by Anne Perry
“I’ll find him for you, if I can,” he added. “I can’t say the police will prosecute. You know as well as I do what the chances of that are.”
She gave an explosive laugh, full of derision.
“What you do after that is your own affair,” he said, knowing what it could mean. “But I can’t tell you anything until I’m sure.”
She drew breath to argue, then saw his face and knew it would be pointless.
“I’ll tell you nothing,” he repeated, “until I know. That’s the bargain.”
She put out her hand.
He took it and she gripped him with extraordinary strength.
She waited in the room beside the fire while Monk changed his clothes to old ones, both because he would not soil those he valued and for the very practical purpose of passing largely unnoticed in the areas to which he was going. Then he accompanied Vida Hopgood to Seven Dials.
She took him to her home, a surprisingly well furnished set of rooms above the sweatshop where eighty-three women sat by gaslight, heads bent over their needles, backs aching, eyes straining to see.
Vida also changed her clothes, leaving Monk in her parlor while she did so. Her husband was in the shop below, seeing no one slacked, talked to her neighbor or pocketed anything that was not hers.
Monk stared around the room. It was overfurnished. There was hardly a space on the heavily patterned wallpaper which was not covered by a picture or a framed sampler of embroidery. Table surfaces were decorated with dried flowers, china ornaments, stuffed birds under glass, more pictures. But in spite of the crowding, and the predominance of red, the whole effect was one of comfort and even a kind of harmony. Whoever lived there cared about it. There had been happiness, a certain pride in it, not to show off or impress others but for its own sake. There was something in Vida Hopgood which he could like. He wished he could remember their previous association. It was a burden to him that he could not, but he knew from too many attempts to trace other memories, more important ones, that the harder he sought, the more elusive they were, the more distorted. It was a disadvantage he had learned to live with most of the time; only on occasion was he sharply brought to realize its dangers when someone hated him and he had no idea why. It was an unusual burden that did not afflict most people, not to know who your friends or enemies were.
Vida returned in plainer, shabbier clothes and set straight about the business in hand. She had no intention of socializing with him. It was a temporary truce, and for all her humor, as a former policeman he was still the “enemy.” She would not forget it, even if he might.
“I’ll take yer ter see Nellie first,” she said, patting her skirt and straightening her shoulders. “There in’t no use yer goin’ alone. She won’t speak to yer if I don’ tell ’er ter. Can’t blame ’er.” She stared at him standing still in the comfortable room. “Well, come on then! I know it’s snowin’ but a bit o’ water won’t ’urt yer!”
Biting back his retort, he followed her out into the ice-swept street and hurried to keep pace with her. She moved surprisingly rapidly, her boots tapping sharply on the cobbles, her back straight, her eyes ahead. She had given her orders and assumed that if he wanted to be paid, he would obey them.
She turned abruptly along an alley, head down into the flurries of snow, hand up instinctively to keep her hat on. Even there she was going to maintain her superior status by wearing a hat rather than a shawl to protect her from the elements. She stopped at one of the many doors and banged on it sharply. After several moments it was opened by a plump young woman with a pretty face when she smiled, showing gapped and stained teeth.
“I wanna see Nellie,” Vida said bluntly. “Tell ’er Mrs. ’Opgood’s ’ere. I got Monk. She’ll know ’oo I mean.”
Monk felt a stab of fear that his name was so well known, even to this woman of the streets he had never heard of. He could not even recall having been to Seven Dials at all, let alone the faces of individual people. His disadvantage was acute.
The girl heard the tone of command in Vida’s voice and went off obediently to fetch Nellie. She did not invite them in, but left them standing in the freezing alley. Vida took the invitation as given and pushed the door open. Monk followed.
Inside was cold also, but mercifully out of the wind and now-thickening snow. The walls were damp in the corridor and smelled of mold, and from the pervading odor of excrement, the midden was not far away, and probably overflowing. Vida pushed on the second door, and it swung open into a room with a good-sized bed in it, rumpled and obviously lately used, but relatively clean, and with several blankets and quilts on it. Monk presumed it was a place of business as well as rest.
There was a young woman standing in the farther corner, waiting for them. Her face was marred by yellowing bruises and a severely cut brow, the scar of which was still healing and would never knit evenly. Monk needed no other evidence to tell him the woman had been badly beaten. He could not imagine an accident likely to cause such harm.
“You tell this geezer ’ere wot ’appened to yer, Nellie,” Vida ordered.
“ ’E’s a rozzer,” Nellie said incredulously, looking at Monk with intense dislike.
“No ’e in’t,” Vida contradicted. “ ’E used ter be. They threw ’im out. Now ’e works fer ’ooever pays him. An’ terday, we do. ’E’s goin’ ter find Oo’s beatin’ the ’ell out o’ the girls ’round ’ere, so we can put an end ter it.”
“Oh yeah?” Nellie said derisively. “ ’An ’ow’s ’e gonna do that, eh? W’y should ’e care?”
“ ’E probably don’t care,” Vida said sharply, impatient with Nellie’s stupidity. “But ’e ’as ter eat, same as the rest of us. ’E’ll do wot ’e’s paid ter do. Wot we do with the bastard after ’e finds ’im in’t ’is business.”
Nellie still hesitated.
“Look, Nellie”—Vida was fast losing her temper—“you may be one o’ them daft bitches wot likes bein’ beaten ter ’ell and back, Gawd knows!” She put her hands on her ample hips. “But do yer like bein’ too scared to go out in the streets ter earn yerself a little extra, eh? Yer wanna live on wot yer get stitchin’ shirts, do yer? That’s enough for yer, is it?”
Grudgingly, Nellie saw the point. She turned to Monk, her face puckered with dislike.
“Tell me what happened, and where,” Monk instructed her. “Start by telling me where you were and what time it was, or as near as you know.”
“It were three weeks ago but a day,” she answered, sucking her broken tooth. “A Tuesday night. I were in Fetter Lane. I’d just said good-bye ter a gent ’oo’d walked north again. I turned back ter come ’ome, an’ I saw another gent, dressed in a good coat, ’eavy, an’ wif a tall ’at on. ’E looked like money, an’ ’e were ’angin’ around like ’e wanted someone. So I went up ter ’im an’ spoke nice. Thinkin’ like ’e might fancy me.” She stopped, waiting for Monk’s reaction.
“And did he?” he asked.
“Yeah. ’E said ’e did. Only w’en ’e started, although I were willin’, ’e gets real rough an’ starts knockin’ me around. Afore I can let out a yell, there’s another geezer there an’ all. An’ ’e lights inter me.” She touched her eye gingerly. “ ’It me, ’e did. ’It me real ’ard. Bloody near knocked me out. Then ’e an’ the first geezer ’olds me an’ takes me, one after the other. Then one o’ them, by now I dunno which one, me ’ead’s fair singin’ an’ I’m ’alf senseless wi’ pain, ’e ’its me again an’ knocks me teef aht. Laughin’, they is, like madmen. I tell yer, I were scared sick.”
Looking at her face it was only too easy to believe. She was white at the memory.
“Can you tell me anything about them?” Monk asked. “Anything at all, a smell, a voice, a feel of cloth?”
“Wot?”
“Smell,” he repeated. “Can you remember any smell? They were close to you.”
“Like wot?” She looked puzzled.
“Anything. Think.” He tried not to sound sharp with her. Was s
he being intentionally stupid? “Men work in different places,” he prompted. “Some with horses, some with leather, some with fish or wool or bales of hemp. Did you smell salt? Sweat? Whiskey?”
She was silent.
“Well?” Vida snapped. “Think back! Wot’s the matter with yer? Don’t yer want these bastards found?”
“Yeah! I’m thinkin’,” Nellie protested. “They didn’t neither o’ them smell o’ none o’ them things. One o’ them smelled o’ some drink, real strong, but it in’t one I ever drunk. ’Orrible, it were.”
“Cloth,” Monk went on. “Did you feel the cloth of their clothes? Was it quality or reworked? Thick or thin?”
“Warm,” she said without hesitation, thinking of the only thing which would have mattered to her. “Wouldn’t mind a coat like that meself. Cost more’n I make in a month, an’ then some.”
“Clean shaven or bearded?”
“I din’t look!”
“Feel! You must have felt their faces. Think!”
“No beard. Clean shaven … I s’pose. Mebbe side-whiskers.” She gave a grunt of scorn. “Could ’a bin any o’ thousands!” Her voice was harsh with disillusion, as if for a moment she had hoped. “Yer in’t never goin’ ter find ’em. Yer a liar takin’ ’er money, an’ she’s a fool fer givin’ it yer.”
“You watch yer tongue, Nellie West!” Vida said sharply. “You in’t so smart yer can get along on yer own, an’ don’t yer ferget it! Keep civil, if yer knows wot’s good for yer.”
“What time of night was it?” Monk asked the last thing he thought would be of any use from her.
“Why?” she sneered. “Narrers it down, does it? Know ’oo it is then, do yer?”
“It may help. But if you’d prefer to protect them, we’ll ask elsewhere. I understand you are not the only woman to be beaten.” He turned for the door, leaving Vida to come after him. He heard her swear at Nellie carefully and viciously, without repeating herself.
The second woman to whom Vida led him was very different. They met her trudging home after a long day in the sweatshop. It was still snowing, although the cobbles were too wet for it to stick. The woman was perhaps thirty-five, although from the stoop of her shoulders she could have been fifty. Her face was puffy and her skin pale, but she had pretty eyes and her hair had a thick, natural curl. With a little spirit, a little laughter, she would still be attractive. She stopped when she recognized Vida. Her expression was not fearful or unfriendly. It said much of Vida’s character that as the wife of the sweatshop owner she could still command a certain friendship in such a woman.
“ ’Ello, Betty,” Vida said briskly. “This ’ere’s Monk. ’E’s gonner ’elp us with them bastards wot’ve bin beatin’ up women ’round ’ere.”
There was a flicker of hope in Betty’s eyes so brief it could have been no more than imagined.
“Yeah?” she said without interest. “Then wot? The rozzers is gonna arrest ’em, an’ the judge is gonna bang ’em up in the Coldbath Fields? Or maybe they’re goin’ ter Newgate an’ the rope, eh?” She gave a dry, almost soundless laugh.
Vida fell into step beside her, leaving Monk to walk a couple of paces behind. They turned the corner, passing a gin mill with drunken women on the doorstep, insensible of the cold.
“ ’Ow’s Bert?” Vida asked.
“Drunk,” Betty answered. “ ’Ow else?”
“An’ yer kids?”
“Billy ’as the croup, Maisie coughs summink terrible. Others is a’right.” They had reached her door and she went to push it open just as two small boys came running around the corner of the alley from the opposite direction, shouting and laughing. They both had sticks which they slashed around as if they were swords. One of the boys lunged and the other one yelled out, then crumpled up and pretended to be dying in agony, rolling around on the wet cobbles, his face alight with glee. The other one hopped up and down, crowing his victory. Seemingly, it was his turn, and he was going to savor every ounce of it.
Betty smiled patiently. The rags they wore, a mixture of hand-me-downs and clothes unpicked and restitched from others, could hardly get any filthier.
Monk found his shoulders relaxing a little at the sound of children’s laughter. It was a touch of humanity in the gray drudgery around him.
Betty led the way into a tenement very like the one in which Nellie West lived. Betty apparently occupied two rooms at the back. A middle-aged man lay in a stupor half in a chair, half on the floor. She ignored him. The room was cluttered with the furniture of living, a lopsided table, the stuffed chair in which the man lay, two wooden chairs, one with a patched seat, a whisk broom and half a dozen assorted rags. The sound of children’s voices, and someone coughing, came through the thin walls from the other room. The two boys were still fighting in the corridor.
Vida ignored them all and concentrated on Betty.
“Tell ’im wot ’appened to yer.” She jerked her head at Monk to indicate who she meant. The other man was apparently too deep in his stupor to be aware of them.
“I’nt nuffink much ter tell,” Betty said resignedly. “I got beat. It still ’urts, but nobody can’t do nothin’ about it. Thought o’ carryin’ a shiv meself, but in’t worth it. If I stick the bastards, I’ll only get topped fer murder. Anyway, don’t s’pose they’ll come ’ere again.”
“Yeah?” Vida said, her voice thick with derision. “Count on that, would yer? Don’ mind goin’ out in the streets again, takin’ yer chances? ’Appy about that, are yer? Yer din’t ’ear wot ’appened ter Nellie West, ner Clarrie Drover, ner Dot MacRae? Ner them others wot got raped or beat? Some o’ them’s only kids. They damn near killed ’Etty Barker, poor little cow.”
Betty looked shaken. “I thought that were ’er man wot done that. ’E drinks rotten, an’ ’e don’ know wot ’e does ’alf the time.” She glanced towards the recumbent figure in the corner, and Monk guessed she was only too familiar with the predicament.
“No, it weren’t ’im,” Vida said bleakly. “George in’t that bad. ’E’s all wind an’ water. ’E don’ really do ’er that bad. She jus’ likes ter mouth orff. It were a geezer she picked up, an’ ’e punched ’er summink rotten an’ then kicked ’er, after ’e took ’er. She’s all tore, an’ still bleedin’. Yer sure yer ’appy ter go out there lookin’, are yer?”
Betty stared at her. “Then I’ll stay ’ome,” she said between clenched teeth. “Or I’ll go up the ’Aymarket.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool!” Vida spat back contemptuously. “You in’t ’Aymarket quality, an’ yer knows it. Nor’d they let yer jus’ wander up there an’ butt in, an’ yer knows that too.”
“Then I’ll ’ave ter stay ’ome an’ make do, won’t I?” Betty retaliated, her cheeks a dull pink.
Vida stared at the sleeping man in the corner, unutterable scorn in her face. “An’ ’e’s gonna feed yer kids, is ’e? Grow up, Betty. Yer’ll be out there again, rape or no rape, an’ yer knows it as well as I do. Answer Monk’s questions. We’re gonna get these sods. Work together an’ we can.”
Betty was too tired to argue. Just that moment, Vida was a worse threat than hunger or violence. She turned to Monk resignedly.
He asked her the same questions he had asked Nellie West, and received roughly the same answers. She had been out in the street to earn a little extra money. It had been a thin week for her husband—she referred to him loosely by that term. He had tried hard, but because of the weather there was nothing. Winters were always hard, especially at the fish market where he often picked up a little work. They had had a fight, over nothing in particular. He had hit her, blackening her eye and pulling out a handful of her hair. She had hit him over the head with an empty gin bottle, knocking him out. It had broken, and she had cut her hand picking up the pieces before the children could tread on them and cut their feet.
It was after that that she had gone to look for a spot of trade to make up the money. She had earned seventeen and sixpence, quite a tidy sum, and was look
ing to improve on it, when three men had approached her, two from in front, one from behind, and after no more than a few moments’ verbal abuse, one of them had held her while the other two had raped her, one after the other. She was left badly bruised, one shoulder wrenched and her knees and elbows grazed and bleeding. She had been too frightened to go out again for three weeks after that, or even to allow George anywhere near her. In fact, the thought of going out again made her nearly sick with fear—although hunger drove her past the door eventually.
Monk questioned her closely for anything she could remember of them. They had abused her verbally. What were their voices like?
“They spoke proper … like gents. Weren’t from around ’ere!” There was no doubt in her at all.
“Old or young?”
“Dunno. Din’t see. Can’t tell from a voice.”
“Clean shaven or bearded?”
“Clean … I think! Don’ remember no whiskers. Least … I don’ think so.”
“What kind of clothes?”
“Dunno.”
“Do you remember anything else? A smell, words, a name, anything at all?”
“Dunno.” Her eyes clouded. “Smell? Wot yer mean? They din’t smell o’ nuffink.”
“No drink?”
“Not as I can think of. No … din’t smell o’ nuffink at all.”
“Not soap?” Then instantly he wished he had not said it. He was putting the suggestion into her mind.
“Soap? Yeah, I s’pose so. Funny, like … diff’rent.”
Did she know what cleanliness smelled like? Perhaps it would be odd to her, an absence rather than a presence. It did not tell him anything more than Nellie West had, but it reinforced the same picture: two or three men coming into the area from somewhere else and becoming increasingly violent in their appetites. They apparently knew enough to pick on the women alone—not the professional prostitutes, who might have pimps to protect them, but the amateurs, the women who only took to the streets occasionally, in times of need.
It was dark when they left, and the snow was beginning to stick. The few unbroken street lamps reflected glittering shards of light on the running gutters. But Vida had no intention of stopping. This was when they would find the women at home, and apart from the fact that they might not speak in the company of their colleagues, she was not going to lose good work-time by asking the questions when they should be unpicking or cutting or stitching. The practicalities must be observed. Also it crossed Monk’s mind that perhaps Mr. Hopgood was not aware of her campaign, and that indirectly he was paying for it. He might very well not feel as personally about the issue as she did.
