William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

a Gertie.”
    He thought for a moment, then put the pencil away again. “ ’Ardly worth it,” he said dismally. “Everybody’s a Mary, a Lizzie, or a Kate. God knows what they were christened—if they were, poor souls.”
    She looked at him in the sharp morning light. There was a dark shadow of stubble on his cheeks and his eyes were pink-rimmed. He had far more pity for the women of the streets than he had for their clients. She thought he did not particularly want to catch whoever had pushed the man down the stairs. The murderer would no doubt be hanged for something which could have been at least in part an accident. The death may not have been intentional, but who would believe that when the woman in the dock was a prostitute and the dead man was rich and respected? What judge or juror could afford to accept that such a man could be at least in part responsible for his own death?
    “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I can’t help.”
    He sighed. “An’ you wouldn’t if you could . . . I know that.” He rose to his feet slowly, shifting his weight a little as if his boots pinched. “Just’ad ter ask.”

    It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning when the hansom pulled up at her house in Fitzroy Street.
    Monk was sitting in the front room he used to receive those who came to seek his services as a private agent of enquiry. He had papers spread in front of him and was reading them.
    She was surprised to see him and filled with a sudden upsurge of pleasure. She had known him for nearly seven years, but had been married to him for less than three, and the joy of it was still sharp. She found herself smiling for no other reason.
    He put the papers aside and stood up, his face softening in response.
    There was a question in his eyes. “You’re late,” he said, not in criticism but in sympathy. “Have you eaten anything?”
    “Toast,” she replied with a little shrug. She was untidy and she knew she smelled of vinegar and carbolic, but she wanted him to kiss her anyway. She stood in front of him, hoping she was not obvious. She was sufficiently in love that it would have embarrassed her to be too easily read.
    He undid her bonnet and tossed it casually onto the chair, then he put his arms around her and kissed her rather more warmly than she had expected. She responded with a whole heart, then, remembering the lonely and rejected women she had treated during the night, she kept her arms around him and held him more closely.
    “What is it?” he asked, his voice demanding, knowing the difference in her.
    “Just the women,” she replied. “There was a murder last night. That’s why I’m late. The police came to the house this morning.”
    “Why? What would you know about it?” He was puzzled.
    She knew what he was imagining: a prostitute beaten and bleeding coming to the house, then returning to her brothel and being beaten again, this time to death. “No. At least not the way you mean,” she answered. “It was a man who was killed, a client, if you can call him that. They think he fought with one of the women and somehow or other she pushed him downstairs. They wanted to know about women who came in cut and bruised as if they had been in a struggle.”
    “And you had seen some?” he said.
    “Of course. Every night! It’s mostly that and disease. I couldn’t help because I don’t know how they got hurt, or where to find them again.”
    He pushed her back a little, looking more closely at her face. “And would you help the police if you could?”
    “I don’t think so,” she admitted. “I don’t know. . . .”
    He smiled very slightly, but his eyes read her perfectly.
    “All right . . .” she agreed. “I’m glad I can’t help. It relieves me of having to decide if I would or not. Apparently he was, in Constable Hart’s words, ’a toff,’ so the police are going to make everyone suffer, because the family will make sure they do.” She grimaced with disgust. “They’ll probably tell us he was a philanthropist walking the back streets and alleys trying to save the souls of fallen women!”
    He lifted his head and very gently pushed back the hair that had fallen across her brow. “Unlikely . . . but I suppose it’s possible. We believe what we need to . . . at least for as long as we can.”
    She rested her head against his chin. “I know. But I can’t excuse persecuting a lot of women who are wretched enough anyway, or the pimps who will only take it out on them. It