Read William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning for Free Online

through the crowd of costers, fishmongers and housewives till he saw a brawny fish seller with a distinctly Oriental appearance.
    “Are you Chinese Paddy?” he asked as discreetly as he could above the babble and still be heard.
    “Sure I am. Will you be wantin’ some nice fresh cod, now? Best in the market!”
    “I want some information. It’ll cost you nothing, and I’m prepared to pay for it—if it’s right,” Evan replied, standing very upright and looking at the fish as if he were considering buying it.
    “And why would I be selling information at a fish market, mister? What is it you want to know—times o’ the tides, is it?” Chinese Paddy raised his straight black eyebrows sarcastically. “I don’t know you—”
    “Metropolitan police,” Evan said quietly. “Your name was given me by a very reliable fellow I know—down in Pudding Lane. Now do I have to do this in an unpleasant fashion, or can we trade like gentlemen, and you can stay here selling your fish when I leave and go about my business?” He said it courteously, but just once he looked up and met Chinese Paddy’s eyes in a hard, straight stare.
    Paddy hesitated.
    “The alternative is I arrest you and take you to Mr. Monkand he can ask you again.” Evan knew Monk’s reputation, even though Monk himself was still learning it.
    Paddy made his decision.
    “What is it you’re wanting to know?”
    “The murder in Queen Anne Street. You were up there last night—”
    “ ’ere-fresh fish—fine cod!” Paddy called out. “So I was,” he went on in a quiet, hard tone. “But I never stole nuffin’, an’ I sure as death and the bailiffs never killed that woman!” Ignoring Evan for a moment, he sold three large cod to a woman and took a shilling and sixpence.
    “I know that,” Evan agreed. “But I want to know what you saw!”
    “A bleedin’ rozzer goin’ up ’Arley Street an’ down Wimpole Street every twenty minutes reg’lar,” Paddy replied, looking one moment at his fish, and the next at the crowd as it passed. “You’re ruinin’ me trade, mister! People is won-derin’ why you don’t buy!”
    “What else?” Evan pressed. “The sooner you tell me, the sooner I’ll buy a fish and be gone.”
    “A quack coming to the third ’ouse up on ’Arley Street, an’ a maid out on the tiles with ’er follower. The place was like bleedin’ Piccadilly! I never got a chance to do anything.”
    “Which house did you come for?” Evan asked, picking up a fish and examining it.
    “Corner o’ Queen Anne Street and Wimpole Street, southwest corner.”
    “And where were you waiting, exactly?” Evan felt a curious prickle of apprehension, a kind of excitement and horror at once. “And what time?”
    “ ’Alf the ruddy night!” Paddy said indignantly. “From ten o’clock till near four. Welbeck Street end o’ Queen Anne Street. That way I could see the ’ole length o’ Queen Anne Street right down to Chandos Street. Bit of a party goin’ on t’other end—footmen all over the place.”
    “Why didn’t you pack up and go somewhere else? Why stick around there all night if it was so busy?”
    “ ’ere, fresh cod—all alive—best in the market!” Paddy called over Evan’s head. ’Ere missus! Right it is—that’ll be one and eight pence—there y’are.” His voice dropped again. “Because I ‘ad the layout of a good place, o’ course—an’ Idon’t go in unprepared. I in’t a bleedin’ amacher. I kept thinkin’ they’d go. But that perishin’ maid was ’Alf the night in the areaway like a damn cat. No morals at all.”
    “So who came and went up Queen Anne Street?” Evan could hardly keep the anticipation out of his voice. Whoever killed Octavia Haslett had not passed the footmen and coachmen at the other end, nor climbed over from the mews—he must have come this way, and if Chinese Paddy was telling the truth, he must have seen him. A thin shiver of excitement rippled through Evan.
    “No