The Silent Cry

"Do you remember anything about them? Height, build, clothes, smell, voices?”

She thought for several minutes before she replied. Monk began to feel a lift of hope. Perhaps that was foolish.

"One o' them smelled like sum mink odd," she said slowly. "Like gin, on'y it weren't gin. Kind o'… sharper, cleaner, like.”

"Tar? Creosote?" he guessed, as much to keep her mind on it as in hope of defining it quickly.

"Nah… cleaner 'n that. I know tar. An' I know creosote. Weren't paint nor nuffink. Anyway, 'e weren't a labourer, 'cos 'is 'ands was all smooth… smoother 'n mine!”

"A gentleman…”

"Yeah Vida gave an ugly snort expressive of her opinion.

"Anything else?" Monk pressed. "Fabric of clothes, height, build?

Hair thick or thin, whiskers?”

"No w'iskers." Bella's face was white as she recalled, her eyes dark and hollow. She was speaking in little more than a whisper. "One o' them was taller than the others. One were thin, one 'eavier. The thin one were terrible angry, like there were a rage eatin' 'im up inside. I reckon as mebbe 'e were one o' them lunatics from down Lime'ouse way, wot eats them Chinese drugs an' goes mad.”

"Opium doesn't make you violent like that," Monk replied. "They usually go off into dreams of oblivion, lying on beds in rooms full of smoke, not wandering around alleys…" he stopped just before using the word 'rape', '… attacking people. Opium-eating is a very solitary pursuit, in mind if not in body. These men seemed to work together, didn't they?”

"Yeah… yeah, they did." Her face tightened with bitterness. "I'd o' thought wot they did terme were sum mink a man'd do by is self "But they didn't?”

"Nah… proud o'theirselves, they was." Hervoice sank even lower.

"One o' them laughed. I'll remember that till the day I die, I will.

Laughed, 'e did, just afore 'e 'it me.”

Monk shivered, and it was more than the cold of the room.

"Were they old men, or young men?" he asked her.

"I du

Young men out to savour first blood, Monk thought to himself, tasting violence and intoxicated with the rush of power; young men inadequate to make their mark in their own world, finding the helpless where they could control everything, inflict their will with no one to deny them, humiliate instead of being humiliated.

Was that what had happened to Evan's young man? Had he and one or two of his friends come to Seven Dials in search of excitement, some thrill of power unavailable to them in their own world, and then violence had for once met with superior resistance? Had his father followed him this time, only to meet with the same punishment?

Or had the fight been primarily between father and son?

It was possible, but he had no proof at all. If it was so, then at least one of the perpetrators had met with a terrible vengeance already, and Vida Hopgood need seek no more.

He thanked Bella Green, and glanced across to see if it was worth speaking to her husband. It was impossible to tell from his eyes if he had been listening. He spoke to him anyway.

"Thank you for giving us your time. Good day to you.”

The man opened his eyes with a sudden flash of clarity, but he did not answer.

Bella showed them out. The child was nowhere to be seen, possibly in the other room. Bella did not speak again either. She hesitated, as if to ask for hope, but perhaps as if to thank him. It was in her eyes, a moment's softness. But she remained silent, and they went out into the street and were swallowed instantly by the ever-thickening fog, now yellow and sour with smoke, catching in the throat, settling as ice on the cobbles.

"Well?" Vida demanded.

"I'll tell you when I'm ready," Monk retorted. He wanted to stride out, he was too angry to walk slowly to keep pace with her, and too cold, but he did not know where he was, or where he was going. He was forced against his will to wait for her.

The next house they went to was a trifle warmer. They came out of the now freezing fog into a room where a pot-bellied stove smelled of stale soot, but gave off quite a comforting heat. Maggie Arkwright was plump and comfortable, black-haired, ruddy-ski

There was a good humour about her, even a look of health which was attractive. Glancing around at the room with two soft chairs, a table with all four of its original legs, a stool, and a wooden chest with three folded blankets, Monk wondered if they were bought with the proceeds of her trade.

Then he remembered that Vida had said her husband was a petty thief, and realised that may be the source of their relative prosperity. The man came in a moment after them. His face was genial, eyes lost in wrinkles of general goodwill, but his head was close shaved in what Monk knew was a 'terrier crop', a prison haircut. He had probably been out no more than a week or ten days. Presumably she kept the household going when he was accepting Her Majesty's hospitality in Millwall, or the Coldbath Fields.

There was a burst of laughter from the next room, an old woman's high cackle, and the giggling of children. It was a sound of hilarity, unguarded and carefree.

"Wot yer want?" Maggie asked civilly, but with eyes wary on Monk's face. Vida she knew, but he had an air of authority about him she did not trust.

Vida explained, and bit by bit Monk drew from Maggie the story of the attack upon her. It was one of the earliest, and seemed to be far less vicious than those more recently. The account was colourful, and he thought very possibly embellished a trifle for his benefit. It was of no practical value, except that it told him of yet another victim, one Vida had not known of. She told him where to find her, but tomorrow, not today. Today she would be drunk, and no use to him at all. She laughed as she said it, a sound rich with mocking pleasure, but little unkindness.

When Monk found the woman, she was at her stall selling all kinds of household goods, pots, dishes, pails, the occasional picture or ornament, candlesticks, here and there a jug or ewer. Some of them were of moderate value. She was not young, maybe in her late thirties or early forties, it was hard to tell. Her bones were good, as if she had been handsome in her youth, but her skin was clouded by too much gin, too little clean air or water, and a lifetime's ingrained grime.

She looked at Monk as a prospective customer, mildly interested, never giving up hope. To lose interest was to lose money, and to lose money was death.

"Are you Sarah Blaine?" he asked, although she fitted Maggie's description, and she was in the right place. It was rarely a person allowed their place to be taken, even for a day. "Oo wants ter know?” she said carefully. Then her eyes widened and filled with unmistakable loathing, a deep and bitter remembrance. She drew in her breath and let it out in a hiss between her teeth. "Geez! "Oped I'd never see yer again, yer bastard! Thought yer was dead! "Eard yer was, in fifty-six. Went out an' shouted the 'ole o' the "Gri

Monk was stu

He had no idea who she was, or what their relationship had been, except what was obvious, which was that she hated him, more than simply because he was police, but from some individual or personal cause.

"I was injured," he replied with the literal truth. "Not killed.”