William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

Mary Webber. He would rather have been alone. The effort of concealing his emotions and keeping up a civil conversation was more than the value of any help Scuff could give. But he had left himself no choice. Apart from wounding him by rejection, he dare not allow Scuff to wander around by himself now. He had endangered him, and he must do what he could to protect him from the consequences.
    By midmorning, after several failed attempts, he was almost robbed by the very scuffle-hunter he was actually looking for. They were at the Black Eagle Wharf, between a cargo of timber and lightermen unloading tobacco, raw sugar, and rum. There was no breeze off the river to move the smell of it in the air. The tide was low again, and the water slurped over the weed on the steps and the lighters bumped against the stones.
    An argument between a lighterman and a docker spread until it involved half a dozen men shouting and pushing. It was a form of robbery Monk had seen many times. Bystanders watched, a crowd gradually gathered, and while their attention was on the fighting, pickpockets did their silent job.
    Monk felt the jolt, swung around, and came face-to-face with an old woman who grinned at him toothlessly, and at the same moment there was a touch behind him so light, the thief was a couple of yards away before Monk lunged after him and missed. It was Scuff who brought him down with a swift kick to the shins, which left him sprawling on the ground, yelling indignantly and hugging his left leg.
    Monk yanked him to his feet without sympathy. Ten minutes later they were sitting on the top of the steps, the scuffle-hunter between them, looking uncomfortable, but willing to talk.
    “I didn't tell ‘im nowt ‘cause I don't know nuffin’,” he said aggrievedly “I never ‘eard o’ Mary Webber. I said I'd ask around, an’ I did, I swear.”
    “Why did he want her?” Monk answered. “What kind of woman was she supposed to be? When did he first ask? He must have told you something more than her name. How old was she? What did she look like? What did he want her for? Why ask you? Was she a pawnbroker, a money lender, a receiver, a brothel keeper, an abortionist, a whore, a procuress? What was she?”
    The man squirmed. “Gawd! I don't know! ‘E said she were about fifty, or summink like that, so she weren't no ‘ore. Not any longer, anyway. She could ‘a been any o’ them other things. All ‘e said were ‘er name an’ that she ‘ad goldy-brown eyes an’ curly ‘air, little fine curls.”
    “Why did he want her? When did he first ask you?”
    “I dunno!” The man shivered and moved an inch or two away from Monk, shrinking into himself. “D'yer think I wouldn't ‘a told ‘im if I'd ‘a known?”
    Monk felt the fear eat inside him also, for an utterly different reason. “When?” he insisted. “When did he first ask you about Mary Webber? What else did he ask?”
    “Nuffin’! Were about two year ago, mebbe less. Winter. I mind because ‘e stood out in the cold an’ I were near freezin’. Me ‘ands were blue.”
    “Did he ever find her?”
    “I dunno! Nobody round ‘ere never ‘eard of ‘er. An’ I know all the fences and receivers, all the ‘ock shops an’ moneylenders from Wappin’ ter Blackwall, an’ back.”
    Monk swiveled to face him and the man flinched again.
    “Stop it!” Monk snapped. “I'm not going to hit you!” He heard the anger in his voice, almost out of control. The names of Durban and Mary Webber were enough to cause fear.
    But the man either could not or would not tell him any more.
    He tried other contacts along the water that he had made in the six months since he had been in the River Police, and names that had been in Durban's notes, people Orme or any of the other men had mentioned.
    “‘E were lookin’ for fat Tilda's boy,” an old woman told him with a shake of her head that set her battered straw hat swiveling onher head. They were on the corner of an alley a hundred feet from the dockside. It was noisy, dusty, and hot. She had a basket of shoelaces on her arm, and so far did not seem to have sold many. “Gorn missin’, ‘e ‘ad. Told ‘er ‘e'd possibly gone thievin’ an’ been caught, but she were ‘fraid that Phillips'd got ‘im. Could ‘ave. Daft as a brush ‘e is, an’ all.”
    “What happened?” Monk asked patiently.
    “Stupid little sod fell in the water an’ got fished out by a lighterman who took ‘im all the way down ter Gravesend.