“How shall I know if you're telling me the truth?” Monk asked bluntly.

“Yer won't,” the cabby said with satisfaction. “'Ceptin' I don't suppose as yer've changed all that. Don't want yer on my tail fer ever more. Right narsty yer can be if'n yer crorssed, an' no mistake. Best suits me if yer pays me fair an I tells yer fair.”

“Good.” Monk fished in his pocket and brought out a sixpence. “Take me to where you let him off, and I'll get your tea and brandy at the nearest pub.”

The cabby took the sixpence as earnest of his intent, bit on it automatically to test its genuineness, then slipped it into his pocket.

“Come on then,” he said cheerfully, walking towards his horse and untying the reins as he mounted the box.

Monk stepped up into the cab and took his seat. They set off at a fast walk, then a trot.

They crossed the Blackfriars Bridge, then moved steadily eastwards through the City, then Whitechapel and into Limehouse. The streets became narrower and grimier, the brick darker, the windows smaller, and the smell of midden and pigsty more pervasive. Drains overflowed into gutters, and there had obviously been no crossing sweepers or dung carts near for weeks. In Bridge Road cattle had passed on the way to the abattoir. The smell brought back sharp memories to Monk's mind, but of emotions, not faces or events. He remembered overwhelming anger and urgency, but not the reasons for them. He could recall his heart pounding and the smell sticking in his throat. It could have been three years ago or twenty. Past time had no meaning, nothing to relate to.

“'Ere y' are!” the cabby said loudly, pulling his horse to a halt and tapping on the hatch.

Monk returned his mind to the present and climbed out. They were in a narrow, dirty street running parallel to the river in an area known as Limehouse Reach. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the fare, adding it to the sixpence he had already given.

“An' me drink,” the cabby reminded him.

Monk added another sixpence.

“Ta,” the cabby said cheerfully. “Anyfink else as I can do for yer?”

“Ever picked up the same man before?” Monk asked.

“Couple o' times. Why?”

“Where did you take him?”

“Once 'ere, once up west. Oh, an' once ter someplace orff the Edgware Road, to an 'ouse. Reckon as maybe 'e lived there. Rum, innit? I mean, why do a proper sort o' gent like that wanna come 'ere? In't nuffin' 'ere as any- body'd want. Even got the typhus less than 'alf a mile away.” He gestured with his mittened thumb eastwards. “An' someone told me as they'd got the cholera in Whitechapel too, or mebbe it were Mile End. Or Blackwall, or summink.”

“I don't know,” Monk replied. “It wants explaining. I don't suppose you saw which way he went?”

The cabby grinned. “Wondered if yer' d think o' that. Yeah, 'e went that way.” He jerked his thumb again. “'Long there (wards the Isle o' Dogs.”

“Thank you.” Monk closed the conversation and set out along the road the cabby had indicated.

“If 'e went in there yer won't 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 neither. Were some folks is concerned, iggerance is a blessin'.”

“I see. Thank you anyway.” Monk smiled at him briefly, then turned and went out into the cold street and the stench of salt tide, raw sewage and overloaded drains.

He tried for the rest of the day, but by five o'clock it was dark, bitterly cold with a rime of ice forming on the slimy cobbles of the footpaths, and he had achieved nothing further. It was not safe to remain here alone and unarmed. He walked rapidly, head down and collar up, back towards the West India Dock Road and regular street lamps and a hansom back home again. He was stupid to have come here in good clothes. He'd never get the smell out of them. Another hole in his memory! He should have thought of that before he set out! It was not only the gaping voids in his life-an entire childhood, youth and early manhood which were a mystery to him, his triumphs and failures, his loves, if there had been any which were of lasting value-it was the stupid little pieces of practical knowledge he had forgotten, the mistakes which were like splinters under the skin every day.