William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

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    Vida also changed her clothes, leaving Monk in her parlor while she did so. Her husband was in the shop below, seeing no one slacked, talked to her neighbor or pocketed anything that was not hers.
    Monk stared around the room. It was overfurnished. There was hardly a space on the heavily patterned wallpaper which was not covered by a picture or a framed sampler of embroidery. Table surfaces were decorated with dried flowers, chinaornaments, stuffed birds under glass, more pictures. But in spite of the crowding, and the predominance of red, the whole effect was one of comfort and even a kind of harmony. Whoever lived there cared about it. There had been happiness, a certain pride in it, not to show off or impress others but for its own sake. There was something in Vida Hopgood which he could like. He wished he could remember their previous association. It was a burden to him that he could not, but he knew from too many attempts to trace other memories, more important ones, that the harder he sought, the more elusive they were, the more distorted. It was a disadvantage he had learned to live with most of the time; only on occasion was he sharply brought to realize its dangers when someone hated him and he had no idea why. It was an unusual burden that did not afflict most people, not to know who your friends or enemies were.
    Vida returned in plainer, shabbier clothes and set straight about the business in hand. She had no intention of socializing with him. It was a temporary truce, and for all her humor, as a former policeman he was still the “enemy.” She would not forget it, even if he might.
    “I’ll take yer ter see Nellie first,” she said, patting her skirt and straightening her shoulders. “There in’t no use yer goin’ alone. She won’t speak to yer if I don’ tell ’er ter. Can’t blame ’er.” She stared at him standing still in the comfortable room. “Well, come on then! I know it’s snowin’ but a bit o’ water won’t ’urt yer!”
    Biting back his retort, he followed her out into the ice-swept street and hurried to keep pace with her. She moved surprisingly rapidly, her boots tapping sharply on the cobbles, her back straight, her eyes ahead. She had given her orders and assumed that if he wanted to be paid, he would obey them.
    She turned abruptly along an alley, head down into the flurries of snow, hand up instinctively to keep her hat on. Even there she was going to maintain her superior status by wearing a hat rather than a shawl to protect her from the elements. She stopped at one of the many doors and banged on it sharply. After several moments it was opened by a plump youngwoman with a pretty face when she smiled, showing gapped and stained teeth.
    “I wanna see Nellie,” Vida said bluntly. “Tell ’er Mrs. ’Opgood’s ’ere. I got Monk. She’ll know ’oo I mean.”
    Monk felt a stab of fear that his name was so well known, even to this woman of the streets he had never heard of. He could not even recall having been to Seven Dials at all, let alone the faces of individual people. His disadvantage was acute.
    The girl heard the tone of command in Vida’s voice and went off obediently to fetch Nellie. She did not invite them in, but left them standing in the freezing alley. Vida took the invitation as given and pushed the door open. Monk followed.
    Inside was cold also, but mercifully out of the wind and now-thickening snow. The walls were damp in the corridor and smelled of mold, and from the pervading odor of excrement, the midden was not far away, and probably overflowing. Vida pushed on the second door, and it swung open into a room with a good-sized bed in it, rumpled and obviously lately used, but relatively clean, and with several blankets and quilts on it. Monk presumed it was a place of business as well as rest.
    There was a young woman standing in the farther corner, waiting for them. Her face was marred by yellowing bruises and a severely cut brow, the scar of which was still healing and would never knit evenly. Monk needed no other evidence to tell him the woman had been badly beaten. He could not imagine an accident likely to cause such harm.
    “You tell this geezer ’ere wot ’appened to yer, Nellie,” Vida ordered.
    “ ’E’s a rozzer,” Nellie said incredulously, looking at Monk with intense dislike.
    “No ’e in’t,” Vida contradicted. “ ’E used ter be. They threw ’im out. Now ’e works fer ’ooever pays him. An’ terday, we