The woman screwed up her face in concentration. “Looks like Caleb Stone ter me. All got up like a toff, but got them same eyes, an' nose.”

“But he isn't the same,” Drusilla insisted. “This is his brother.” “Garn!

'E in't got no bruvver.”

“Yes, he has.”

“Well . . .” the woman said dubiously. “Mebbe 'e do look a bit different, abaht the marf, partic'lar. But I in't seen 'im!”

“He'd be well-dressed and well-spoken,” Drusilla added.

“I tol'jer, I in't seen 'im, an' wot's more, I don' wanter!” She shoved the picture back.

But before Drusilla could take it the door swung open and a lean man with a swarthy, unshaven face poked his head out.

“In't yer ever goin' ter stop yer yappin', yer fat cow? W'ere's me dinner?

I don' work me guts aht ter come 'ome an' listen ter yer yap, yap, yap in the street wi' some tart! Get in 'ere!”

“Shut yer face an' come an' look at this pikcher, will yer?” the woman yelled back, no particular venom in her voice at being thus spoken to.

“Still worf money ter yer?” she asked Monk.

“Yes,” Monk agreed.

The man came out reluctantly, his face creased with suspicion. He glared at Drusilla, looked at Monk narrowly, then finally at the picture.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I seen 'im. So wot's it ter yer? 'Ad a pint down the Artichoke, then went dahn towards the river. W'y?”

“It wasn't Caleb Stone you saw?” Monk said doubtfully.

“No, it wasn't Caleb Stone I saw.” The man mimicked his voice viciously.

“I know the difference 'atween Caleb Stone an' some geezer wi' fancy manners an' dressed like a toff.”

“When was this?” Monk asked.

“'Ow do I know?” the man said irritably. “Las' week, or week afore.” Monk put both hands harder into his pockets.

“ 'Course yer knows, yer stupid sod!” the woman said sharply. “Fink, an' it will come back ter yer. Wot day was it? Was it afore or arter Aunt give yer them socks?”

“It were the same day,” he said sullenly. “Or the day afore.” He belched.

“It were the day afore, which makes it two weeks ago, 'zac'ly! An' all I kin tell yer.” He turned to go back inside.

The woman shot out her hand, and Monk gave her a shilling. That was the day Angus Stonefield had disappeared. It was worth a shilling.

“Thank you,” he said graciously.  She grasped the money, hid it in her voluminous skirts, and followed her husband inside, slamming the door.

Monk turned to Drusilla. There was a look of triumph in her face, her eyes were bright, her skin glowing. Delighted as he was with having traced Angus to the Isle of Dogs on the day of his disappearance, even to a specific tavern, his foremost emotion was pleasure in her company, a lift of ex- citement as he looked at her and he thought how lovely she was.