The Silent Cry (10 page)

The coals subsided in the hearth with a shower of sparks. It was beginning to rain outside.

And there were the uglier, dark emotions. The men who used such women despised them, and despised that part of themselves which needed them.

It was a vulnerability at best, at worst a shame. Or perhaps the worst was the fact that they had a weakness which these women were aware of.

For once they had lost the control they had in ordinary, daily life, and the very people they most despised were the ones who saw it and knew it in all its intimacy. Was a man ever so open to ridicule as when he paid a woman he regarded with contempt, for the use of her body to relieve the needs of his own? She saw him not only with his body naked, but part of his soul as well.

He would hate her for that. And he would certainly not care to be reminded of her existence, except when he could condemn her immorality, and say how much he desired to be rid of her and her kind. To labour to protect her from the foreseeable ills of her chosen trade was unthinkable.

The police would never seriously try to eradicate prostitution. Apart from the fact that it would be impossible, they knew their value, and that half respectable society would be horrified if-they were to succeed. They were like sewers, not to be discussed in the withdrawing room, or at all, for that matter but vital to the health and the order of society.

Monk felt a deep swell of the same anger that Vida Hopgood felt. And when he was angry he did not forgive.

"Yes," he said, staring at her levelly. "I'll take the case. Pay me enough to live on, and I'll do what I can to find the man… or men…

. who are doing this. I'll need to see the women. They must tell me the truth. I can't do anything on lies.”

There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes. She had won her first battle.

"I'll find him for you, if I can," he added. "I can't say the police will prosecute. You know as well as I do what the chances of that are.”

She gave an explosive laugh, full of derision.

"What you do after that is your own affair," he said, knowing what it could mean. "But I can't tell you anything until I'm sure.”

She drew breath to argue, then saw his face, and knew it would be pointless.

"I'll tell you nothing," he repeated, 'until I know. That's the bargain.”

She put out her hand.

He took it and she gripped him with extraordinary strength.

She waited in the room beside the fire while Monk changed his clothes to old ones, both because he would not soil those he valued, and for the very practical purpose of passing largely unnoticed in the areas to which he was going. Then he accompanied Vida Hopgood to Seven Dials.

She took him to her home, a surprisingly well-furnished set of rooms above the sweatshop where eighty-three women sat by gaslight, heads bent over their needles, backs aching, eyes straining to see. But at least it was dry, and it was warmer than the street outside where it was beginning to snow.

Vida also changed her clothes, leaving Monk in her parlour while she did so. Her husband was in the shop below, seeing no one slacked, talked to their neighbour or pocketed anything that was not theirs.

Monk stared around the room. It was over-furnished. There was hardly a space on the heavily patterned wallpaper which was not covered by a picture or a framed sampler of embroidery. Table surfaces were decorated with dried flowers, china ornaments, stuffed birds under glass, more pictures. But in spite of the crowding, and the predominance of red, the whole effect was one of comfort and even a kind of harmony. Whoever lived here cared about it. There had been happiness, a certain pride in it, not to show off or impress others, but for its own sake. There was something in Vida Hopgood which he could like. He wished he could remember their previous association. It was a burden to him that he could not, but he knew from too many attempts to trace other memories, more important ones, that the harder he sought, the more elusive they were, the more distorted. It was a disadvantage he had learned to live with most of the time, only on occasion was he sharply brought to realise its dangers when someone hated him, and he had no idea why. It was an unusual burden that did not afflict most people, not to know who your friends or enemies were.

Vida returned in plainer, shabbier clothes, and set straight about the business in hand. She may need to use the services of a policeman, but she had no intention of social ising with him. It was a temporary truce, and for all her humour, he was still the 'enemy'. She would not forget it, even if he might.

"I'll take yer ter see Nellie first," she said, patting her skirt and straightening her shoulders. "There in't no use yer goin' alone. She won't speak toyer if I don' teller ter. Can't blame 'er." She stared at him standing still in the comfortable room. "Well, come on then! I know it's rainin' but a bit o' water won't 'urt yer!”

Biting back his retort, he followed her out into the ice-swept street, and hurried to keep pace with her. She moved surprisingly rapidly, her boots tapping sharply on the cobbles, her back straight, her eyes ahead. She had given her orders and assumed that if he wanted to be paid, he would obey them.

She turned abruptly along an alley, head down into the flurries of snow, hand up instinctively to keep her hat on. Even here she was going to maintain her superior status by wearing a hat rather than a shawl to protect her from the elements. She stopped at one of the many doors and banged on it sharply. After several moments it was opened by a plump young woman with a pretty face when she smiled, showing gapped and stained teeth.

"I wanna see Nellie," Vida said bluntly. "Teller Mrs. "Opgood's 'ere.

I got Monk. She'll know 'oo I mean.”

Monk felt a stab of fear. That his name was so well known, even to this woman of the streets he had never heard of. He could not even recall having been to Seven Dials at all, let alone the faces of individual people. His disadvantage was acute.

The girl heard the tone of command in Vida's voice, and went off obediently to fetch Nellie. She did not invite them in, but left them standing in the freezing alley. Vida took the invitation as given and pushed the door open. Monk followed.

Inside was cold also, but mercifully out of the wind and now thickening snow. The walls were damp in the corridor, and smelled of mould, and from the pervading odour of excrement; the midden was not far away, and probably overflowing. Vida pushed on the second door, and it swung open into a room with a good-sized bed in it, rumpled and obviously lately used, but relatively clean, and with several blankets and quilts on it. Monk presumed it was a place of business as well as rest.

There was a young woman standing in the farther corner, waiting for them. Her face was marred by yellowing bruises and a severely cut brow, the scar of which was still healing and would never knit evenly.

Monk needed no other evidence to tell him the woman had been badly beaten. He could not imagine an accident likely to cause such harm.

"You tell this geezer 'ere wot 'appened toyer, Nellie," Vida ordered.

"E's a rozzer," Nellie said incredulously, looking at Monk with intense dislike.

"No 'e in't," Vida contradicted. "E used ter be. They threw 'im out.

Now 'e works fer 'ooever pays him. An' terday, we do. "E's goin' ter find 'oo's beatin the 'ell out o' the girls round 'ere, so we can put an end ter it.”

"Oh yeah?" Nellie said derisively. "An' owe gonna do that, eh? Wy should 'e care?”

"E probably don't care," Vida said sharply, impatient with Nellie's stupidity. "But 'e 'aster eat, same as the rest of us. "E'll do wot 'e's paid ter do. Wot we do with the bastard after 'e's foundim in't 'is business.”

Nellie still hesitated.

"Look, Nellie." Vida was fast losing her temper. "You may be one o' them daft bitches wot likes bein' beaten ter 'ell and back, Gawd knows!" She put her hands on her ample hips. "But do yer like bein' too scared to go out in the streets ter earn yerself a little extra, eh? Yer wanna live on wot yer get stitchin' shirts, do yer? That's enough for yer, is it?”

Grudgingly, Nellie saw the point. She turned to Monk, her face puckered with dislike.

"Tell me what happened, and where," Monk instructed her. "Start by telling me where you were, and what time it was, or as near as you know.”

"It were three weeks ago, but a day," she answered, sucking her broken tooth. "A Tuesday night. I were in Fetter Lane. I'd just said goodbye tera gentoo walked north again. I turned back ter come 'ome, an' I saw another gent, dressed in a good coat, 'cavy, an' wifa tall 'at on. "E looked like money, an' 'e were 'angin' around like 'e wanted someone. So I went up ter 'im an' spoke nice. Thinkin' like 'e might fancy me." She stopped, waiting for Monk's reaction.

"And did he?" he asked.

"Yeah. "E said 'e did. Only well 'e started, although I were willin', e' gets real rough an' starts knockin' me around. Afore I can let out a yell, there's another geezer there an' all. An' 'e lights in terme She touched her eye gingerly. "It me, 'e did. "It me real 'and. Bloody near knocked me out. Then 'e an' the first geezer 'olds me an' took me, one after the other. Then one o' them, by now I dunno which one, me 'ead's fair singin' an' I'm 'alf senseless wi' pain, 'e 'its me again an' knocks me teef aht. Laughin', they is, like madmen.

I tell yer, I were scared sick.”

Looking at her face it was only too easy to believe. She was white at the memory.

"Can you tell me anything about them?" Monk asked. "Anything at all, a smell, a voice, a feel of cloth?”

"Wot?”

"Smell," he repeated. "Can you remember any smell? They were close to you.”

"Like wot?" She looked puzzled.

"Anything. Think!" He tried not to sound sharp with her. Was she being intentionally stupid? "Men work in different places," he prompted. "Some with horses, some with leather, some with fish or wool or bales of hemp. Did you smell salt? Sweat? Whisky?”

She was silent.

"Well?" Vida snapped. "Think back! Wot's the matter with yer? Don't yer want these bastards found?”

"Yeah! I'm thinkin'," Nellie protested. "They didn't neither o' them smell o' none o' them things. One o' them smelled o' some drink, real strong, but it in't one I ever drunk. "Orrible, it were.”

"Cloth," Monk went on. "Did you feel the cloth of their clothes? Was it quality, or reworked? Thick or thin?”

"Warm," she said without hesitation, thinking of the only thing which would have mattered to her. "Wouldn't mind a coat like that me self Cost more'n I make in a month, an' then some.”

"Clean shaven, or bearded?”

"I didn't look!”

"Feel! You must have felt their faces. Think!”

"No beard. Clean shaven… I s'pose. Mebbe side whiskers." She gave a grunt of scorn. "Could o' bin any o' thousands!" Her voice was harsh with disillusion, as if for a moment she had hoped. "Yer in't never goin' ter find 'em. Yer a liar takin' 'er money, an' she's a fool fer givin' it yer!”

"You watch yer tongue, Nellie West!" Vida said sharply. "You in't so smart yer can get along on yer own, an' don't yer ferget it! Keep civil, if yer knows wot's good for yer.”

"What time of night was it?" Monk asked the last thing he thought would be any use from her.

"Why?" she sneered. "Narrers it down, does it? Know 'oo it is then, do yer?”

"It may help. But if you'd prefer to protect them, we'll ask elsewhere. I understand you are not the only woman to be beaten." He turned for the door, leaving Vida to come after him. He heard her swear at Nellie carefully and viciously, without repeating herself.

The second woman to whom Vida led him was very different. They met her trudging home aft era long day in the sweatshop. It was still snowing although the cobbles were too wet for it to lie. The woman was perhaps thirty-five, although from the stoop of her shoulders she could have been fifty. Her face was puffy and her skin pale, but she had pretty eyes and her hair had a thick, natural curl. With a little spirit, a little laughter, she would still be attractive. She stopped when she recognised Vida. Her expression was not fearful or unfriendly. It said much of Vida's character that as the wife of the sweatshop owner she could still command a certain friendship in such a woman.

"Ello, Betty," she said briskly. "This 'ere's Monk. "E's gonner 'elp us with them bastards wot've bin beatin' up women round 'ere.”

There was a flicker of hope in Betty's eyes so brief it could have been no more than imagined.

"Yeah?" she said without interest. "Then wot? The rozzers is gonna arrest 'em, an' the judge is gonna bang 'em up in the Coldbath Fields?

Or maybe they're goin' ter Newgate, an' the rope, eh?" She gave a dry, almost soundless laugh.

Vida fell into step beside her, leaving Monk to walk a couple of paces behind. They turned the corner, passing a gin mill with drunken women on the doorstep, insensible of the cold.

"Ow's Bert?" Vida asked.

"Drunk," Betty answered. "Ow else?”

"An' yer kids?”

"Billy 'as the croup, Maisie coughs sum mink terrible. Others is aright." They had reached her door and she went to push it open just as two small boys came running around the corner of the alley from the opposite direction, shouting and laughing. They both had sticks which they slashed around as if they were swords. One of them lunged and the other one yelled out, then crumpled up and pretended to be dying in agony, rolling around on the wet cobbles, his face alight with glee.

The other one hopped up and down, crowing his victory. Seemingly it was his turn, and he was going to savour every ounce of it.

Betty smiled patiently. The rags they wore, a mixture of hand-me-downs and clothes unpicked and re-stitched from others, could hardly get any filthier.

Monk found his shoulders relaxing a little at the sound of children's laughter. It was a touch of humanity in the grey drudgery around him.

Betty led the way into a tenement very like the one in which Nellie West lived. She apparently occupied two rooms at the back. A middle-aged man lay in a stupor half in a chair, half on the floor. She ignored him. The room was cluttered with the furniture of living, a lop-sided table, the stuffed chair in which the man lay, two wooden chairs, one with a patched seat, a whisk broom and half a dozen assorted rags. The sound of children's voices came through the thin walls from the other room, and someone coughing. The two boys were still fighting in the corridor.