Page 78 of The Silent Cry (William Monk 8)

“Never!” She tilted her head to one side. “Were it? ’Onest?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Dunno. I din’ see ’im for a couple o’ weeks afore them blokes was done in Water Lane. Rozzers all over the place arter that. In’t good for business.”

He took out the picture of Leighton Duff. “Did you ever see this man?”

She studied it. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I never seen ’im. ’Oo is ’e? Is ’e the bloke wot got beat ter death?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I see’d Rhys, that’s ’is name, wi’ other gents, but this geezer weren’t one of ’em. They was young, like ’im. One were real ’andsome. Called ’isself ‘King’ or ‘Prince’ or summink like that. The other were Arfur.”

“Duke, perhaps?” Monk felt his pulse beating like a hammer. This was it; this was the three of them seen together and named.

“Yeah … that’s right! Were he a duke, for real?”

“No. It’s just short for ‘Marmaduke.’ ”

“Oh … shame. Like ter fink as I’d ’ad a duke. Still, never mind, eh? All the same wif their pants orff.” She laughed with genuine humor at the absurdity of pretension.

“And they all paid you?” he pressed one more time.

“Nah … that Duke were a nasty piece o’ work. ’E’d ’a ’it me if I’d ’a pushed, so I din’t. Jus’ took wot I could.”

“Did he hit you?”

“Nah. I knows w’en ter push me luck an’ w’en not ter.”

“Did you see him the night of the murder?”

“Nah.”

“None of them?”

“Nah.”

“I see. Thank you.” He produced a shilling, all the change he had left, and gave it to her.

He continued in his search. As he was already aware, the word had spread whom he was seeking and why. For once cooperation was less grudgingly given. Once or twice it was even volunteered. He wanted one more piece, if possible. Had there been a victim that night? Had Leighton Duff caught them before they had attacked, or after? Was there any room at all for denial?

If they had been exultant, intoxicated with the excitement of their victory, disheveled, perhaps marked with blood, then there was nothing else left to seek. Evan would have the force of the law behind him when the crime was murder of a respectable member of society rather than the rape of women whom society chose to forget, and with Monk’s help he would have proof enough for any court.

It took him another complete day, but at last he found the second victim, a woman in her forties, still pretty in spite of her tiredness and persistent cough. Her cheekbone was broken and she limped badly. She was severely bruised. Yes, they had raped her, but she had not had the strength to fight, and that in itself had seemed to anger them. She was lucky. They had been interrupted.

“Don’ tell anyone,” she begged. “I’ll lose me job.”

He wished he could promise her that. He said what he could.

“They went on to commit murder within a few minutes of leaving you,” he said grimly. “You won’t need to say you were raped. You can swear you were walking along the street and they fell on you … that will be good enough.”

“Yeah?” She looked doubtful.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Where was it?”