Monk traded on it. "A few tales about the Coopers Arms, when it was yours," he replied, settling into the rickety chair opposite, afraid to let his full weight fall on the back of it in case it collapsed. "What was it like?"

Reilly did not need asking a second time. He launched into one tale after another, and it was the best part of three hours before Monk could steer him towards the two deformed kitchen maids he had sold to a man from Rotherhithe who kept a big public house down by the river and could use some rough help where it wouldn't be seen and no one would mind the twisted lips and the crooked eyes.

"Ugly little beggars, they were," he said, staring sightlessly at Monk. "An' slow with it. Could tell 'em 'alf a dozen times ter do summink, and they still wouldn't. Jus' ignore yer."

"Deaf," Monk said before he thought to stop himself. He was not supposed to know them, or care.

"What?" Reilly frowned at him, taking another long draft of his ale.

"Perhaps they were deaf?" Monk suggested, trying to keep the anger he felt out of his voice, not very successfully.

"Yeah, p'raps." Reilly did not care. He set the mug down with a clunk. "Anyway, I couldn't keep 'em. Upset me customers, and not much bloody use."

"So you sold them to a man from Rotherhithe. That was clever of you." Monk tried to force some appreciation into his tone. Reilly could not see the contempt on his face. "Wonder what he thought when he got them home?"

"Never 'eard," Reilly said, chuckling. " 'E din't come back, that's all I know."

"You never went after him to find out?" Monk barely made it a question.

"Me? Ter Rother'ithe? Not on yer life! Common place. Full o' all sorts. Dangerous too. Nah! I likes Putney. Nice an' respectable." Reilly reached again for his ale mug, which Monk had refilled several times. "What else'd yer like ter 'ear abaht?"

Monk listened another ten minutes, then excused himself after one more attempt to learn the name of the public house in Rotherhithe.

"Elephant an' summink ... but you won't like it," Reilly warned.

It was late afternoon and the mournful sound of ships' foghorns drifted up the Thames on the incoming tide as Monk got off the omnibus in Rotherhithe Street, right on the river's edge. He could not afford to ride in hansom cabs on a job like this. Martha Jackson's pocket would not stretch to meet his legitimate expenses, never mind his comfort.