three, or only two. No cabby could reliably describe three men at any one time. Everything that was said was imprecise, vague, little more than an impression: hunched figures in the fog and cold of the winter night, voices in the darkness, orders given for a destination, shadows moving in and out, a sudden shift in weight in the cab. One driver was almost certain that a third person had got out at an intersection where he had been obliged to stop because of the traffic.
Another had said one of his fares had been limping badly. One had been wet as though rolling in a gutter or fallen in a water butt. One, caught briefly in the coach light had had a bloody face.
There was nothing to prove any of them were the men Monk was looking for.
On Sunday, when he knew he would find her at home, he told Vida Hopgood as much. Seated in her red parlour before a very healthy fire, and sipping dark brown tea with so strong a flavour, he was glad of a sticky sweet bun to moderate it a little.
"Yer sayin' yer beat?" she asked contemptuously, but he heard the note of disappointment in her and saw the shadow cross her eyes. She was angry, but her shoulders sagged beneath the burden of hope lost.
"No, I'm not!" he responded sharply. "I'm telling you what I know so far. I promised I'd do that, if you remember?"
"Yeah..." she agreed grudgingly, but she was sitting up a little straighter. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Yer do believe they was raped, don't yer?"
"Yes, I do," he said without doubt. "Not necessarily all by the same men, but at least eight of them probably were, and three of them I think may be provable."
"Mebbe?" she said guardedly. "Wot use's "mebbe"? Wot about the others? "Oo done them, then?"
"I don't know, and it doesn't matter. If we prove two or three, that will be enough, won't it?"
"Yeah! Yeah, it'll do fine." She stared at him, defying him to ask her what she planned to do about it.
He had not intended to ask. He was angry enough not to care.
"I'd like to speak to more women." He took another sip of the bitter tea. The flavour was appalling, but it did have an invigorating effect.
"Wot fer?" She was suspicious.
"There are gaps in times, weeks when I know of no one attacked. Is that true?"
She thought for several minutes before she answered.
"Well?"
"No, it in't. Yer could try Bella Green. Din't wanna bringer inter it, but if I 'ave ter, then I will."
"Why not?"
"Geez! Why the 'ell der yer care? Because 'er man's an ol' sol'jer an' it'll cut 'im up sum mink terrible ter know as she bin beat, an' 'e couldn't 'elp 'er, let alone that she goes aht ter earn wot 'e can't, that way. Poor sod lorst 'is leg at the Battle o' the Alma. In't good fer much now. "Urt bad, 'e were. Never bin the same since 'e come back."
He did not let his emotion show.
"Any others?"
She offered him more tea, and he declined.
"Any others?" he repeated.
"Yer could try Maggie Arkwright. Yer prob'ly won't believe a word wot she says, but that don' mean it in't true... sometimes, anyway."
"Why would she lie to me about that?"
"Cos 'er geezer's a thief, professional like, an' she'll never tell a rozzer the truth, on principle." She looked at him with wry humour.
"An' if yer thinks as yer can kid 'er yer in't, yer dafter 'n I took yer fer."
"Take me to them."
"I in't got time nor money ter waste. Yer doin' anythin' 'cept keepin' bread in yer belly, an' yer pride?" Her voice rose. "Yer any damn use at all? Or yer gonna tell me in a monfs time that yer dunno 'oo done it, any more'n yer do now, eh?"
"I'm going to find who did it," he said without even a shadow of humour or agreeability. "If you won't pay, then I'll do it myself. The information will be mine." He looked at her with cold charity, so she could not possibly mistake him.
"Or'ight," she said at length, her voice very low, very quiet. "I'll take yer ter Bella, anter Maggie. Get up then. Don' sit all day usin' up me fire!"
He did not bother to reply, but rose and followed her out, putting his coat back on as they went through the door into the street where it was nearly dark and the fog