He walked out of the door with a positive swagger, until he saw the girls lined up in the passage, scrubbed clean, their hair tied back, their thin faces alight with hope. Then instead he felt sick.
'I'm sorry,' he apologized. 'You're fine. I've just changed my mind.' And he hurried away before he could think of it anymore.
It was close enough to noon that he could comfortably walk up to the Coopers Arms and order luncheon and casually make enquiries about the Jackson girls. Could it, after all, be so ridiculously easy that they were still in the immediate neighborhood? It was foolish to hope, and he was not even sure if he wanted to. It might easily bring Martha Jackson more distress. But it was not his job to foresee that and make decisions for her.
Was it?
He had knowledge she could not have. In telling her or not telling her, he was in effect making the decision.
He walked briskly in the bright sunlight up Putney High Street. It was full of people, mostly going about their business of buying or selling, haggling over prices, shouting their wares. Some were begging, as always. Some were standing and gossiping, women with heavy baskets, trailing children, men with barrows spilling out vegetables or bales of cloth, sacks of sticks or coal, bags of flour. The flower girl stood on a street comer with bunches of violets, another with matches. A one-legged soldier offered bootlaces. Two small boys swept the crossings clean of horse droppings. The wail of a rag and bone man drifted across, calling his wares. A brewer's dray lumbered by.
Newspaper boys called out the headlines. A running pat-terer found himself a spot, and a gathering audience, and launched into a bawdy version of Killian Melville's double life as a perverted woman who dressed as a man to deceive the world. It made Monk so angry he wanted to seize the man by the lapels and shout at him that he was a vicious, ignorant little swine who made his living on other people's misery and that he had no idea what he was talking about. And if he did not keep his mouth shut in the affair, Monk would personally shut it for him.
He strode by with his fists clenched and his jaw so tight his teeth ached. Every muscle in him was knotted with rage at the injustice. Melville was dead. That was more tragedy than enough. This was monstrous.
Why was he walking past?
He stopped abruptly, swung around, and marched back to the patterer. He did seize him by the lapels, to his amazement, and said exactly what he had wished to, which gathered twice the previous audience and much ribald laughter. He left the man breathless with indignation and astonishment, and resumed his way feeling relieved of much immediate tension.
The Coopers Arms was a very ordinary public house, and at this time of the day, crowded with people. The smells of sawdust, ale and human sweat and dirt were pungent, and the babble of voices assailed him the moment he pushed open the doors. The barman was busy, and he had to wait several minutes before purchasing a mug of stout and ordering pork pie, pickles and boiled red cabbage.
He found himself a seat at one of the tables, deliberately joining with other people. He chose a group who looked like local small tradesmen, neat, comfortable, slightly shabby, tucking into their food with relish. They looked at him guardedly but not in an unfriendly manner. He was a stranger and might prove a diversion from their day-to- day affairs. And Monk wanted to talk.
'Good day, gentlemen,' he said with a smile, taking his seat. 'Thank you for your hospitality.' He was referring to the fact that they had moved up to make room for him.
'Not from 'round 'ere,' one of them observed.
'Other side of the river,' Monk replied. 'Bloomsbury way.'
'Wot brings you down 'ere, then?' another asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and picking up a thick roll of bread stuffed with ham. 'Sellin', are yer? Or buyin'?'
'Neither,' Monk answered, sipping his stout. His meal had not yet come. Looking at the food already on the table, he was remarkably hungry. It seemed like a long day already. 'Probably on a pointless errand. Did any of you know a Samuel Jackson, lived here about twenty years ago?'
The third member, who had not yet spoken, pushed his cap back on his head and looked at Monk curiously. 'Yeah, I knew 'im. Decent feller, 'e were. Poor devil. Died. Din't yer know that?'
'Yes, yes, I did know. I was wondering what became of his family,' Monk continued.
The man guffawed with laughter, but there was a hard edge to it and his eyes were angry. 'Little late, in't yer? Why d'yer wanna know fer now? 'Oo cares after all this time?'
'His sister,' Monk replied truthfully. 'She cared all the time but was in no position to employ anyone to find out'
'So wot's changed?' the man said, yanking his cap forward again.
A smiling girl brought Monk his meal and he thanked her and gave her threepence for herself. The man at the table frowned. Monk was setting a precedent they would not be able to follow.
'Thank you,' Monk said graciously, still looking at the girl. 'Do you have scullery maids in the kitchen?'
'Yes sir, three o' them,' she said willingly. Any gentleman who tipped her threepence deserved a little courtesy. And he was certainly handsome looking, in a grim sort of way. Quite appealing, really, a bit mysterious. 'An' two kitchen maids, an' o' course a cook… sir. Was yer wantin' ter speak ter anyone?'
'Do you have a girl with a deformed mouth?'
'A wot?'
'A twisted mouth, a funny lip?'
She looked puzzled. 'No sir.'
'Never mind. Thank you for answering me.' It was foolish to have hoped. The woman at Buxton House had said the publican had got rid of the girls. It might not even be the same publican now. It was fifteen years ago.
The girl smiled and left and Monk began his meal.
'Yer really mean it, don't yer?' one of the men said in surprise. 'You'll not find 'em now, yer know? They put people like that away inter places w'ere they can't upset folk… they'll be cleanin' up arter folk somewhere, if they're still alive. They wasn't only ugly, yer know; they was simple as well. I saw 'em w'en they was 'ere. There's summink about 'avin' yer face twisted as bothers folk more 'n if it were yer body or yer 'ands. One of 'em looked like she were sneerin' at yer, an the other like she was barin' 'er teeth. Couldn't 'elp it, o' course, but strangers don' know that.'
Monk should have kept quiet. Instead he found himself asking, 'Where might they be sent to, exactly?'
The man gulped down his ale. 'ExacTy? Gawd knows! Any places as'd 'ave 'em, poor little things. Pity fer Sam. 'E loved them little girls.'
There was only one more avenue Monk should try, then duty was satisfied.
'What about his widow? Do you know what happened to her?'
'Dolly Jackson? I dunno.' He looked around the table. 'D'you know, Ted? D'you know, Alf?'
Ted shrugged and picked up his tankard.
'She left Putney. I know that,' Alf said decisively. 'Went north, I 'eard. Up city way. Lookin' fer a soft billet, I shouldn't wonder. She were pretty enough ter please any man, long as she didn't 'ave them two little one's wif 'er.'
'That's a downright cruel thing ter say!' Ted criticized.
Alf's face showed resignation. 'It's true. Poor Sam. Turnin' over in 'is grave, I shouldn't wonder.'
As Monk had foreseen, the public house had changed hands, and the present landlord, with the best will in the world to oblige, had no idea whatever what had happened to two little girls fifteen years ago, nor could he make any helpful suggestions. Monk had acquitted his obligations, and he left with thanks.
The obvious course was to tell Martha Jackson that he had done what he could and further pursuance was fruitless. He would not tell her his fears, only phrase things in such a manner she would not wish to waste his time on something which could not succeed.
He arrived in Tavistock Square early in the afternoon and was admitted by Martha herself. The moment she recognized him, her face filled with eagerness, hope that he had come for her battling with fear that it was only to see Hester again and dread that he had something discouraging to tell her after all.
He wished he could free himself from caring about it. It was just another case-and one which he had known from the beginning could only end this way, or worse. And yet the feeling was sharp inside him, not only for Hester but for Martha herself, and above all for Sam Jackson's children.
'I'm sorry, Miss Jackson,' he said quickly. He should not keep her in even a moment's false hope. 'I traced
