    “A tart,” she said quickly, then bit her lip. “Quite ’andsome, really, in a flashy sort o’ way. Thin, I suppose, sharp nose, but good eyes, real good eyes.” She looked at Monk to see if that was sufficient, and saw that it was not. “Sort o’ brownish ’air, good an’ thick. Always kind o’ sure of ’erself, least w’en I sees ’er. Walks cocky, wi’ a swing to ’er ’ips. Like I says, a tart.” She sniffed. “But she’s gotguts, I’ll give ’er that. Never ’eard ’er moan, not like some. Put a good face on it, no matter wot. An’ she can’t ’ave an easy time, wi’ Caleb Stone bein’ like ’e is.”
    “Thank you.” Monk gave her the shilling. “Have you seen Caleb Stone?”
    “Me? I don’t go looking fer folks like that. I got enough o’ me own troubles. I reckon as mebbe I seen ’im once. Though I’ll deny it if yer asks in front o’ anyone.”
    “I never saw you before,” Monk said easily. “And if I were to see you again, I don’t suppose I should know you. What’s your name?”
    She smiled conspiratorially, showing chipped teeth.
    “In’t got no name.”
    “That’s what I thought. Third house along?”
    “Yeah.”
    He turned and walked down the narrow footpath, barely wide enough to keep his feet out of the gutter, and at the third house went down the steps to the door which led off the small, rubbish-filled areaway. He knocked sharply, and had just raised his hand to repeat it when a window covered with sacking opened above him and an old woman stuck her head out.
    “She in’t there! Come back later ifn’ yer want ’er.”
    Monk leaned back to look up. “How much later?”
    “I dunno. Middle o’ the day, mebbe.” She ducked back in again without closing the window, and Monk stepped away only just in time to avoid being drenched by a pail of bedroom slops.
    He waited in the street about twenty yards along, half sheltered by an overhanging wall, but from where he could still see the steps down to Selina’s rooms. He grew steadily colder, and towards noon it began to rain. Many people passed him, perhaps taking him for a beggar or simply someone with nowhere else to be, one of the thousands who lived on scraps and slept in doorways. The workhouse provided food of a sort, a shelter, but little heat, and therigid rules were almost as harsh as those in prison. There were some who thought it an even worse place.
    No one regarded him with more than a passing observation, not even curiosity, and he avoided the challenge of meeting their eyes. Paupers, such as he was pretending to be, cast their glances down, wary, ashamed and frightened of everything.
    Shortly after noon he saw a woman approaching from West Ferry Road, where Bridge Street swept around the curve of the river which formed the Isle of Dogs. She was of average height, but she strode with her head high and a kind of swing in her step. Even across the street he could see that her face was highly individual. Her cheekbones were high, giving her eyes a slanted look, her nose well formed, if a little sharp, and her mouth generous. He had no doubt that this was Selina. Her face had the courage and the originality to hold the attention of men like Caleb Stone, who might be violent and degraded now, but who had been born to better things.
    He moved from his position, his legs aching, joints locked from having maintained his stillness for so long. He almost stumbled off the curb; his feet were so cold he had lost sensation in them. He made his way across the street, stepping in the filth and regaining his balance by flailing his arms. Furious with himself,