by Anne Perry
There was no point in asking Gould; it would be offering him an obvious avenue of escape, and naturally he would take it. And why should Monk involve himself in looking for the last shreds of truth and untangling them to save a thief?
Because the man might not be a murderer, and no one else would bother to help him.
“Someone beat his head in,” he said aloud. “If it wasn’t you, then it was somebody else on the Maude Idris.”
“I dunno!” Gould was desperate. “Yer can’t . . . oh, geez!” He said nothing more.
They stood on the damp, sour earth and waited. Neither Louvain nor any of his men passed them. They had found another route to take the ivory away, swiftly and unseen, no doubt expecting Durban to come from this side.
Five minutes later Monk heard Gould gasp as if he were choking, and his breath caught in a sob. He looked around and saw Durban’s distinctive walk as he came out of the shadow of the building ahead, Sergeant Orme and a constable behind him.
“Go with him,” Monk said quietly to Gould. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Good day, Mr. Monk,” Durban said curiously, stopping a couple of yards away. “What are you doing here?”
“Stolen goods,” Monk replied. “One very handsome ivory tusk, but the point is that the night watchman on the Maude Idris was killed in the theft.”
Durban’s face was comical with understanding and skepticism. “That why they took only one tusk, is it?”
Monk knew without question that Durban did not believe it. He knew exactly what Monk had done. “I imagine so,” Monk said smoothly. “Maybe there was a bit of double-crossing going on. Gould says he didn’t kill Hodge, but somebody did. I’ll show you where the tusk is.”
Durban signaled for his man to take Gould, who let out a cry and swiveled to look at Monk, and was jerked sharply to face forward as manacles were put on his wrists.
Monk turned and led Durban back into the far building, going slowly, partly because he was uncertain of the way, but mostly because he wanted to be sure that Louvain had had sufficient time to move all the tusks and leave no trace for Durban to find. It also crossed his mind to wonder if now that he had his ivory back he would cheat on the payment, but Monk refused to dwell on that. If Louvain did, then Monk would open up the Hodge murder case in such a way that Durban would plague Louvain until he’d wish he had not paid Monk to retrieve the ivory in the beginning. But even as he thought that, he knew what a dangerous thing it would be to do. It would be a last resort, only to be adopted in order to save his own reputation; not for the money, but for all future work.
They were inside the long corridor again, and the gloom closed in on them. Monk walked slowly, picking his way by touch as well as sight, stepping carefully to avoid the rotted boards, the refuse, and the weeds which had grown up through the floor and died, their stems slimy.
He found the place where he had left the one tusk, recognizing it by the newly broken wood. He pointed to it, and allowed Durban to dislodge the ivory and pull it out.
“I see,” Durban said expressionlessly. “So who does it belong to then, when we’ve finished with it? I assume he’s going to press charges, apart from the murder of the watchman?”
“Clement Louvain,” Monk replied. He wished he could be more open with Durban. Every lie scraped at him like an abrasion to the skin, but he had left himself no room to maneuver.
At Durban’s instruction, Sergeant Orme hoisted the tusk onto his shoulder, and Durban turned to walk back again. Monk followed him, wanting to say something, anything to let Durban understand, and knowing he could not.
He found Louvain in his office after dark that evening. The room was warm. A fire was burning briskly in the grate under the ornate mantel, the light of the flames dancing on the polished wood of the desk. Louvain was standing by the window with his back to the somber view of the river. It was too dark to see anything but the yellow eyes of other windows and the riding lights of ships at anchor.
He was smiling. He had a decanter of brandy on the small table—and two glasses out, polished to burn like crystals in the reflected fire. A small leather purse sat beside them, its soft fabric distorted out of shape by the weight of coins inside.
“Sit down,” he invited as soon as Monk had closed the door. “Have some brandy. You’ve done well, Monk. I admit, I had doubts at times; I thought you weren’t up to it. But this is excellent. I have my ivory back, bar one tusk for evidence.” He nodded, smiling, and there was no curb or evasion in it. “You couldn’t have done better. If I get another problem I’ll send for you. As it is, I’ll recommend you to everyone I like.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “And I’ll hope my enemies never find you.” He poured a generous brandy for Monk and passed it to him, then one for himself. He raised the glass. “To your continued prosperity—and mine!” He drank with relish. “There’s an extra ten guineas in the purse for you. I like you, Monk. You’re a man like myself.”
It was a generous compliment, and honest.
“Thank you.” Monk picked up the purse and put it in his pocket. Quite apart from the money in it, it was a beautiful piece of leather. It was a generous gesture. He picked up his brandy and took a mouthful. It was exquisite, old, mellow, and full of warmth.
EIGHT
Squeaky Robinson staggered into the kitchen at Portpool Lane and heaved two baskets of shopping onto the table. His fingers were still bent from the weight of them.
“ ’ave yer got any idea ’ow ’eavy that lot is?” he demanded, looking at Hester indignantly.
“Of course I have,” she replied, barely turning from the stove, where she was straining beef tea. “I usually carry it myself. I just haven’t had time to go out lately. Unpack it, will you? And put everything away.”
“I dunno where it goes!” he protested.
“Then this is an excellent time to learn,” she told him. “Unless you’d rather do something else? Like laundry, or scrubbing the floor? Or we could always do with more water. We seem to be using a great deal at the moment.”
“You’re a terrible ’ard woman!” he grumbled, picking the items out of the baskets one by one.
Claudine Burroughs came in from the laundry, her face pinched with distaste at the smell, her sleeves rolled up above the elbows, and her hands and lower arms red.
“I have none of that stuff—potash,” she said to Hester. “I can’t work without supplies.”
“I got some,” Squeaky said cheerfully. “ ’ere.” He pointed to the bag on the floor. “I’ll take it down fer yer. We’re gonna ’ave ter use a little less o’ all this, least until we get some more money. I dunno where folks’ ’earts is anymore. ’Ard, they are. ’Ard like flint. Come on, missus, I’ll give yer an ’and.”
Claudine looked at him in disbelief. She drew in her breath to rebuff him for his familiarity, but he was impervious to it. He picked up the large bag of potash, lifting it with some effort, although he had carried it all the way from the next street with greater ease. Claudine let out her breath again, and with as big an effort as his, she thanked him and followed him to the laundry.
Flo came in, carrying a full scuttle of coal, a grin on her face.
“Learnin’ ’er ’ow the other ’alf lives, are yer?” she said with relish. “If ol’ Squeaky spoke to ’er in the street she’d ’ave kittens.”
“We need her,” Hester pointed out. “Thank you for getting the coal in. How much have we left?”
“Need more day arter termorrer,” Flo replied. “I know where ter get more cheap. Yer want it?”
“No thank you. I can’t afford to have the police here.”
“I said cheap!” Flo was insulted, not on behalf of her honesty but her intelligence. “I din’t say free!”
“Do what you can,” Hester accepted. “Sorry.”
Flo smiled patiently. “That’s all right. I don’ take no offense. Yer can’t ’elp it.”
Hester finished the beef tea, put more water in the kettle and replaced it on the sto
ve, then with the tea in a large cup she went up the stairs to see how Ruth Clark was this morning. Bessie had been up with her most of the night, but had reported she now seemed no worse than some of the other women with fever and bronchitis.
“If yer ask me,” Bessie said briskly, “ ’alf ’er trouble’s that ’er lover threw ’er out! Took in someone else with a softer tongue, I daresay, an’ ’oo knows wot side ’er bread’s butter’d on. Now she’s got no bread at all, butter’d or not, an’ she’s crosser’n a wet cat. She in’t no sicker’n nob’dy else.”
Hester did not argue, there was no time and no point. At the top of the stairs she met Mercy Louvain with an armful of dirty laundry.
“I’ve left most of it,” the girl said with a smile. “That Agnes is feeling pretty bad, and I changed hers. She’s got a very high fever. I don’t think the poor creature has had a decent meal in weeks, maybe months. I’ll take these to Claudine.” A flash of amusement crossed her face. She said nothing, but Hester knew precisely what was in her mind.
“Perhaps you can give her a little help?” she suggested. “Especially with the mangle.”
“I’m no better at it,” Mercy confessed. “I got my own apron caught up in it yesterday. Tore the strings off and had to stitch them back on again. And that’s something I’m not very good at either. I can paint pretty well, but what use is that?”
“Everything that’s beautiful is of use,” Hester replied. “There are times when it is the only thing that helps.”
Mercy smiled. “But this certainly isn’t one of them. I’ll take these down and help Claudine mangle the last lot. Between the two of us we’ll make a passable job of it. I might even make her laugh, although I doubt it.” She dropped one of the sheets and bent to pick it up again. “Although if she gets herself caught in the mangle again, it might make me laugh! And if Flo’s there, she’ll never stop!” She gave a tiny little giggle, then it died as she heard someone along the passage call out and Hester went to her.
Margaret came in just after midday, bringing with her a bag of potatoes, three loaves of bread, two very large mutton bones, and three pounds, six shillings, and ninepence in money. She was dressed for work, and she looked vigorous and ready to tackle anything, and enormously pleased with herself.
Hester was so relieved she almost laughed just to see her.
“I’ve got jam,” Margaret said conspiratorially. “And I brought a couple of slices of cold mutton for your lunch. Eat it quickly; there isn’t enough to share. It was all I could take without getting Cook into trouble. I made a sandwich for you.” She unwrapped it as she spoke. “When did you last go home? Poor William must think you’ve abandoned him.” She passed the sandwich across. It was sliced a little crookedly, but had been made with plenty of butter, mint jelly, and thick meat. Hester knew Margaret had done it herself.
“Thank you,” she said with profound gratitude, biting into it and feeling the taste fill her.
Margaret made fresh tea and brought it to the table, pouring a cup for each of them. “How is everyone?” she asked.
“Much the same,” Hester replied with her mouth full. “Where did you get the money?”
“A friend of Sir Oliver’s,” Margaret answered. She looked down at her cup. She was annoyed with herself for allowing her feelings to be so clear, and yet she also wanted to share them with Hester. There was a need in her not to be alone in the turmoil, the vulnerability she felt, and the acute anxiety in case Lady Hordern carried out her threat to call on Mrs. Ballinger and repeat the conversation from the soiree. Margaret had actually broached the subject herself, in order to forestall disaster, but she was not at all sure that she had succeeded.
“I think he put a certain amount of pressure on the poor man to contribute,” she said with an uncomfortable memory, raising her eyes to meet Hester’s. “You know, in spite of himself, he’s awfully proud of you and what we do here.” She bit her lip self-consciously, not because she had said Rathbone was proud of Hester, which was true, but because his emotions were caught up with Margaret, and they both knew that. It had been unmistakable since he had been willing to help gain this building because Margaret had asked him.
Tired as she was, Hester found herself smiling. She understood exactly the mixture of modesty, of hope and fear, which made Margaret phrase it as she had. “If he’s prepared to admit it, then he certainly is,” she agreed. “And I’m grateful for anything he is able to coerce out of people. I suppose it’s the time of year, but we have far more women in here with bronchitis and pneumonia than a month or two ago.”
“I’d have pneumonia if I were walking the streets at night,” Margaret said with feeling. “I wish I could persuade people to give regularly, but you should see their faces when they think I’m collecting for missionary work, or something like that, and then the change in them when they know it’s for street women. I’ve been sorely tempted to decorate the truth a little, and just take the money.”
“I think it has something to do with acute discomfort that we allowed the misery to happen in the first place,” Hester replied. “Leprosy isn’t our fault, but tuberculosis or syphilis might be. And there’s the other side of it too. We don’t mind thinking about leprosy, because we don’t believe there’s any chance of our catching it. With the other things we might, in spite of everything we try to do to prevent it.”
“Syphilis?” Margaret questioned.
“Especially that,” Hester answered. “Street women are seen as the ones who pass it on. Husbands use them, wives get the disease.” She looked down. “You can’t blame them for anger—and fear.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Margaret admitted. “No, perhaps I wouldn’t be so willing either, when you think of that. Perhaps my judgment was a little quick.”
Margaret stayed and worked hard all afternoon. She was there to help when an injured woman was brought in, several bones broken in her fingers, but her most serious distress was fever and a hacking cough. She looked worn until her strength and will were exhausted, and when they helped her upstairs and into a bed, she lay silent and white-faced, oblivious of all they could do to help her.
Margaret left shortly after eight in the evening, intending to purchase more of the most important supplies, such as quinine—which was expensive and not easy to find—and such simple things as bandages and good surgical silk and gut.
Hester snatched some sleep for four hours, and woke with a start when it was just after midnight. Claudine Burroughs was standing next to the bed, her long face filled with anxiety and distaste. She looked annoyed.
“What is it?” Hester sat up slowly, struggling to reach full consciousness. Her head ached and her eyes felt hot and gritty. She would have paid almost any price to slide back into sleep again. The room around her wavered. The cold air chilled her skin. “What’s happened?” she asked.
“The new woman who came in,” Claudine said, framing her words carefully, “I think she has a . . . a disease of . . . a moral nature.” Her nostrils flared as though she could smell its odor in the room.
Hester had a terse answer on her tongue, then she remembered how much she needed Claudine’s help, unskilled as it was. She complained, she disapproved, but through it she kept working, almost as if she found some perverse comfort in it. A thought flickered through Hester’s mind as to what her life at home must be like that she came seeking some kind of happiness or purpose for herself here. But she had no time to pursue it.
“What are her symptoms?” she asked, swinging her feet over onto the floor.
“I don’t know much about such things,” Claudine defended herself. “But she has scars like the pox on her shoulders and arms, and other things I’d prefer not to mention.” She stood very stiffly, balanced as if to retreat. Her face was oddly crumpled. “I think the poor thing is like to die,” she added, a harsh and sudden pity in her voice, and then gone again, as though she was ashamed of it.
For the first time, Hester wondered if Claudine had ev
er seen death before, and if she was afraid of it. She had not thought to consider that possibility until now. She stood up slowly. She was stiff from lying too heavily asleep in one position.
“I’ll come and see what I can do,” she said in answer to the summons. “There may not be much.”
“I’ll help,” Claudine offered. “You . . . you look tired.”
Hester accepted, asking her to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth.
Claudine was right; the woman looked very ill indeed. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her skin was hot and dry and her breathing rattled, her pulse was weak. Now and again she moved her eyes and tried to speak, but no distinguishable words came.
Hester waited with her, leaving Mercy Louvain to tend to Ruth Clark and try to keep her fever down. Claudine came and went, each time more anxious.
“Can’t you do anything for her?” she asked, whispering in deference to the possibility that the sick woman might hear her.
“No. Just be here so she is not alone,” Hester replied. She had a light hold on the woman’s hand, just enough to exert a slight pressure in acknowledgment of her presence.
“So many of them . . .” Claudine did not like to say die like this, but it was in her pale face, the tightness of her lips. She smoothed her apron over her stomach, her hands, red-knuckled, were stiff.
“Yes,” Hester said simply. “It’s a hazard of the job, but it’s less certain than starvation.”
“The job!” Claudine all but choked on the word. “You make it sound like a decent labor! Have you any idea what heartache they bring to—” She stopped abruptly.
Hester heard the anguish in the sudden bitten-back words, as if Claudine had already betrayed herself. She turned and looked up at Claudine and saw the shame in her eyes, and fear, as if Hester might already know more than Claudine could bear to have known.
