William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

along with him, that won’t make me turn the other way and pretend it is not so. If you think the world is divided into those who are good and those who are bad, you are worse than a fool, you are a moral imbecile, refusing to grow up—”
    She stood up.
    “Would you be so kind as to find me a hansom so I mayreturn to Ebury Street? If not, I imagine I can find one for myself.”
    He rose also and bowed his head sarcastically, remembering their meeting earlier. “I am delighted you enjoyed your dinner,” he replied cuttingly. “It was my pleasure.”
    She blushed with annoyance, but he saw the flash of acknowledgment in her eyes.
    They went out in silence into the now dense fog in the street. It was bitterly cold, the freezing air catching in the nose and throat. The traffic was forced to a walk and it took him several minutes to find a hansom. He climbed in and they sat side by side in rigid silence all the way back to Ebury Street. She refused to speak, and he had nothing he wanted to say to her. There were hundreds of things in his mind, but he was prepared to share none of them, not now.
    They parted with a simple exchange of “Good night,” and he rode on to Fitzroy Street, cold, angry and alone.
    In the morning he returned yet again to Seven Dials and his pursuit of witnesses who might have seen anything to do with the attacks, most particularly anyone who was a frequent visitor to the area. He had already exhausted the cabbies and was now trying street peddlers, beggars and vagrants. His pockets were full of all the small change he could afford. People often spoke more readily for some slight reward. It was his own money, not Vida’s.
    The first three people he approached knew nothing. The fourth was a seller of meat pies, hot and savory smelling but probably made mostly of offal and other castoffs. He bought one, and overpaid, but without intention of eating it. He held it in his hand while talking to the man. There was a wind that morning. The fog had lifted, but it was intensely cold. The cobbles were slippery with ice. As he stood there the pie became more and more tempting and he was less inclined to consider what was in it.
    “Seen or heard anything about two or three strangers roaming around at night?” he said casually. “Gentlemen from up west?”
    “Yeah,” the peddler replied without surprise. “They bin beatin’ the ’ell out o’ some o’ our women, poor cows. W’y d’yer wanna know, eh? In’t rozzers’ bus’ness.” He looked at Monk with steady dislike. “Want ’em for summink else, do yer?”
    “No, I want them for that. Isn’t that enough for you?”
    The man’s scorn was open. “Yeah? An’ yer gonna ’ave ’em up for it, are yer? Don’ give me that muck. Since w’en did yer sort give a toss wot ’appened ter the likes o’ us? I know you, yer evil bastard. Yer don’t even care fer yer own, never mind us poor sods.”
    Monk looked at the man’s eyes and could not deny the recognition in them. He was not speaking of police in general, this was personal. Should he ask, capture some tangible fact of the past? Would it be the truth? Would it help? Would it tell him something he would rather not have known, ugly, incomplete, and without explanation?
    Probably. But perhaps imagination alone was worse.
    “What do you mean, ‘not even my own’?” The instant he had said it, he wished he had not.
    The man gave a grunt of disgust.
    A woman in a black shawl came past and bought two pies.
    “I seen yer shaft yer own,” the peddler answered when she had gone. “Left ’im ’angin’ out ter dry, like a proper fool, yer did.”
    Monk’s stomach turned cold and a little fluttery. It was what he had feared.
    “How do you know?” he argued.
    “Saw ’is face, an’ seen yours.” The peddler sold another pie and fished for change for a threepenny piece.
    “ ’E weren’t ’spectin’ it. Caught ’im proper, poor sod.”
    “How? What did I do?”
    “Wot’s the matter wiv yer?” The man looked at him incredulously. “Want the pleasure of it twice, do yer? I dunno. Jus’ know yer came ’ere tergether, an’ yer done ’im some’ow. ’E trusted yer, an’ finished up in the muck. I guess it’s ’is own fault. ’E should ’a knowed better. It were writ in yer face. I wouldn’t ’a trusted yer far as I can spit!”
    It was ugly and direct, and it was probably the truth. He would like to think the man lied, find some way out of it, but he knew there