Actually it took him five cold and exhausting hours, and more than one false trail, before he was certain he had the man. He caught up with him at mid-afternoon, in Stamford Street, near the river. lie was standing over a brazier, thawing out his fingers and shifting from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. Behind him, his horse was snorting breath into the cold air, waiting impatiently, head down, for the next fare and the chance of movement.

“Goin' somewhere, guv?” the cabby asked hopefully.

“Depends,” Monk replied, stopping beside him. “Did you pick up a fare on the Waterloo Road, about half past ten in the morning, last Tuesday, and take him probably east? Tall, dark gentleman with an overcoat, high hat and an umbrella.” He showed him Lady Ravensbrook's drawing.

“Wot's it to yer if I did?” the cabby asked guardedly.

“Hot cup of tea laced with something stronger, and a fare to wherever you set him off,” Monk replied. “And a great deal of unpleasantness if you he to me.”

The cabby swiveled around from the brazier and eyed Monk narrowly. “Well now, if it in't Inspector Monk,” he said with surprise. “Left the rozzers, 'ave we? 'Eard about that.” Neither his voice nor his face gave any indication as to his feelings on the subject.

It was a sore one to Monk. His departure from the police force had been forced upon him by that final quarrel with Runcorn. The fact that he had been proved right and Runcorn wrong had helped nothing. With no livelihood anymore, he had been obliged to take up private inquiries, since detection was the only marketable skill he possessed. But he no longer had either the authority of the police force nor the facilities of its vast network and specialist abilities, as the cabby had so pertinently reminded him. “Well, why d'yer want the poor geezer as I took, then? Wot's 'e done? Took the funds with 'im, did 'e?” the cabby asked. “An' if 'e did, why do you care?”

“No, he didn't,” Monk said truthfully. “He's missing. His wife is afraid some harm may have befallen him.”

“Likely gorn off with some tart or other, stupid sod,” the cabby said dismissively. “Gorn private then, 'ave yer? Chasin' runaway 'usbands for women as 'ave lorst 'em.”

He grinned, showing gapped teeth. “Bit of a comedown for yer, in't it Hinspector Monk?”

“Warmer than driving a cab!” Monk snapped, then remembered he needed the man's goodwill. The words choked in his throat to be civil. “Sometimes,” he added between clenched jaws.

“Well now, Mr. Monk.” The cabby sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, looking at Monk maliciously. “If yer asks me, polite like, I might tell yer were I took 'im. Mind I want me cup of char as well, an' me drop o' brandy in it. Don't want no cheap gin. An' I can tell the diff'rence, so don't go fobbin' me orff.”