never find ’im!” the cabby called out. “Poor sod,” he added under his breath.
Monk feared he was right, but he did not turn or alter his stride. It was going to be difficult to trace Angus, except that dressed as he was he would have stood out from the regular inhabitants, just as Monk did now. But he was unlikely to have stopped to purchase anything in the various shops that were spaced sporadically along the street. There were no newspaper vendors. People in Limehouse Reach had no spare money for such luxuries, even supposing they could read. They learned of such events that interested them by word of mouth, or from the running patterers, men whose trade was to put into endless doggerel whatever bulletin or gossip they heard and relay it in a kind of one-man musical sideshow from place to place, collecting a few coppers from appreciative listeners. Here and there billboards were posted for the few who were literate, but no one stood about selling. Even peddlers went farther west, where custom was more likely.
He went into a grocer’s shop selling tea, dried beans, flour, molasses and candles. It was dark and smelled of dust, tallow and camphor. He produced the drawing of Angus and received a blank stare of incomprehension. He also tried an apothecary, a pawnbroker, a rag and bone merchant and an ironmonger, all with similar results. They stared at Monk’s expensive clothes, his warm, well-cut overcoat and polished boots which kept out the wet, and knew he was alien. Children in layers of rags, some of them barefoot, faces gap-toothed and dirty, followed him, begging for money, alternately whistling and catcalling. He gave what pennies he had, but when he asked after Caleb Stonefield, they fell silent and ran away.
On Union Road, which sloped down towards the river with pavement so narrow he could hardly stand on it, its cobbles chipped and uneven, simply because he knew nothing else to do, he tried a cobbler who made new shoes from old.
“Have you ever seen this man, dressed in a good coat and high hat, maybe carrying an umbrella?” he asked flatly.
The cobbler, a narrow-chested little man with a wheeze, took the paper in one hand and squinted at it.
“Looks a bit like Caleb Stone ter me. And I only seen ’im a couple o’ times, an’ that were a couple too many. But it in’t a face as yer’d forget. ’Cept this gent looks sane enough, and real tidy. Dressed like a toff, yer said?”
Monk felt a leap of excitement in spite of all common sense telling him otherwise.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “That’s only a drawing. Forget Caleb Stonefield—”
“Stone,” the cobbler corrected.
“Sorry, Stone.” Monk brushed it aside. “This man is related to him, so there will be a resemblance. Have you ever seen him? Specifically, did you see him four days ago? He probably passed this way.”
“Dressed like a toff, an’ with an ’at an’ all?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t ’ave no ’at as I recall, but yeah, I reckon as I saw ’im.”
Monk sighed with relief. He must not overpraise the man or he might be tempted to embroider the truth.
“Thank you,” he said as gravely as he could, squashing the elation rising inside him. “I’m obliged to you.” He fished in his pocket and brought out threepence, the price of a pint of ale. “Remember me at the pub,” he offered.
The cobbler hesitated only a second. “I’ll do that, guv,” he agreed, and shot out a strong, misshapen and callused hand before Monk could change his mind.
“Which way did he go?” Monk asked the final question.
“West,” the cobbler replied instantly. “T’ ward the South Dock.”
Monk had already turned the handle of the door to leave when another question occurred to him, perhaps the most obvious of all.
“Where does Caleb Stone live?”
The cobbler turned pale under the layer of grime on his face.
“I dunno, mister, an’ I’m real ’appy ter keep it that way. An’ if yer’d any sense yer’d not ask
Monk feared he was right, but he did not turn or alter his stride. It was going to be difficult to trace Angus, except that dressed as he was he would have stood out from the regular inhabitants, just as Monk did now. But he was unlikely to have stopped to purchase anything in the various shops that were spaced sporadically along the street. There were no newspaper vendors. People in Limehouse Reach had no spare money for such luxuries, even supposing they could read. They learned of such events that interested them by word of mouth, or from the running patterers, men whose trade was to put into endless doggerel whatever bulletin or gossip they heard and relay it in a kind of one-man musical sideshow from place to place, collecting a few coppers from appreciative listeners. Here and there billboards were posted for the few who were literate, but no one stood about selling. Even peddlers went farther west, where custom was more likely.
He went into a grocer’s shop selling tea, dried beans, flour, molasses and candles. It was dark and smelled of dust, tallow and camphor. He produced the drawing of Angus and received a blank stare of incomprehension. He also tried an apothecary, a pawnbroker, a rag and bone merchant and an ironmonger, all with similar results. They stared at Monk’s expensive clothes, his warm, well-cut overcoat and polished boots which kept out the wet, and knew he was alien. Children in layers of rags, some of them barefoot, faces gap-toothed and dirty, followed him, begging for money, alternately whistling and catcalling. He gave what pennies he had, but when he asked after Caleb Stonefield, they fell silent and ran away.
On Union Road, which sloped down towards the river with pavement so narrow he could hardly stand on it, its cobbles chipped and uneven, simply because he knew nothing else to do, he tried a cobbler who made new shoes from old.
“Have you ever seen this man, dressed in a good coat and high hat, maybe carrying an umbrella?” he asked flatly.
The cobbler, a narrow-chested little man with a wheeze, took the paper in one hand and squinted at it.
“Looks a bit like Caleb Stone ter me. And I only seen ’im a couple o’ times, an’ that were a couple too many. But it in’t a face as yer’d forget. ’Cept this gent looks sane enough, and real tidy. Dressed like a toff, yer said?”
Monk felt a leap of excitement in spite of all common sense telling him otherwise.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “That’s only a drawing. Forget Caleb Stonefield—”
“Stone,” the cobbler corrected.
“Sorry, Stone.” Monk brushed it aside. “This man is related to him, so there will be a resemblance. Have you ever seen him? Specifically, did you see him four days ago? He probably passed this way.”
“Dressed like a toff, an’ with an ’at an’ all?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t ’ave no ’at as I recall, but yeah, I reckon as I saw ’im.”
Monk sighed with relief. He must not overpraise the man or he might be tempted to embroider the truth.
“Thank you,” he said as gravely as he could, squashing the elation rising inside him. “I’m obliged to you.” He fished in his pocket and brought out threepence, the price of a pint of ale. “Remember me at the pub,” he offered.
The cobbler hesitated only a second. “I’ll do that, guv,” he agreed, and shot out a strong, misshapen and callused hand before Monk could change his mind.
“Which way did he go?” Monk asked the final question.
“West,” the cobbler replied instantly. “T’ ward the South Dock.”
Monk had already turned the handle of the door to leave when another question occurred to him, perhaps the most obvious of all.
“Where does Caleb Stone live?”
The cobbler turned pale under the layer of grime on his face.
“I dunno, mister, an’ I’m real ’appy ter keep it that way. An’ if yer’d any sense yer’d not ask
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