Acceptable Loss (16 page)

“Course, fer money,” Phoebe said patiently. “Don’t matter if ’e’s ’andsome as the devil ’isself, an’ kind, an’ makes yer laugh, a girl’s still ter eat, and there’s yer protectors wot needs their share.”

“Do you know anyone who slept with Rupert Cardew?”

“Yeah! Told yer! Dunnit meself, couple o’ times.”

Hester squashed the flicker of revulsion. It was stupid. What had she imagined Rupert had done that he knew the street women so well, even cared enough to give money to someone helping them?

“What is his character like?” she said.

“Cripes! Yer in’t thinkin’ o’—”

“No, I’m not,” Hester assured her tartly. “But if I were?”

“Yer in’t!”

“I told you. But why not?”

“ ’Cos ’e’s funny, makes yer laugh till yer burst yer stays, an’ ’e in’t never mean about payin’, but ’e’s got a temper like a cornered rat, ’e ’as.”

“Did he hit you?” Hester felt cold, and there was a churning in the pit of her stomach.

Phoebe opened her eyes wide. “Me? No! But ’e beat the shit out o’ Joe Biggins fer crossin’ ’im up. Not only ’im. Spoiled, I reckon. In’t used ter bein’ told no by anyone, an’ din’t take it kindly. I ’eard say ’e near killed some bleedin’ pimp wot got on the wrong side of ’im. Dunno wot about. Beat one other poor sod once, jus’ another bleedin’ punter wot got up ’is nose. Paid ’im a lot o’ money not ter make a fuss.”

“Why? Do you know?”

Phoebe shrugged pale, smooth shoulders. “No. Could a bin any-thin’. ’Eard it were bad. ’Alf killed the stupid sod. Broke ’is arms an’ ’is face, an’ cracked ’is ’ead. Told yer, ’e’s got a temper like yer wouldn’t credit someone wot acts the gentleman most o’ the time. Treats yer right, like yer worth summink. Please an’ thank yer. On the other ’and, never takes less than his money’s worth neither! ’Ealthy as an ’orse.” She gave a shrug and a smile, woman to woman.

Hester nodded, trying to keep her expression one of mild interest, no more. There were things she would prefer not to have known. It was peculiarly embarrassing. “Does he drink a lot?”

“Pretty fair. Seen worse.”

“Do you know other girls he’s … been with?”

“Dozen or so. Wot’s this about? Wot’s ’e done?”

“He’s accused of killing someone.”

“If it’s a pimp, then I reckon as they’re probably right. Never growed up, that one. Loses ’is ’ead an’ smashes things, like a child wot no one ever walloped when they should ’ave. My pa’d ’ave tanned me backside till I ate standin’ up fer a week if I carried on like ’e does sometimes. Sorry, miss, but yer wanted the truth, an’ that’s it.”

“He used lots of different women? Why, do you think? Why not stick to the same ones?”

“Bored, I s’pec. Some o’ them toffs bore easy.”

“Ever like little girls, really young?”

“Wot?” Phoebe looked horrified. “Not as I knows of. Perhaps go fer older, ’e would. More experience. Filthy temper, like I said, but ’e could be kind too. Wouldn’t do nothin’ filthy with little girls, like. Never took advantage o’ no one new or scared, far as I know. An’ yer get to ’ear who ter be careful of. We got ter take care o’ each other.”

“And boys?”

“Wot yer mean, ‘boys’? Jeez!” She looked genuinely shocked. “Yer never sayin’ ’e’s doin’ it wi’ boys. ’Ell, not ’im! It’s against the law, but that don’t stop them as want ter—girls or boys. But not ’im.”

“Are you sure?”

“Course I’m sure! Jeez!”

Hester thanked her, and went to ask several other patients for their opinions also. Then, armed with names, she went to other street corners where she found old patients who knew her name and reputation, and were willing to speak to her.

Most had never heard of Rupert Cardew, but those who had bore out what Phoebe had said: funny, honest, at times kind, but with an uncontrollable temper, for which he seemed to take no responsibility. They believed him perfectly capable of killing in a rage, but no one had heard even a murmur that his taste ran to anything except women: well-endowed ones rather than thin, and certainly not childlike. He appreciated laughter, a little spirit, and most definitely good conversation. All of that she reluctantly recognized in them, and thus she could not help but believe them.

She went home late in the evening, tired and hungry, her feet sore. She had a whole lot more information, but she was not sure that she was really any wiser. Rupert could certainly have killed someone in a rage; in fact he was very fortunate that he had not already done so. But the more she learned of him, the less he seemed to have any reason to kill Mickey Parfitt in particular. Lord Cardew had paid his son’s debts when they must have outgrown his allowance. Time and time again he had rescued Rupert from the consequences of his self-indulgence and lack of discipline. Surely Parfitt, of all people, he would have paid off?

Or had there been some quarrel between Rupert and Parfitt that was deeper than blackmail money? Parfitt made his living from pornography
and blackmail; he would know just how far to push before he drove any of his victims to despair. And after Jericho Phillips’s death, wouldn’t he have been even more careful, erring on the side of caution rather than ruthlessness? A blackmail victim driven to either murder or suicide is of no use.

Monk was quiet and sunk in his own thoughts over their late supper. He mentioned only that he was still trying to examine the trade on the boat and see if there were any other witnesses who would be useful. Under Orme’s supervision, the Foundling Hospital matron had spoken to the boys from the boat, but they were too frightened and bewildered to say anything of use, and she had very quickly drawn the interviews to a close. The matron understood what was in the balance, but her first care was to the children she had there, not future victims. White-faced and holding a child in her arms, she had told Orme to leave.

He had understood and had gone out silently, sick with grief.

Now Hester cleared away the dishes and said nothing. Scuff looked from one to the other of them, troubled, but he asked no questions. He went upstairs to bed early.

M
ONK HAD ALREADY GONE
the next morning by the time Hester served breakfast for Scuff and herself. She had made porridge because she knew he liked it, and it kept him from being hungry, well up to midday.

“Did ’e do it, then?” he asked when his bowl was empty and he was ready for the toast, jam, and tea. His face was earnest. His eyes searched hers, trying to understand, looking for something to stop the fear growing inside him.

She hung up the striped dish towel she had been drying the dishes with and came back to the table. She sat down and poured herself a cup of tea.

“You know, I’m still not sure,” she said honestly. “It’s very difficult to be certain that you know all the things you need to in order to be right.”

Scuff nodded slowly, as if he understood, but she could see from the trouble in his eyes that he didn’t.

“Wot’s Mr. Monk doin’? Why’s ’e all angry?” His voice dropped. “Did I do summink?”

“No,” Hester said, keeping her voice level with difficulty, trying to swallow back the emotion. “We’re all upset because we like Rupert, and we don’t want him to have done it, but we can’t help thinking that he did.”

“Oh!” His face cleared only slightly. “Would yer still like ’im, even if it turns out ye’re right, an’ ’e did?”

“Yes, of course we would. You don’t stop caring about people because they make mistakes. But that wouldn’t save him from the law.”

“They’ll ’ang ’im?”

“Probably.” The idea was so horrible, she found her throat tight and the tears stinging hard behind her eyes. She tried to force the picture out of her head, and failed.

Scuff took a deep breath. “Then we’d better do summink, eh?” he said, his eyes steady on her face.

“Yes. I’d intended to start this morning.”

He stuffed the rest of his toast into his mouth and stood up.

She started to say that he shouldn’t come because it could be dangerous, and because he really couldn’t help. Then she knew that both were wrong. Instead she took the last swallow of her tea and stood up as well. He needed to be part of this.

She already knew all she could learn of Rupert, and none of it helped. Now she needed to know more of Mickey Parfitt, the business in general and his part in it in particular. Her first instinct was to protect Scuff from the details of such a trade. Then she remembered with misery that he was already more familiar with them than she was. The only question was how much reminding him of them might increase his nightmares.

Or would he ever get over them if he always looked the other way? Might they even grow larger and larger, fed by her belief that they were too terrible to be faced?

“Where are we gonna begin?” he asked, standing by the front door.

“That’s the problem,” Hester admitted. “There are a lot of ‘maybes’ and not much certainty. It might be useful to speak to Rupert’s friends, but I doubt they would say anything to me if it made them look bad, which most of it would.”

Scuff’s face was creased up with disgust.

“We can try other prostitutes,” she suggested. “There may have been talk that we could follow up, but I think that could take a long time. Squeaky Robinson gave me a few names we can begin with.”

Scuff looked at her guardedly. “Wot kind o’ people?”

“People who owe Squeaky a favor or two. And I know some like that myself—a couple of brothel-keepers, an abortionist, an apothecary.”

“I could go an’ ask Mr. Crow? If yer like?” he offered.

“We could go and ask,” she corrected him. “I think that’s an excellent idea. But do you know where to find him?”

“Course I do, but it in’t no decent place fer a lady ter come.” Now he looked worried.

“Scuff,” she said seriously, “I’ll make a bargain with you …”

He stared at her dubiously.

“I’ll look out for you, but not look after you, if you do the same for me.” She held out her hand to shake on it.

He considered for a moment or two, then gripped it in his small, thin fingers and shook. “Deal,” he confirmed.

They went straight from Paradise Place to Princes Stairs and took the ferry across to Wapping, past the police station that Monk commanded. Then they turned west along the High Street, at Scuff’s direction, toward the Pool of London and the biggest docks.

They did not talk. Scuff seemed to be watching and listening. His jacket was buttoned right up to his chin, and his cap was jammed hard onto his head. He had on new boots, his first that were actually a pair. Hester was sunk in her own contemplation of what she needed to learn and how much she could ask without endangering both of them. Pornography and prostitution were vast trades, and there was a great deal of money to be made in either of them. And of course there was a corresponding danger from the law. Not only profit but survival
depended on knowing what not to say, and particularly who not to say it to.

It took them most of the morning amid the noise and traffic, the wagons and cranes and piles of cargo and timber, before they eventually found Crow in a tenement building on Jacob Street. It was just inland from St. Saviour’s Wharf, on the south side of the river.

Crow was a lanky man in his midthirties, with coal-black hair, which he wore thick, swept back off his high forehead, and long enough for it to sit on his collar at the back. He had a lugubrious face until he smiled—a broad, flashing grin showing excellent teeth.

They had only just caught him. He was coming down the steps with his black gladstone bag in his hands. He was dressed in a shabby frock coat and black trousers barely adequate to cover his long legs. He was clearly delighted to see Scuff, and his eyes went to him first, before he greeted Hester.

“Hello, Mrs. Monk! What are you doing in these parts? Trouble?”

“Of course,” she replied, holding out her hand.

He spread his own lean fingers and looked at them in distaste. “I’m filthy,” he said, shaking his head. His glance went to Scuff again, as if to reassure himself as to his well-being. Crow had dropped every other business to help search for Scuff when the boy had been kidnapped by Jericho Phillips.

Hester dropped her hand, smiling back at him. “You heard about the murder of Mickey Parfitt?” she asked, falling in step beside him as they walked back along the narrow street toward the river, stepping carefully to avoid the gutter.

“Of course,” Crow acknowledged. “No ill will, Mrs. Monk, but I hope you don’t find the poor sod that did for him. If you’ve come to ask me to help you, sorry but I’m too busy. You’d be surprised the number of sick people there are around here.” He looked up at the dense tenement buildings to the left and right of them, grimed with smoke and constantly dripping water from the eaves.

She glanced at him. His face was set in hard lines, the easy smile vanished. She had known him off and on since Monk’s first case on the river, nearly a year ago now, but she realized she had seen only the
thinnest surface of his character. He was a man who never spoke of his background, but he had had a good deal of medical training and used it to help those on the edge of the law—animal or human—or in the iron grip of poverty. He took his payment in whatever form was offered—a debt in hand, if necessary, and kindness in return when it was needed.

She had no idea what had happened to prevent him from gaining his qualifications and practicing as a full doctor. His speech was not from the dockland area, but she could not place it. He cared for Scuff, and that was all that mattered. One knew far less about most people than one imagined. Parents, place and date of birth, education, all told less of the heart than a few actions under pressure when the cost was high.

“I’m afraid we already have a very good idea who it was.” She answered his challenge while watching her step as she picked her way over broken cobbles. “I’m trying to find a reason to cast doubt on his guilt, or if not that, then at least to show that he doesn’t deserve the rope.”

Crow was surprised. “You want him to get off?”

Hester would not have put it quite so bluntly, and she drew in her breath to deny it. Then she saw Scuff looking at her and realized that perhaps Crow was right, that that was what she wanted. It was difficult to answer the question honestly with Scuff between them, grasping every word.