The Silent Cry Page 0,41

who had been his guide and mentor when he had newly come south from Northumberland, bound to make his fortune in London, the man who had taken him in, taught him so much not only about merchant banking and the uses of money, but about cultured life, about society and how to be a gentleman, he had been ruined by injustice. Monk had done everything he could to help him, and it had not been enough. He had suffered that same feeling of frustration then, of pacing the streets racking his brain for ideas, of believing the answer was beyond his reach, but only just.

He had learned a lot since then. His character had become harder, his mind faster, more agile, more patient to wait his chance, less tolerant of stupidity, less afraid of either success or failure.

The snow was settling on his collar and seeping down his neck. He was shuddering with cold. Other people were dim forms in the gloom. In the streets the gutters were running over. He could smell the stench of middens and sour drains.

There was a pattern in these rapes. The violence was the same... and always unnecessary. They were not seeking unwilling women.

God help them, they were only too willing. These were not professional prostitutes. They were desperate women who worked honestly when they could, and went to do the streets only when hunger drove them.

Why not the professional prostitutes? Because they had men who looked after them. They were merchandise, too valuable to risk. If anyone was going to beat them, disfigure them, reduce their value, it would be the pimps, the 'owners', and it would be for a specific reason, probably punishment for thieving, for individual enterprise instead of returning their takings to their masters.

He had already ruled out a rival trying to take over a territory. These women did not share their takings with anyone. They certainly did not threaten any regular prostitute's living. Anyway, a pimp would beat, but he would not rape. This had none of the marks of an underworld crime. There was no profit in it. People who lived on the edge of survival did not waste energy and resources on pointless violence time after time.

He turned a corner and the wind was bitter and stung his skin, making his eyes water. He wanted to go home, weigh what he had heard and plan a strategy. But these crimes had happened at night. Night was the time when he should look for other witnesses, cab drivers who had picked up fares and taken them from the edge of Seven Dials back westwards. It was less than honest to go to his own warm rooms, hot food and clean bed, and tell himself he was trying to find the man who had done these senseless and bestial things.

He stopped off at a public house and had a hot pie and a glass of stout and felt at least fortified, if not comforted. He thought of scraping a conversation with some of the other patrons, or with the landlord, and decided against it. He did not yet want to be known as an agent of enquiry. Word would spread rapidly enough. Let Vida do the more obvious asking. She belonged here and would be respected, probably even told the truth.

He worked until long after midnight, trudging the streets on the edges of Seven Dials, generally to the west and north, towards Oxford Street and Regent Street, speaking to cabby after cabby, always asking the same questions. The very last was typical of them all.

"Where to, guy?"

"Home... Fitzroy Street," Monk replied, still standing on the pavement.

"Right."

"Often work this patch?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Sorry to take you so far out of your way." He put his foot on the step, taking his time.

The cabby gave a sharp laugh. "That's wot I'm 'ere fer. Jus' round the corner in't no good terme."

"Take a few trips north and west, do you?"

"Some. Are yer getting' in or not?"

"Yes," Monk answered, without doing so. "Do you remember taking a couple of gentlemen from this area, probably about this time of night, or later, who were a bit roughed up, maybe wet, maybe scratched or bruised, back up west?"

"Why? Wot's it toyer if I did? I take lots o' gents ter lots o' places. "Ere, 'oo are yer, an' wy dyer wanna know fer?"

"Some of the local women around here have been beaten, pretty badly,"

Monk replied. "And I think it was by men from somewhere else, probably west,