“Well, I didn’t! I ’ad customers all night, till past two in the mornin’. Then I were knackered,” she said defiantly.
“Names would help me to believe you.”
“Oh, yeah! I’m gonna be in great shape fer me business if I give yer a list o’ toffs wot come ’ere fer a bit o’ fun, aren’t I? Do wonders fer me reputation, that would!”
“I expect I can find them from somebody else.” He said it lightly, as if it were an easy thing to do. “I can ask one of the pubs along the mall who was there that evening.”
Her face went even paler, her skin as white as milk. “Please, mister, yer’ll ruin me! If I lose all me customers, I in’t got nothin’ else I can do! An’ I owe money. They’ll come arter me!” She leaned toward him, and he could feel the warmth of her, a faint smell of perfume and sweat. “If I tell yer I took the cravat that afternoon, then yer’ll know it wasn’t Mr. Cardew as killed Mickey, an’ then yer’ll start all over again wi’ Tosh, an’ ’e’ll skin me alive for bringin’ trouble on ’im. ’E’ll beat the ’ell out o’ me, an’ then I won’t be able ter work.”
“You’re right,” Monk said gently. “That would be unfair.”
She took a deep, shaky breath and made an attempt at a smile.
“Better to let Rupert Cardew hang,” he said quietly. “Who do you suppose did kill Mickey?”
Her hands were gripped so tight, there were white ridges on her knuckles.
“I dunno,” she whispered.
“He’ll need to come back and make sure you don’t tell anyone,” he pointed out. “Rupert will remember that you took his cravat. He’ll say so, in court, even if no one believes him. I dare say the prosecution will call you to give evidence, just to deny it. Close off all escape for him, as it were.”
“Jesus! Ye’re a bastard!” she said huskily. “Worse than Tosh, yer are.”
“No, I’m not, Hattie.” He shook his head, although he felt a sharp stab of truth in what she said. “I want you to tell me the truth, then I’ll keep you safe.”
“Yeah?” she said contemptuously. “An’ ’ow are yer gonna do that, then? Buy a nice little room somewhere where they’ll never find me, will yer? An’ food an’ summink ter do, then?”
The answer was instant in his mind. “Yes, actually, that’s exactly what I’ll do. But to do it, I need the truth, preferably with some way you can prove it.”
She blinked, hope flickering in her eyes. “Like ’ow?”
“Describe the cravat to me.”
“Eh? It were just a dark blue tie, that sort o’ shape.” She made a picture in the air. “Silk,” she added.
“How long?”
Again she gestured, holding her hands just under three feet apart.
“Go on,” he prompted. “What else?”
“It’s narrer in the middle an’ wide at both ends,” she said. “One end bigger than the other … longer, like.”
“Was it plain or patterned?”
“Patterned. Yer know that, fer Gawd’s sake! It ’ad little yeller animals on it, three at a time. Cats, or summink.”
“How?”
“One on top o’ the other. Three of ’em.”
“Thank you, Hattie. I believe you. Now go and pack some clothes into a bag, get dressed, and I will take you to a safe place.”
She remained sitting down. “Where?”
“In the city, Portpool Lane. You will be safe there. You will be fed and have your own room. You’ll work for it, at whatever Mrs. Monk tells you to do.” He saw the look on her face. “It used to be a brothel,” he said with a broad smile. “It’s a clinic for sick women, and injured ones.”
She swore at him, colorfully and with profound feeling, but she did as he told her.
They took a hansom from the Chiswick mall all the way into the city. It was a long and expensive ride, but Monk felt it was more than warranted by the circumstances. He did not wish her to be seen with him; in fact, he could not afford it. It would be so easy for anyone to make a few inquiries and find the clinic. Perhaps he should warn Squeaky Robinson to keep a close eye on Hattie and see that she did not show herself in the rooms where casual patients came for treatment or help, at least until the case had come to trial and she had testified. After that, her safety could be reconsidered.
As the wheels rumbled over the streets, he engaged her in conversation, as much in order to take her mind off her present situation as in the expectation of learning anything more. Either way, he failed.
“Yer gotta keep ’im from findin’ me,” she said, hugging her arms around her body and sitting forward on the seat. “ ’E’ll do me, ’e will.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Tosh, o’ course!” she answered angrily. “I in’t scared o’ Crumble. ’E couldn’t squash a fly. Feared of ’is own shadder, an’ fearder still o’ Tosh.”
“What about ’Orrie Jones?”
“I dunno. Sometimes I think ’e’s ’alf-witted, other times I in’t so sure. But ’e wouldn’t do nuffink ’less Tosh told ’im ter, wotever ’e thought fer ’isself.”
“Did you ever hear the name of Jericho Phillips?”
“No. ’Oo’s ’e?”
“He’s dead now, but he used to run a boat like Mickey’s, but down the river.”
“An’ now Mickey’s dead, eh?” she said thoughtfully. “Could Mr. Cardew a killed ’im?”
“No. We know who killed Phillips. The man who did it killed himself also.”
She gave a little grunt.
“Why did you think it was the same person?” he asked. “Do you think Mickey and Phillips knew each other?”
“Dunno. Mickey din’t work for ’isself. ’E come from Chiswick, same like the rest of us. ’E never ’ad money ter get a boat. Someone else staked ’im. Mebbe it were the same person.”
“Rupert Cardew?”
“Don’t be daft!” she retorted. “Why’d ’e have me steal ’is necktie ter make it look like ’e killed Mickey if ’e were behind it all? It’s someone wi’ twice the brains ’e ’as.”
“More than Mickey, or Tosh?”
“They got cunning; it in’t the same.”
He did not argue. Deliberately he guided the conversation to other, more pleasant subjects, and finally they arrived at Portpool Lane. He took her inside, introduced her to Squeaky Robinson, and then to Claudine Burroughs, explaining the need to keep her safe.
“She can help me,” Claudine said decisively. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”
Monk thanked her, wondering wryly how Hattie would take to that. It might well be the best care she had ever known.
In the morning Monk went to see Rathbone and told him that he had now found evidence that made it extremely unlikely that Rupert Cardew was responsible for the death of Mickey Parfitt.
Rathbone was startled. “And the cravat? Was it not his?” he asked, as if unable to believe in the release from the responsibility of an impossible task.
“Yes, it was his,” Monk replied, sitting down in the chair opposite Rathbone’s desk without being invited. “A prostitute stole it from him that afternoon and gave it to someone she is too afraid to name. But I believe her. She can describe it far too precisely for her to have only seen it around his neck. She had seen it undone, felt it, and knew it was silk. She admitted to taking it.”
Rathbone drew in his breath as if to speak, then changed his mind.
Monk smiled, sitting back a little in the chair. “Did Lord Cardew pay her to say this?” He said aloud what he knew was in Rathbone’s mind. “You could always ask him.”
“Where is she?” Rathbone did not bother to express his opinion of that remark.
“I would prefer not to tell you,” Monk replied. “For your safety as well as hers.”
Rathbone’s eyes widened for a moment, then his face was expressionless again. “Now what will you do
