William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

Coopers Arms was a very ordinary public house, and at this time of the day, crowded with people. The smells of sawdust, ale and human sweat and dirt were pungent, and the babble of voices assailed him the moment he pushed open the doors. The barman was busy, and he had to wait several minutes before purchasing a mug of stout and ordering pork pie, pickles and boiled red cabbage.
    He found himself a seat at one of the tables, deliberately joining with other people. He chose a group who looked like local small tradesmen, neat, comfortable, slightly shabby, tucking into their food with relish. They looked at him guardedly but not in an unfriendly manner. He was a stranger and might prove a diversion from their day-to-day affairs. And Monk wanted to talk.
    “Good day, gentlemen,” he said with a smile, taking his seat. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He was referring to the fact that they had moved up to make room for him.
    “Not from ‘round ’ere,” one of them observed.
    “Other side of the river,” Monk replied. “Bloomsbury way.”
    “Wot brings you down ’ere, then?” another asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and picking up a thick roll of bread stuffed with ham. “Sellin’, are yer? Or buyin’?”
    “Neither,” Monk answered, sipping his stout. His meal had not yet come. Looking at the food already on the table, he was remarkably hungry. It seemed like a long day already. “Probably on a pointless errand. Did any of you know a Samuel Jackson, lived here about twenty years ago?”
    The third member, who had not yet spoken, pushed his cap back on his head and looked at Monk curiously. “Yeah, I knew ’im. Decent feller, ’e were. Poor devil. Died. Din’t yer know that?”
    “Yes, yes, I did know. I was wondering what became of his family,” Monk continued.
    The man guffawed with laughter, but there was a hard edge to it and his eyes were angry. “Little late, in’t yer? Why d’yer wanna know fer now? ‘Oo cares after all this time?”
    “His sister,” Monk replied truthfully. “She cared all the time but was in no position to employ anyone to find out.”
    “So wot’s changed?” the man said, yanking his cap forward again.
    A smiling girl brought Monk his meal and he thanked her and gave her threepence for herself. The man at the table frowned. Monk was setting a precedent they would not be able to follow.
    “Thank you,” Monk said graciously, still looking at the girl. “Do you have scullery maids in the kitchen?”
    “Yes sir, three o’ them,” she said willingly. Any gentleman who tipped her threepence deserved a little courtesy. And he was certainly handsome looking, in a grim sort of way. Quite appealing, really, a bit mysterious. “An’ two kitchen maids, an’ o’ course a cook … sir. Was yer wantin’ ter speak ter anyone?”
    “Do you have a girl with a deformed mouth?”
    “A wot?”
    “A twisted mouth, a funny lip?”
    She looked puzzled. “No sir.”
    “Never mind. Thank you for answering me.” It was foolish to have hoped. The woman at Buxton House had said the publican had got rid of the girls. It might not even be the same publican now. It was fifteen years ago.
    The girl smiled and left and Monk began his meal.
    “Yer really mean it, don’t yer?” one of the men said in surprise. “You’ll not find ’em now, yer know? They put people like that away inter places w’ere they can’t upset folk … they’ll be cleanin’ up arter folk somewhere, if they’re still alive. They wasn’t only ugly, yer know; they was simple as well. I saw ’em w’en they was ’ere. There’s summink about ‘avin’ yer face twisted as bothers folk more ‘n if it were yer body or yer ‘ands. One of ’em looked like she were sneerin’ at yer, an the other like she was barin’ ’er teeth. Couldn’t ’elp it, o’ course, but strangers don’ know that.”
    Monk should have kept quiet. Instead he found himself asking, “Where might they be sent to, exactly?”
    The man gulped down his ale. “Exac’ly? Gawd knows! Any places as’d ’ave ’em, poor little things. Pity fer Sam. ’E loved them little girls.”
    There was only one more avenue Monk should try, then duty was satisfied.
    “What about his widow? Do you know what happened to her?”
    “Dolly Jackson? I dunno.” He looked around the table. “D’you know, Ted? D’you know, Alf?”
    Ted shrugged and picked up his tankard.
    “She left Putney. I know that,” Alf