anything to avoid Evan's eyes. 'You will still have to be discreet, though. Dawlish is a man of considerable standing.'
'Oh I will, sir, I will. Anyway, I do not especially suspect him. What about the letter we saw from Charles Latterly? That was pretty chilly, I thought. And I found out quite a lot more about him.' He took a spoonful of his stew at last. 'Did you know his father committed suicide just a few weeks before Grey was killed? Dawlish is a business affair in the future, but Latterly could have been one from the past. Don't you think so, sir?' He was ignoring the taste and texture of the food, almost swallowing it whole in his preoccupation. 'Perhaps there was something not quite right there, and the elder Mr. Latterly took his life when he was implicated, and young Mr. Charles Latterly, the one who sent the letter, was the one who killed Grey in revenge?'
Monk took a deep breath. He must have just a little more time.
'That letter sounded too controlled for a man passionate enough to kill in revenge,' he said carefully, beginning to eat his own stew. 'But I will look into it. You try Dawlish, and you might try the Fortescues as well. We don't know very much about their connection either.' He could not let Evan pursue Charles for his, Monk's, crime; also the truth was too close for Charles to deny it easily. He had no liking for him, but there was something of honor left to cling to-and he was Hester's brother. 'Yes,' he added, 'try the Fortescues as well.'
In the afternoon when Evan set off full of enthusiasm after Dawlish and Fortescue, Monk went back to the police station and again sought out the man who had given him Marner's address. The man's face lit up as soon as Monk came in.
'Ah, Monk, I owe you something. Good old Zebedee at last.' He waved a book in the air triumphantly. 'Went down to his place on the strength of the ledger you brought, and searched the whole building. The rackets he was running.' He positively chortled with delight and hiccupped very slightly. 'Swindling left and right, taking a rake-off from half the crime and vice in Limehouse-and the Isle of Dogs. God knows how many thousands of pounds must have gone through his hands, the old blackguard.'
Monk was pleased; it was one career other than his own he had helped.
'Good,' he said sincerely. 'I always like to imagine that particular kind of bloodsucker running his belly off in the treadmills for a few years.'
The other man grinned.
'Me too, and that one especially. By the way, the tobacco importing company was a sham. Did you know that?' He hiccupped again and excused himself. 'There was a company, but there was never any practical chance it could have done any trading, let alone make a profit. Your fellow Grey took his money out at precisely the right moment. If he wasn't dead I should be wishing I could charge him as well.'
Charge Grey? Monk froze. The room vanished except for a little whirling light in front of him, and the man's face.
'Wishing? Why only wishing?' He hardly dared ask. Hope hurt like a physical thing.
'Because there's no proof,' the man replied, oblivious of Monk's ecstasy. 'He did nothing actually illegal. But I'm as sure as I am that Hell's hot, he was part of it; just too damned clever to step over the law. But he set it up- and brought in the money.'
'But he was taken in the fraud,' Monk protested, afraid to believe. He wanted to grab the man and shake him; he resisted only with difficulty. 'You're sure beyond doubt?'
'Of course I am.' The other raised his eyebrows. 'I may not be as brilliant a detective as you are, Monk, but I know my job. And I certainly know a fraud when I see one. Your friend Grey was one of the best, and very tidy about it.' He hitched himself more comfortably in his seat. 'Not much money, not enough to cause suspicion, just a small profit, and no guilt attached to him. If he made a habit of it he must have done quite nicely. Although how he got all those people to trust him with their money I don't know. You should see the names of some of those who invested.'
'Yes,' Monk said slowly. 'I also should like to know how he persuaded them. I think I want to know that almost as much as I want to know anything.' His brain was racing, casting for clues, threads anywhere. 'Any other names in that ledger, any partners of Marner's?'
'Employees-just the clerk in the outer office.'
'No partners; were there no partners? Anyone else who might know the business about Grey? Who got most of the money, if Grey didn't?'
The man hiccupped gently and sighed. 'A rather nebulous 'Mr. Robinson,' and a lot of money went on keeping it secret, and tidy, covering tracks. No proof so far that this Robinson actually knew exactly what was going on. We've got a watch on him, but nothing good enough to arrest him yet.'
'Where is he?' He had to find out if he had seen this
Robinson before, the first time he had investigated Grey. If Marner did not know him, then perhaps Robinson did?
The man wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to him.
Monk took it: it was just above the Elephant Stairs in Rotherhithe, across the river. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
'I won't spoil your case,' he promised. 'I only want to ask him one question, and it's to do with Grey, not the tobacco fraud.'
'It's all right,' the other man said, sighing happily. 'Murder is always more important than fraud, at least it is when it's a lord's son that's been killed.' He sighed and hiccupped together. 'Of course if he'd been some poor shopkeeper or chambermaid it would be different. Depends who's been robbed, or who's been killed, doesn't it?'
Monk gave a hard little grimace for the injustice of it, ' then thanked him and left.
Robinson was not at the Elephant Stairs, and it took Monk all afternoon to find him, eventually running him down in a gin mill in Seven Dials, but he learned everything he wanted to know almost before Robinson spoke. The man's face tightened as soon as Monk came in and a cautious look came into his eyes.
'Good day, Mr. Monk; I didn't expect to see you again. What is it this time?'
Monk felt the excitement shiver through him. He swallowed hard.
'Still the same thing-'
Robinson's voice was low and sibilant, and there was a timber in it that struck Monk with an almost electric familiarity. The sweat tingled on his skin. It was real memory, actual sight and feelings coming back at last. He stared hard at the man.
Robinson's narrow, wedge-shaped face was stiff.
'IVe already told you everything I know, Mr. Monk. Anyway, what does it matter now Joscelin Grey is dead?'
'And you told me everything you knew before? You swear it?'
Robinson snorted with a faint contempt.
'Yes I swear it,' he said wearily. 'Now will you please go away? You're known around 'ere. It don't do me no good to 'ave the police nosing around and asking questions. People think I 'ave something to 'ide.'
Monk did not bother to argue with him. The fraud detective would catch up with him soon enough.
'Good,' he said simply. 'Then I don't need to trouble you again.' He went out into the hot, gray street milling with peddlers and waifs, his feet hardly feeling the pavement beneath. So he had known about Grey before he had been to see him, before he had killed him.
But why was it he had hated Grey so much? Marner was the principal, the brains behind the fraud, and the greatest beneficiary. And it seemed he had made no move against Marner.
He needed to think about it, sort out his ideas, decide where at least to look for the last missing piece.
It was hot and close, the air heavy with the humidity coming up from the river, and his mind was tired, staggering, spinning with the burden of what he had learned. He needed food and something to drink away this terrible thirst, to wash the stench of the rookeries from his mouth.
Without realizing it he had walked to the door of an eating house. He pushed it open and the fresh smell of sawdust and apple cider engulfed him. Automatically he made his way to the counter. He did not want ale, but fresh bread and sharp, homemade pickle. He could smell them, pungent and a little sweet.
