The Shifting Tide

by Anne Perry

  “Or Squeaky,” Hester added. “But so far as I know, he didn’t see her either. And why on earth would he want to kill her?”

  “That’s exactly it,” Sutton said unhappily. “An’ as yer said, it were Mr. Louvain as brung ’er in.”

  “Yes. He said she was the mistress of a friend of his.”

  He raised an eyebrow in a lopsided expression of doubt. “Or mebbe not? ’ave yer thought as mebbe she were ’is own mistress, like?”

  “Yes, of course, I have.” A coldness touched her. “You mean that Mercy knew that, perhaps even knew her?”

  “In’t wot I wanna think,” he said sadly. “Nor wouldn’t I wanter think as mebbe that’s why she come ’ere ter ’elp—”

  “Just to murder Ruth Clark?” Hester refused to believe it. “She was here for days before Ruth was killed. If that’s what she came for, why would she wait?”

  “I dunno. Mebbe she wanted ter argue the Clark woman inter leavin’ the family alone?” he suggested, his face pinched with weariness. “But p’r’aps the Clark woman ’ad ideas o’ becomin’ Mrs. Louvain? Or mebbe just o’ bleedin’ ’im o’ money. Miss Mercy could a bin protectin’ ’im.”

  “No.” This time she was quite certain. “He doesn’t need anyone to do that. If Ruth Clark was trying to blackmail him, or get money in any way, he’d simply have dumped her in the river himself.”

  He looked at her, shaking his head a little. “Someb’dy put a piller over ’er ’ead. D’yer reckon as it were Flo—or Miss Claudine? Miss Claudine got a tongue on ’er as’d slice bacon, but she wouldn’t stoop ’erself to ’it anyb’dy. I seen ’er wi’ Squeaky. She’d fair bust ’er stays, but she wouldn’t ’it ’im. Flo’s a different kettle o’ fish. She’d a throttled ’er if she’d really lost ’er rag, like. But d’yer reckon as she’d a carried it off after, all cool an’ surprised, like? An’ nob’dy’d guessed it were ’er?”

  “No . . .”

  “Then I reckon yer’ve gotter think as it were Miss Mercy.” His face was marked with weariness and sorrow. “I wish I ’adn’t ’ad ter say that.”

  “I was just putting off thinking it,” she admitted. “I sensed emotion between them, but I really didn’t think it was hatred, and I would have sworn that Ruth wasn’t afraid of her. If there’d been that kind of threat between them, if Ruth was blackmailing Clement Louvain, or imagining she would marry him, then surely she’d know Mercy would try to stop it? Wouldn’t she have been afraid?”

  He was disconcerted. “ ’Ow daft were she?”

  “Not at all. She was quick, well educated; in fact, they seemed to belong to the same social class, except that Ruth was possibly Louvain’s mistress, whereas Mercy is his sister.”

  There was a sound at the doorway, and Claudine came in, aware that she was probably interrupting and ignoring the fact. Her eyes were bleak and she held her voice in control with difficulty. “Mrs. Monk, I think Mercy is sinking. Flo is with her, but I thought you’d like to be there yourself if she rallies long enough to know.”

  Hester was not ready. Her thoughts were in turmoil and she needed to know the truth, however deeply it hurt, if only to free Flo and Claudine from suspicion. Nor was she ready emotionally. She liked Mercy, liked her patience, her curiosity, the way she was willing to learn skills outside her class or style of life, her generosity of spirit, her ease to praise others, even her occasional flashes of temper. Hester was not prepared to accept her death with so much turbulence of heart, so many painful questions unanswered.

  But time would not wait; the hand of plague waited for nothing.

  “I’m coming,” she said, glancing once at Sutton. Then she followed Claudine out through the kitchen and up the stairs to Mercy’s room.

  Flo was sitting beside the bed, leaning forward a little to hold Mercy’s hand. Mercy lay quite still, her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily and the sweat stood out on her skin.

  Flo rose and allowed Hester to take her place, moving silently to the door.

  Hester touched Mercy’s head, then wrung out the cloth in the dish of water and placed it on her brow. A few minutes later Mercy opened her eyes. She saw Hester and smiled, just the corner of her lips moving a fraction.

  “I’m here,” Hester whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

  Mercy seemed to be struggling to say something. Hester wet her lips with the cloth.

  “Are there any more?” Mercy breathed, the words barely audible.

  “Any more?” Hester did not understand what she meant, but she could see that it was of intense importance to her.

  “Any more . . . sick?” Mercy whispered.

  “No, no more,” Hester answered.

  There were several more minutes of silence. Mercy was blue about the lips and she was obviously in severe pain. The poison that had blackened the buboes under her arms and groin was racking her whole body now. Hester had seen death often enough to know that it would not be long. She would have to get word out to Clement Louvain when it was over and they could communicate with the outside world. She would have to tell him about Ruth Clark as well, whatever the truth of his regard for her had been. Odd, such lovely words: Mercy and Clement. And the sister was Charity—the same meaning again. And Ruth Clark too. The word was usually used in the negative—ruthless—so ruth must be a kind of mercy and forbearance, a gentleness of spirit. Presumably, Clement Louvain would tell Charity. What a lot of grief for one man to bear.

  Had he known that Ruth had plague? Was that why he had brought her here instead of having her nursed in his own home? If she had been his mistress, then he could well have it too by now.

  Mercy’s eyes were open.

  Hester looked at her. “Did you know that Ruth Clark had the plague?”

  Mercy blinked. “Ruth?” It was almost as if she did not know who Hester meant.

  “Ruth Clark, the first one to die,” Hester reminded her. “She was suffocated. Someone put a pillow over her face and stifled her, but she would have died of plague anyway—almost certainly. Hardly anyone ever recovers.”

  “Leaving . . .” Mercy said hoarsely. “Not listen to me. Spread it . . .”

  “No, she didn’t,” Hester assured her gently, her eyes brimming with tears. “She never went outside the clinic, except to be buried.” She put her hand on Mercy’s and felt the fingers respond very slightly. “That’s why you killed her, isn’t it?” Her throat was tight and aching. “To stop her from leaving. You knew she had plague, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” It was hardly more than a breath.

  “How? Was she your brother’s mistress?”

  Mercy made a funny little sound in her throat, a gasping as if she had something caught in it, and it was a couple of seconds before Hester realized it was laughter.

  “Wasn’t she?” she asked. “Who was Ruth Clark?”

  “Charity . . .” Mercy answered. “My sister. Stanley died at sea, but Charity thought she could escape. I wouldn’t let her . . . not with plague. I . . .” But she had no more strength. Her eyelids fluttered and her breath eased out slowly and did not come again.

  Hester reached for her pulse, but she knew it would not be there. She sat motionless, overwhelmed with the reality of the loss. She had not known Mercy long, but they had shared sorrow, pity, and laughter; shared grubby manual duties, fear and hope, and feelings that mattered. Now she knew that Mercy had come here deliberately, knowing what it might cost her, to stop her sister from carrying plague away into the city, the country. She had paid the price to the last drop.

  Slowly, Hester moved from the chair and bent to her knees. She had prayed often for the dead—it was a natural thing to do—but before now it had been for the comfort of those remaining. This time it was for Mercy, and it was directed to no listener except that divine power who judges and forgives the souls of men.

  “Forgive her,” she said in her mind. “Please—she didn’t know anything better to do—please! Please?”

  She did not know how long she knelt, s
aying the words over and over until she felt the hand on her shoulder and flinched as if she had been struck.

  “If she’s gone, Miss ’Ester, we gotter get ’er away from ’ere an’ buried proper.” It was Sutton.

  “Yes, I know.” She climbed to her feet. “She has to be buried in a graveyard.” She stated it as a fact. She had already decided to tell no one what Mercy had said. As far as they were concerned Ruth Clark was a prostitute who had died of pneumonia and no more.

  “She will, Miss ’Ester.” Sutton bit his lip. “I told the men yesterday. They got a place. But we gotter ’urry. There’s a grave new dug not far from ’ere, mile an’ a ’alf, mebbe. It’s rainin’ like stair rods, which’ll keep folk off the streets. Flo’s bringin’ one o’ them dark blankets an’ we’ll wrap ’er up. But we in’t got time ter grieve . . . I’m sorry.”

  Hester felt her eyes hot and stinging with unshed tears, but she obeyed. When Flo came with the blanket she took it from her and insisted on wrapping Mercy in it herself. Then the three of them, Sutton at the feet and the two women at the head, carried Mercy down to the back door. Squeaky, Claudine, and Margaret were waiting, heads bowed, faces pale. No one spoke. Margaret looked at Hester, the question in her eyes.

  Hester shook her head. She turned to Sutton. “I’m going with them.” It was a statement.

  “Yer can’t do that . . .” he started, then he saw the blind grief in her face. “Yer can’t go out now,” he said gently. “Yer’ve kept in all this time—”

  “I won’t go near anyone,” she cut across him. “I’ll walk behind, by myself.”

  He shook his head, but it was in defeat rather than denial, and his eyes were swimming in tears.

  Flo sniffed fiercely. “Don’ yer forget yer goin’ fer all of us! An’ for all of them as we buried as ’as got no one.”

  “Say something for us as well,” Claudine agreed.

  Hester nodded. “Of course I will.” And before anyone could say anything more and break what little composure she had left, she opened the door and Sutton helped them carry the body outside into the yard and lay it down. “Look after ’er,” he said to the men when they came for it.

  Hester waited until they were almost to the street, then she pulled her shawl over her head and followed over the cobbles in the drenching rain, Sutton’s coat around her shoulders. She waited under the arch of the gate as they passed under the street lamp and across the footpath and placed the body gently into the rat cart. One man picked up the shafts and started to pull, his dog beside him; the other went behind, his dog at his heels.

  Hester went after them, about twenty feet behind. They knew she was there, and possibly they walked a little more slowly to allow her to keep up. They moved through the sodden night unspeaking, but every now and then glancing backwards to make sure she was still there.

  She thought of the other women who had been buried this way, unmarked and unmourned. Whoever had loved them would never know where they were, nor that at the very least someone had dealt with them in some reverence.

  The rain was turning to sleet, drifting across the arcs of light shed by the street lamps and disappearing into the darkness again. She pulled Sutton’s coat more tightly around her.

  Without warning they came to a stop and she stood, still twenty feet away, while the two men took the body out of the cart and led the way very slowly, guided by the bull’s-eye lanterns, through the graveyard gates. She waited until they were almost out of sight before she went after them along the paths between the stones.

  A thin figure loomed up ahead, standing by the earth of a new grave, dug ready for the morning. The mound of fresher earth, excavated deeper, was barely visible in the darkness.

  “Quick!” was the only word spoken, but she heard the slither of soil and then the thud as shovel blades hit harder ground. There was a minute’s silence. Dimly she saw the figures straighten and bend again as they lowered Mercy down. Then all three piled the earth back in. It was bitterly cold, and she heard the faint splash of water in the bottom of the grave. At least the downpour would wash the mud from their hands afterwards.

  It seemed an age until Mercy was completely covered, but at last it was done.

  One of the men walked over and stopped about ten feet from Hester. “Yer wanner say summink?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.” Hester took a step sideways, closer to the grave, but away from him. “Rest in peace,” she said clearly, the rain icy in her face, washing away the tears. “If we loved you as much as we did, and could understand, you have no need to fear God—He has to love you more, and understand even better. Don’t be afraid. Good-bye, Mercy.”

  “Amen,” the others said in unison, then led the way ahead of her through the gravestones back to the rat cart and the cold, bitter journey home.

  The next day passed with no one else developing symptoms. They waited in dread and hope, listening for every cough, feeling for tenderness, watching for an awkward movement. They worked together to scrub, launder, cook, change bandages for the injured still trapped with them, and tend to those recovering from what now seemed to have been only pneumonia or bronchitis.

  No one spoke much. They were all deeply subdued by Mercy’s death. Even Snoot seemed to have lost his heart for ratting, although he had possibly got them all anyway.

  Once or twice Claudine seemed about to say something, deliberately filling her expression with hope, then as if it were too fragile to expose to reality, she changed her mind and kept silent, redoubling her efforts at scrubbing or mixing or whatever else she was doing.

  Flo chopped vegetables as if she were slitting the throat of an enemy, biting back tears all the time; and Bessie banged pots, pans, folded linen, and grunted. But whether it was out of satisfaction, the ache in her shoulders and back, or too much hope bottled up inside her, she did not allow anyone to know. In the evening they all sat together around the kitchen table and ate the last of the soup. From now on there would be nothing except gruel, but no one complained. In everyone’s mind there was just the one prayer, that the plague be gone.

  In the morning one of the men with the dogs knocked on the back door. When Claudine allowed him time, then went to answer it, she found a box of food, three pails of fresh water, and two envelopes tucked where they were kept dry. She carried them inside in triumph.

  One note was for Margaret. Hester watched as she opened it and her face filled with joy, her eyes brimming. She read it twice, regardless of her tears, then looked across at Hester, whose note was still unopened.

  “It’s Oliver,” she said, gulping. “He brought the food himself.” Involuntarily she glanced at the courtyard. “He was right outside the door.” She did not offer any further comment; they both knew the effort it must have cost him, and the victory.

  Hester tore hers open as well, and read:

  My dearest Hester,

  The thing you will care most about is that Monk is well, but he looks exhausted, and his fear for your welfare is eating him alive. He is working night and day to find the crew of the Maude Idris who were paid off before the ship reached the Pool of London, but we fear they may already be dead, or else have gone back to sea in new ships.

  However, we have succeeded in saving the life of the thief, Gould, with a verdict of not guilty because of reasonable doubt, and thus justice is served without the terror of the truth being known.

  When I last saw Monk, after the trial, I did not yet know that I would find the courage to deliver this myself, or I could have brought you a letter from him. But you will already know all that he would have written.

  My admiration for you was always greater than I told you, but now it grows beyond my ability to measure. I shall be proud if you still wish to consider me a friend.

  Yours as always,

  Oliver

  She smiled, folding it up to put into her pocket, then looked up at Margaret. “I told you he would,” she said with infinite satisfaction.

  They spent the day scrubbing e
verything they could reach. Rathbone had thoughtfully included carbolic among the things he had left. By suppertime they were exhausted, but every room was clean and the chemical’s sharp, stinging odor was everywhere. At any other time it would have been offensive; now they stood in the kitchen and inhaled it with pleasure.

  That night they all slept—except Bessie, who now and again walked the corridors just to make certain there was still no one worse or complaining of new symptoms.

  In the morning there was a crisp, hard frost, and the light was sharp with pale sun. It was November 11, twenty-one days since Clement Louvain had summoned Monk to find his ivory and see the dead body of Hodge.

  “Yer beat it!” Sutton said with a huge grin. “Yer beat the plague, Miss ’Ester. I’ll take yer ’ome!”

  “We beat it,” she corrected him, grinning back at him. She lifted her hands tentatively, wanting to touch him, shake his hand, something. Then she abandoned conventions, even the fear of embarrassing him, and did what she wished. She threw her arms around him and hugged him.

  He stood frozen for a moment, then responded, gently at first, as if she might break, then strongly with sheer joy.

  Claudine came into the room, gasped, then whisked around and took hold of Flo, behind her, and hugged her too, almost bumping into Margaret.

  There was a knock on the door and Sutton stepped over and threw it open, blinking in amazement when he saw a smartly dressed man with fair hair and a long, intelligent face, at the moment filled with overwhelming emotion.