"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.

Vida ignored them all, and concentrated on Betty.

"Tell 'im wot 'appened toyer." She jerked her head at Monk to indicate who she meant. The other man was apparently too deep in his stupor to be aware of them.

"In't nuffink much ter tell," Betty said resignedly. "I got beat. It still 'urts, but nobody can't do nothing about it. Thought o' carryin' a shiv me self but in't worth it. If I stick the bastards, I'll only get topped fer murder. Anyway, don't s'pose they'll come 'ere again.”