“A tart,” she said quickly, then bit her lip. “Quite 'andsome, really, in a flashy sort o' way. Thin, I suppose, sharp nose, but good eyes, real good eyes.” She looked at Monk to see if that was sufficient, and saw that it was not. “Sort o' brownish 'air, good an' thick. Always kind o' sure of 'erself, least w'en I sees 'er. Walks cocky, wi' a swing to 'er 'ips. Like I says, a tart.” She sniffed. “But she's got guts, I'll give 'er that. Never 'eard 'er moan, not like some. Put a good face on it, no matter wot. An' she can't 'ave an easy time, wi' Caleb Stone bein' like 'e is.”

“Thank you.” Monk gave her the shilling. “Have you seen Caleb Stone?”

“Me? I don't go looking fer folks like that. I got enough o' me own troubles. I reckon as mebbe I seen 'im once. Though I'll deny it if yer asks in front o' anyone.”

“I never saw you before,” Monk said easily. “And if I were to see you again, I don't suppose I should know you. What's your name?”

She smiled conspiratorially, showing chipped teeth.

“In't got no name.”

“That's what I thought. Third house along?”

“Yeah.”

He turned and walked down the narrow footpath, barely wide enough to keep his feet out of the gutter, and at the third house went down the steps to the door which led off the small, rubbish-filled areaway. He knocked sharply, and had just raised his hand to repeat it when a window covered with sacking opened above him and an old woman stuck her head out. “She in't there! Come back later ifn' yer want 'er.”

Monk leaned back to look up. “How much later?”

“I dunno. Middle o' the day, mebbe.” She ducked back in again without closing the window, and Monk stepped away only just in time to avoid being drenched by a pail of bedroom slops.

He waited in the street about twenty yards along, half sheltered by an overhanging wall, but from where he could still see the steps down to Selina's rooms. He grew steadily colder, and towards noon it began to rain.

Many people passed him, perhaps taking him for a beggar or simply someone with nowhere else to be, one of the thousands who lived on scraps and slept in doorways. The workhouse provided food of a sort, a shelter, but little heat, and the rigid rules were almost as harsh as those in prison. There were some who thought it an even worse place.

No one regarded him with more than a passing observation, not even curiosity, and he avoided the challenge of meeting their eyes. Paupers, such as he was pretending to be, cast their glances down, wary, ashamed and frightened of everything.