"Other side of the river," Monk replied. "Bloomsbury way."

"Wot brings you down 'ere, then?" another asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and picking up a thick roll of bread stuffed with ham. "Sellin', are yer? Or buyin'?"

"Neither," Monk answered, sipping his stout. His meal had not yet come. Looking at the food already on the table, he was remarkably hungry. It seemed like a long day already. "Probably on a pointless errand. Did any of you know a Samuel Jackson, lived here about twenty years ago?"

The third member, who had not yet spoken, pushed his cap back on his head and looked at Monk curiously. "Yeah, I knew 'im. Decent feller, 'e were. Poor devil. Died. Din't yer know that?"

"Yes, yes, I did know. I was wondering what became of his family," Monk continued.

The man guffawed with laughter, but there was a hard edge to it and his eyes were angry. "Little late, in't yer? Why d'yer wanna know fer now? 'Oo cares after all this time?"

"His sister," Monk replied truthfully. "She cared all the time but was in no position to employ anyone to find out"

"So wot's changed?" the man said, yanking his cap forward again.

A smiling girl brought Monk his meal and he thanked her and gave her threepence for herself. The man at the table frowned. Monk was setting a precedent they would not be able to follow.

"Thank you," Monk said graciously, still looking at the girl. "Do you have scullery maids in the kitchen?"

"Yes sir, three o' them," she said willingly. Any gentleman who tipped her threepence deserved a little courtesy. And he was certainly handsome looking, in a grim sort of way. Quite appealing, really, a bit mysterious. "An' two kitchen maids, an' o' course a cook ... sir. Was yer wantin' ter speak ter anyone?"

"Do you have a girl with a deformed mouth?"

"A wot?"

"A twisted mouth, a funny lip?"

She looked puzzled. "No sir."

"Never mind. Thank you for answering me." It was foolish to have hoped. The woman at Buxton House had said the publican had got rid of the girls. It might not even be the same publican now. It was fifteen years ago.

The girl smiled and left and Monk began his meal.

"Yer really mean it, don't yer?" one of the men said in surprise. "You'll not find 'em now, yer know? They put people like that away inter places w'ere they can't upset folk ... they'll be cleanin' up arter folk somewhere, if they're still alive. They wasn't only ugly, yer know; they was simple as well. I saw 'em w'en they was 'ere. There's summink about 'avin' yer face twisted as bothers folk more 'n if it were yer body or yer 'ands. One of 'em looked like she were sneerin' at yer, an the other like she was barin' 'er teeth. Couldn't 'elp it, o' course, but strangers don' know that."