“A man?” She was surprised. “You think a pimp killed him? What happened? Someone drunk, do you suppose?”

He sipped his tea again, letting the hot liquid ease his throat. “Don’t know. Abel swears it in’t anything to do with ’is girls…”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” She dismissed the idea without even weighing it.

Hart would not let it go so quickly. “Thing is, Mrs. Monk, the dead man was a toff… I mean a real toff. You should ’ave seen ’is clothes. I know quality. An’ clean. ’Is ’ands were clean too, nails an’ all. An’ smooth.”

“Do you know who he was?”

He shook his head. “No. Someone pinched ’is money an’ calling cards, if ’e’ad any. But someone’ll miss’im. We’ll find out.”

“Even men like that have been known to use prostitutes,” she said reasonably.

“Yeh, but not Abel Smith’s sort,” he replied. “Not that that’s what matters,” he added quickly. “Thing is, a man like that gets murdered an’ we’ll be expected to get whoever did it in double quick time, an’ there’ll still be a lot o’ shouting an’ wailing to clean up the area, get rid o’ prostitution and make the streets safe for decent people, like.” He said this with ineffable contempt-not a sneer of the lips or raising of his voice, just a soft, immeasurable disgust.

“Presumably if he’d stayed at home with his wife, he’d still be alive,” Hester responded sourly. “But I can’t help you. Why do you think a woman was hurt and could know something about it? Or that she’d dare tell you if she did?”

“You thinking ’er pimp did it?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Aren’t you?” she countered. “Why would a woman kill him? And how? Was he stabbed? I don’t know any women who carry knives or who attack their clients. Fingernails or teeth are about the worst I’ve heard of.”