The Silent Cry by Anne Perry Page B

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