William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

the edge of his chair, fastened up with a pin. He was clean shaven, his hair combed, but his skin was so pale it seemed gray, and there were dark shadows around his blue eyes.
    Monk was reminded of Hester with a jolt so sharp it caught his breath. How many men like this must she have known, have nursed, have seen when they were carried in from the battlefield, still stunned with horror and disbelief, not yet understanding what had happened to them, what lay ahead, only wondering if they would survive, hanging on to life with the grim, brave desperation that had brought them so far.
    She had helped them during the worst days and nights. She had dressed the appalling wounds, encouraged them, bullied them into fighting back, into hanging on when there seemed no point, no hope. As she had done to Monk at the end of the Grey case. He had wanted to give up then. Why waste energy andhope and pain on a battle you could not win? It was exhausting, futile. It had not even dignity.
    But she had refused to give up on him, on the struggle. Perhaps she was used to going on, enduring, keeping up the work, the sense of purpose, the outward calm, even when it seemed utterly useless. How could exhausted men fight against absurd odds, survive the pain and the loss, support their fellows, except if the women who nursed them showed the same courage and blind pointless faith?
    Or perhaps faith was never pointless. Maybe faith itself was the point? Or courage?
    But he had not meant to think of Hester. He had promised himself he would not. It left an emptiness inside him, a sense of loss which pervaded everything else, spoiling his concentration, darkening his mood. He needed his energy to think of details he was storing in his mind about the violence in Seven Dials. These women had no help but that which Vida Hopgood could wring from him. They deserved his best.
    He must forget the man slumped in the chair, waiting with desperation for the few hours’ release the gin would give him, and concentrate on the woman. Perhaps it could even be done without the man’s realizing his wife had been raped. Monk could word it so it sounded like a simple assault. There was a great difference between what one thought one knew, privately, never acknowledging directly, and what one was forced to admit, to hear spoken, known by others where it could never after be forgotten.
    “How many men were there?” he asked quietly.
    She knew what he was referring to; the understanding and the fear were plain in her eyes.
    “Three.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yeah. First there was two, then a third one came. I din’t see where from.”
    “Where was it?”
    “The yard orff Foundry Lane.”
    “What time?”
    “About two, near as I can remember.” Her voice was verylow; never once did she look sideways at her husband. Perhaps she wanted to pretend he was not there, that he did not know.
    “Do you remember anything about them? Height, build, clothes, smell, voices?”
    She thought for several minutes before she replied. Monk began to feel a lift of hope. Perhaps that was foolish.
    “One o’ them smelled like summink odd,” she said slowly. “Like gin, on’y it weren’t gin. Kind o’ … sharper, cleaner, like.”
    “Tar? Creosote?” he guessed, as much to keep her mind on it as in hope of defining it quickly.
    “Nah … cleaner ’n that. I know tar. An’ I know creosote. Weren’t paint nor nuffink. Anyway, ’e weren’t a laborer, ’cos ’is ’ands was all smooth … smoother ’n mine.”
    “A gentleman …”
    “Yeah.”
    Vida gave an ugly snort expressive of her opinion.
    “Anything else?” Monk pressed. “Fabric of clothes, height, build? Hair thick or thin, whiskers?”
    “No w’iskers.” Bella’s face was white as she recalled, her eyes dark and hollow. She was speaking in little more than a whisper. “One o’ them was taller than the others. One were thin, one ’eavier. The thin one were terrible angry, like there were a rage eatin’ ’im up inside. I reckon as mebbe ’e were one o’ them lunatics from down Lime’ouse way wot eats them Chinese drugs an’ goes mad.”
    “Opium doesn’t make you violent like that,” Monk replied. “They usually go off into dreams of oblivion, lying on beds in rooms full of smoke, not wandering around alleys”—he stopped just before using the word raping—“attacking people. Opium eating is a very solitary pursuit, in mind if not in body. These men seemed to work