by Anne Perry
Runcorn was watching him, seeing the tide of color in his face. He must control it, find a shield; or better, a weapon. He straightened his body a little more and met Runcorn's eyes.
"A stranger to you perhaps, sir, but not to myself. But then we are few of us as plain as we seem to others. I think I am only less rash than you supposed. And it is as well." He savored the moment, although it had not the sweetness he had expected.
He looked at Runcorn's face squarely. "I came to tell you that Joscelin Grey's flat has been robbed, at least it has been thoroughly searched, even ransacked, by two men posing as police. They seemed to have had quite competently forged papers which they showed to the porter."
Runcorn's face was stiff and there was a mottle of red on his skin. Monk could not resist adding to it.
"Puts a different light on it, doesn't it?" he went on cheerfully, pretending they were both pleased. "I don't see Lord Shelburne hiring an accomplice and posing as a Peeler to search his brother's flat."
A few seconds had given Runcorn time to think.
"Then he must have hired a couple of men. Simple enough!"
But Monk was ready. “If it was something worth such a terrible risk," he countered, "why didn't they get it before? It must have been there two months by now.''
"What terrible risk?" Runcorn's voice dropped a little in mockery of the idea. "They passed it off beautifully. And it would have been easy enough to do: just watch the building a little while to make sure the real police were not there, then go in with their false papers, get what they went for, and leave. I daresay they had a crow out in the street."
"I wasn't referring to the risk of their being caught in the act," Monk said scornfully. "I was thinking of the much greater risk, from his point of view, of placing himself in the hands of possible blackmailers."
He felt a surge of pleasure as Runcorn's face betrayed that he hadn't thought of that.
"Do it anonymously." Runcorn dismissed the idea.
Monk smiled at him. "If it was worth paying thieves, and a first-class screever, in order to get it back, it wouldn't take a very bright thief to work out it would be worth raising the price a little before handing it over. Everyone in London knows there was murder done in that room. If whatever he wanted was worth paying thieves and forgers to get back, it must be damning."
Runcorn glared at the table top, and Monk waited.
"So what are you suggesting then?" Runcorn said at last. "Somebody wanted it. Or do you say it was just a casual thief, trying his luck?" His contempt for the idea was heavy in his voice and it curled his lip.
Monk avoided the question.
"I intend to find out what it is," he replied, pushing back his chair and rising. "It may be something we haven't even thought of."
"You'll have to be a damn good detective to do that!" The triumph came back into Runcorn's eyes.
Monk straightened and looked levelly back at him.
"I am," he said without a nicker. "Did you think that had changed?"
* * * * *
When he left Runcorn's office Monk had had no idea even how to begin. He had forgotten all his contacts; now a fence or an informer could pass him in the street and he would not recognize him. He could not ask any of his colleagues. If Runcorn hated him, it was more than likely many of them did too and he had no idea which; and to show such vulnerability would invite a coup de grace. Runcorn knew he had lost his memory, of that he was perfectly sure now, although nothing had been said completely beyond ambiguity. There was a chance, a good chance he could fend off one man until he had regained at least enough mixture of memory and skill to do his job well enough to defy them all. If he solved the Grey case
he would be unassailable; then let Runcorn say what he pleased.
But it was an unpleasant knowledge that he was so deeply and consistently hated, and with what he increasingly realized was good reason.
And was he fighting for survival? Or was there also an instinct in him to attack Runcorn; not only to find the truth, to be right, but also to be there before Runcorn was and make sure he knew it? Perhaps if he had been an onlooker at this, watching two other men, at least some of his sympathy would have been with Runcorn. There was a cruelty in himself he was seeing for the first time, a pleasure in winning that he did not admire.
Had he always been like this—or was it born of his fear?
How to start finding the thieves? Much as he liked Evan—and he did like him increasingly every day; the man had enthusiasm and gentleness, humor, and a purity of intention Monk envied—even so, he dare not place himself in Evan's hands by telling him the truth. And if he were honest (there was a little vanity in it also), Evan was the only person, apart from Beth, who seemed unaffectedly to think well of him, even to like him. He could not bear to forfeit that.
So he could not ask Evan to tell him the names of informers and fences. He would just have to find them for himself. But if he had been as good a detective as everything indicated, he must know many. They would recognize him.
He was late and Evan had been waiting for him. He apologized, somewhat to Evan's surprise, and only afterward realized that as a superior it was not expected of him. He must be more careful, especially if he were to conceal his purpose, and his inability, from Evan. He wanted to go to an underworld eating house for luncheon, and hoped that if he left word with the potman someone would approach him. He would have to do it in several places, but within three or four days at most he should find a beginning.
He could not bring back to memory any names or faces, but the smell of the back taverns was sharply familiar. Without thinking, he knew how to behave; to alter color like a chameleon, to drop his shoulders, loosen his gait, keep his eyes down and wary. It is not clothes that make the man; a cardsharp, a dragsman, a superior pickpocket or a thief from the Swell Mob could dress as well as most— indeed the nurse at the hospital had taken him for one of the Swell Mob himself.
Evan, with his fair face and wide, humorous eyes, looked too clean to be dishonest. There was none of the wiliness of a survivor in him; yet some of the best survivors of all were those most skilled in deception and the most innocent of face. The underworld was big enough for any variation of lie and fraud, and no weakness was left unexploited.
They began a little to the west of Mecklenburg Square, going to the King's Cross Road. When the first tavern produced nothing immediate, they moved north to the Pen-tonville Road, then south and east again into Clerkenwell.
In spite of all that logic could tell him, by the following day Monk was beginning to feel as if he were on a fool's errand, and Runcorn would have the last laugh. Then, in a congested public house by the name of the Grinning Rat, a scruffy little man, smiling, showing yellow teeth, slid into the seat beside them, looking warily at Evan. The room was full of noise, the strong smell of ale, sweat, the dirt of clothes and bodies long unwashed, and the heavy steam of food. The floor was covered with sawdust and there was a constant chink of glass.
" 'Ello, Mr. Monk; I hain't seen you for a long time. Were yer bin?"
Monk felt a leap of excitement and studied hard to hide it.
"Had an accident," he answered, keeping his voice level.
The man looked him up and down critically and grunted, dismissing it.
"I 'ears as yer after som'un as'll blow a little?"
"That's right," Monk agreed. He must not be too precipitate, or the price would be high, and he could not afford the time to bargain; he must be right first time, or he would appear green. He knew from the air, the smell of it, that haggling was part of the game.
"Worf anyfink?" the man asked.
"Could be."
"Well," the man said, thinking it over. "Yer always bin fair, that's why I comes to yer 'stead o' some 'o them other jacks. Proper mean, some o' them; yer'd be right ashamed if yer knew." He shook his head and sniffed hard, pulling a face of disgust.
Monk smiled.
"Wotcher want, then?" the man asked.
&nb
sp; "Several things." Monk lowered his voice even further, still looking across the table and not at the man. "Some stolen goods—a fence, and a good screever."
The man also looked at the table, studying the stain ring marks of mugs.
"Plenty o' fences, guv; and a fair few screevers. Special goods, these?"
"Not very."
"W'y yer want 'em ven? Som'one done over bad?"
"Yes."
"O'right, so wot are vey ven?"
Monk began to describe them as well as he could; he had only memory to go on.
"Table silver—"
The man looked at him witheringly.
Monk abandoned the silver. "A jade ornament," he continued. "About six inches high, of a dancing lady with her arms up in front of her, bent at die elbows. It was pinky-colored jade—"
"Aw, nar vat's better." The man's voice lifted; Monk avoided looking at his face. "Hain't a lot o' pink jade abaht," he went on. "Anyfink else?"
"A silver scuttle, about four or five inches, I think, and a couple of inlaid snuffboxes."
"Wot kind o' snuffboxes, guv: siller, gold, enamel? Yer gotta give me mor'n vat!"
"I can't remember."
"Yer wot? Don't ve geezer wot lorst 'em know?" His face darkened with suspicion and for the first time he looked at Monk. " 'Ere! 'E croaked, or suffink?"
"Yes," Monk said levelly, still staring at the wall. "But no reason to suppose the thief did it. He was dead long before the robbery.''
"Yer sure o' vat? 'Ow d'yer know 'e were gorn afore?"
"He was dead two months before." Monk smiled acidly. "Even I couldn't mistake that. His empty house was robbed."
The man thought this over for several minutes before delivering his opinion.
Somewhere over near the bar there was a roar of laughter.
"Robbin' a deadlurk?" he said with heavy condescension. "Bit chancy to find anyfink, in' it? Wot did yer say abaht a screever? Wot yer want a screever fer ven?"
"Because the thieves used forged police papers to get in," Monk replied.
The man's face lit up with delight and he chuckled richly.
"A proper downy geezer, vat one. I like it!" He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and laughed again. "It'd be a sin ter shop a feller wiv vat kind o' class."
Monk took a gold half sovereign out of his pocket and put it on the table. The man's eyes fastened onto it as if it mesmerized him.
"I want the screever who made those fakements for them," Monk repeated. He put out his hand and took the gold coin back again. He put it into his inside pocket. The man's eyes followed it. "And no sly faking," Monk warned. "I'll feel your hands in my pockets, and you remember that, unless you fancy picking oakum for a while. Not do your sensitive fingers any good, picking oakum!" He winced inwardly as a flash of memory returned of men's fingers bleeding from the endless unraveling of rope ends, day in, day out, while years of their lives slid by.
The man flinched. "Now vat ain't nice, Mr. Monk. I never took nuffink from yer in me life." He crossed himself hastily and Monk was not sure whether it was a surety of truth or a penance for the lie. "I s'pose yer tried all ve jollyshops?" the man continued, screwing up his face. "Couldn't christen that jade lady."
Evan looked vaguely confused, although Monk was not sure by what.
"Pawnshops," he translated for him. "Naturally thieves remove any identification from most articles, but nothing much you can do to jade without spoiling its value." He took five shillings out of his pocket and gave them to the man.”Come back in two days, and if you've got anything, you'll have earned the half sovereign."
"Right, guv, but not 'ere; vere's a slap bang called ve Purple Duck dahn on Plumber's Row—orf ve Whitechapel Road. Yer go vere." He looked Monk up and down with distaste. "An' come out o' twig, eh; not all square rigged like a prater! And bring the gold, 'cos I'll 'ave suffink. Yer 'ealf, guv, an' yers." He glanced sideways at Evan, then slid off the seat and disappeared into the crowd. Monk felt elated, suddenly singing inside. Even the fest-cooling plum duff was bearable. He smiled broadly across at Evan.
"Come in disguise," he explained. "Not soberly dressed like a fake preacher."
"Oh." Evan relaxed and began to enjoy himself also. "I see." He stared around at the throng of faces, seeing mystery behind the dirt, his imagination painting them with nameless color.
* * * * *
Two days later Monk obediently dressed himself in suitable secondhand clothes; "translators" the informer would have called them. He wished he could remember the man's
name, but for all his efibrts it remained completely beyond recall, bidden like almost everything else after the age of about seventeen. He had had glimpses of the years up to then, even including his first year or two in London, but although he lay awake, staring into the darkness, letting his mind wander, going over and over all he knew in the hope his brain would jerk into life again and continue forward, nothing more returned.
Now he and Evan were sitting in the saloon in the Purple Duck, Evan's delicate face registering both his distaste and his efforts to conceal it. Looking at him, Monk wondered how often he himself must have been here to be so unoffended by it. It must have become habit, the noise, the smell, the uninhibited closeness, things his subconscious remembered even if his mind did not.
They had to wait nearly an hour before the informer turned up, but he was grinning again, and slid into the seat beside Monk without a word.
Monk was not going to jeopardize the price by seeming too eager.
"Drink?" he offered.
"Nah, just ve guinea," the man replied. "Don' want ter draw attention to meself drinkin' wiv ve likes o' you, if yer'll pardon me. But potmen 'as sharp mem'ries an' loose tongues."
"Quite," Monk agreed. "But you'll earn the guinea before you get it."
"Aw, nah Mr. Monk." He pulled a face of deep offense. " 'Ave I ever shorted yer? Now 'ave I?"
Monk had no idea.
"Did you find my screever?" he asked instead.
"I carsn't find yer jade, nor fer sure, like."
"Did you find the screever?"
"You know Tommy, the shofulman?"
For a moment Monk felt a touch of panic. Evan was watching him, fascinated by the bargaining. Ought he to know Tommy? He knew what a shofulman was, someone who passed forged money.
"Tommy?" he blinked.
"Yeah!" the man said impatiently. "Blind Ibmmy, least 'e pretends 'e's blind. I reckon as 'e 'alf is."
"Where do I find him?" If he could avoid admitting anything, perhaps he could bluff his way through. He must not either show an ignorance of something he would be expected to know or on the other hand collect so little information as to be left helpless.
"You find 'im?" The man smiled condescendingly at the idea. "Yer'll never find 'im on yer own; wouldn't be safe anyhow. 'E's in ve rookeries, an' yer'd get a shiv in yer gizzard sure as 'ell's on fire if yer went in vere on yer tod. I'll take yer."
"Tommy taken up screeving?" Monk concealed his relief by making a general and he hoped meaningless remark.
The little man looked at him with amazement.
" "Course not! 'E can't even write 'is name, let alone a fekement fer some'un else! But 'e knows a right downy geezer wot does. Reckon 'e's the one as writ yer police papers for yer. 'E's known to do vat kind o' fing."
"Good. Now what about the jade—anything at all?"
The man twisted his rubberlike features into the expression of an affronted rodent.
"Bit 'aid, vat, guv. Know one feller wot got a piece, but 'e swears blind it were a snoozer wot brought it—an' you din't say nuffink abaht no snoozer."
"This was no hotel thief," Monk agreed. "That the only one?"
"Only one as I knows fer sure."
Monk knew the man was lying, although he could not have said how—an accumulation of impressions too subtle to be analyzed.
"I don't believe you, Jake; but you've done well with the screever." He fished in his pocket and brought out th
e promised gold. “And if it leads to the man I want, there'll be another for you. Now take me to Blind Tommy the shofulman."
They all stood up and wormed their way out through the crowd into the street. It was not until they were two hundred yards away that Monk realized, with a shudder of excitement he could not control, that he had called the man by name. It was coming back, more than merely his memory for his own sake, but his skill was returning. He quickened his step and found himself smiling broadly at Evan.
The rookery was monstrous, a rotting pile of tenements crammed one beside the other, piled precariously, timbers awry as the damp warped them and floors and walls were patched and repatched. It was dark even in the late summer afternoon and the humid air was clammy to the skin. It smelled of human waste and the gutters down the overhung alleys ran with filth. The squeaking and slithering of rats was a constant background. Everywhere there were people, huddled in doorways, lying on stones, sometimes six or eight together, some of them alive, some already dead from hunger or disease. Typhoid and pneumonia were endemic in such places and venereal diseases passed from one to another, as did the flies and lice.
Monk looked at a child in the gutter as he passed, perhaps five or six years old, its fece gray in the half-light, pinched sharp; it was impossible to tell whether it was male or female. Monk thought with a dull rage that bestial as it was to beat a man to death as Grey had been beaten, it was still a better murder than this child's abject death.
He noticed Evan's face, white in the gloom, eyes like holes in his head. There was nothing he could think of to say—no words that served any purpose. Instead he put out his hand and touched him briefly, an intimacy that came quite naturally in that awful place.
