o' little waves in it. Walked easy, but a bit like mebbe 'e'd once been a sailor."
That was Durban. Monk swallowed. "Did he say why he wanted to find Mary Webber?"
A couple wove their way past them, talking loudly and bumping into people.
"No, an' I din't ask," Biddie said vehemently. "I 'eard 'e went ter old Jetsam, the pawnbroker, an' gave 'im an 'ell of a time. Duffed 'im up summink rotten. Still got the scars, 'e 'as. Not that 'e were ever much ter look at, but 'is own ma wouldn't take ter 'im now." She finished her ale with relish. "Wouldn't mind if yer got me another," she remarked.
Monk dispatched Scuff with the empty glass and threepence. He took a breath. There was no escaping now, whatever the truth was.
"Do you mean that Durban beat the pawnbroker?" She must be lying. Why would he believe her, rather than everything he knew of Durban? And yet he could not leave it alone. In his own past people had been frightened of him. Was he violent too? It was so easy. "Who told you that?" he asked.
"I saw 'im," she said simply. "Told yer. 'Orrible 'e looked."
"But how do you know it was Durban who struck him, or that it was deliberate? Perhaps Jetsam hit him first?"
She gave him a look of incredulity. "Ol' Jetsam? Get on wi' yer. Jetsam's as big a coward as ever were born. 'E wouldn't go 'ittin' a cop even if 'e were soused as an 'erring. Lie 'is way out of a paper bag, cheat 'is own mother out o' sixpence, but 'e wouldn't never 'it nobody face-ter-face."
Monk's stomach clenched and he felt a coldness through him. "Why would Durban hit him?"
"Probably lost 'is temper 'cause Jetsam lied ter 'im," she answered reasonably.
"If Jetsam is that kind of a liar, how do you know it wasn't some customer he cheated who hit him?"
Scuff came back with the ale and gave it to Biddie, and the change to Monk, who thanked him.
"Look," Biddie said patiently. "Yer been fair ter me. I in't gonna lie to yer. The local cop on the beat 'ad ter pull 'em apart, an' 'e were gonna charge Durban, 'cause ol' Jetsam got more'n the worst of it. 'E were near 'avin' 'is 'ead stove in. I reckon Durban 'd 'ave been charged if 'e 'adn't bin a cop 'isself, an' put the twist on."
"That shouldn't make any difference," Monk said, then immediately knew it was a mistake. He saw the contempt in her eyes. He knew what she was going to say before she started, and yet the words still hurt like a fresh cut.
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah? Well, the cop wot caught 'im were just the local constable, and Durban were a commander in the River Police. Yer can't be daft enough not ter work that out fer yerself Constable might 'a grumbled, but 'e din't do nothing, nor Jetsam neither. If any of us 'ad known 'oo Mary Webber were, we'd 'a told 'im."
Monk did not pursue it any further. It was too late today to see if he could substantiate any of it. He walked in silence with Scuff to the nearest steps where there was a light and he could hire a ferry to take them back across the river to Rotherhithe. It was slack tide now and the long stretch of mud and stones gleamed in the yellow glare from the lamps. In its own way it was both sinister and beautiful. The slick surface of the river barely moved. Even the ships at anchor lay still, their spars lumpy with furled sails. The blur of smoke hung above some still-burning factory chimney where industry never slept.
Did he believe Biddie? Who was Mary Webber? Nothing he had learned about Durban had made any mention of a woman. Why such passion? Who was she that Durban would so lose control of himself, and of all the beliefs he had so clearly lived by, that he would attack a man to beat information out of him? And perhaps even worse, he had apparently then coerced a junior officer into ignoring his duty and overlooking the whole episode!
Monk could not imagine Durban doing either of these things. But then, how much had he really known him? He had liked him. They had shared food, warmth, and exhaustion of body and mind in the relentless search to find men who could unknowingly destroy half the world. They had