William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

curl of her lips. “Men don’t come here.”
    “Just women, eh?”
    “For medical reasons,” she explained. “Anyway, if a man’s been bitten or scratched by a prostitute, what are we going to do for him?”
    “Beyond have a good laugh—nothing,” he agreed. Then his expression became grave again. “But this man’s dead, Mrs. Monk, an’ from the look of the body, ’e got’imself in a fight with a woman, an’ then somehow or other ’e came off worst. ’E’s got cuts an’ gashes in ’is back, an’ so many broken bones it’s hard to know where to begin.”
    She was startled. She had imagined a fight between two men ending in tragedy, perhaps the larger or heavier one striking an unlucky blow, or possibly the smaller one resorting to a weapon, probably a knife.
    “But you said he was robbed,” she pointed out, thinking now of an attack by several men. “Was he set on by a gang?”
    “That don’t ’appen ’round these streets.” Hart dismissed it. “That’s what pimps are for. They make their money out of willing trade. It’s in their interest to keep the customers safe.”
    “So why is this one dead?” she said quietly, beginning to understand now why Hart had come there. “Why would one of the women kill him? And how, if he was beaten the way you describe?”
    Hart bit his lip. “Actually, more like ’e fell,” he answered.
    “Fell?” She did not immediately understand.
    “From an ’eight,” he explained. “Like down stairs, mebbe.”
    Suddenly it was much clearer. If a man had been caught off balance, not expecting it, a woman could easily have pushed him.
    “But what about the cuts and gashes you spoke of?” she asked. “You don’t get those falling down stairs.”
    “There was a lot o’ broken glass around,” he replied. “An’ blood—lots of it. Could ’ave smashed a glass, dropped it an’ then fallen on it, I suppose.” He looked miserable as he said it, almost as if it were a personal tragedy. He pushed his hand back through his hair again, a gesture of infinite weariness. “But Abel swears ’e was never at ’is place, an’ knowing the state of it, I believe’im. But ’e went somewhere often enough.”
    “Why would one of Abel Smith’s women kill him?” she asked, pouring more tea for both of them. “Could it have been an accident? Could he have tripped and fallen down the stairs?”
    “ ’E wasn’t found at the bottom, an’ they deny it.” He shook his head and picked up his mug of fresh tea. “ ’E was on the floor in one o’ the back bedrooms.”
    “Where was the broken glass?” she asked.
    “On the floor in the passage an’ at the bottom o’ the stairs.”
    “Maybe they moved him before they realized he was beyond help?” she suggested. “Then they denied it out of fear. Sometimes people tell the stupidest lies when they panic.”
    He stared at the distance, the potbellied stove halfway along the wall, his eyes unseeing, his voice still too quiet to carry beyond the table where they sat. “ ’E’d been in a fight. Scratch marks on ’is face that never came from any fall. Look like a woman’s fingernails. An’ he were dead after ’e hit the ground, all them broken bones an’ a bash on the head. Wouldn’t ’ave moved after that. An’ there’s blood on ’is ’ands, but they wasn’t injured. It weren’t no accident, Mrs. Monk. At least not entirely.”
    “I see.”
    He sighed. “It’s going to cause a terrible row. The family’s going to raise ’ell! They’ll ’ave us all out patrolling the streets and ’arassing any women we see. They’re going to ’ate it . . . an’ then customers is going to ’ate it even more. An’ the pimps’ll ’ate it worst of all. Everybody’ll be in a filthy temper until we find whoever did it, an’ probably ’ang the poor little cow.” He was too wretched to be aware of having used a disparaging term in front of her, or to think of apologizing.
    “I can’t help you,” Hester said softly, remembering the women who had come to the house the previous night, all of them injured more or less. “Five women came, but they all went again and I have no idea where to. I don’t ask.”
    “Their names?” he said without expectation.
    “I don’t ask that either, only something to call them by.”
    “That’ll do, for a start.” He put down his mug and fished in his pocket for his notebook and pencil.
    “A Nell, a Lizzie and a Kitty,” she answered. “Later a Mariah and