A Sudden, Fearful Death

by Anne Perry

  “If you like,” she said with disapproval. “Rather obvious, don’t you think? What about green and white?” She picked up a bunch of artificial daisies and held them against a pale green straw bonnet with a green ribbon, and suddenly the effect was so fresh and dainty it took him back with a jolt of memory to childhood days in the summer fields with Beth as a little girl.

  “That’s lovely,” he said involuntarily.

  “I’ll have it delivered,” she said immediately. “It will be ready by tomorrow evening. Miss Liversedge will see to the details. You may settle the account with her.”

  And five minutes later Monk found himself in the street, having purchased a bonnet for Beth and wondering how on earth he would post it to Northumberland for her. He swore profoundly. The bonnet would have suited Hester, but he certainly was not going to give it to her—of all people.

  The next shop was less expensive, busier, and his by now blazing temper saw him through the difficulty of actually expressing approval of any particular bonnet.

  He could not waste all day looking at hats. He must broach the subject of his call, however difficult.

  “Actually the lady in question is with child,” he said abruptly.

  “So she will shortly be remaining at home for some time,” the assistant observed, thinking of the practicalities. “The hat will be worn only for a few months, or even weeks?”

  He pulled a face.

  “Unless she is able to …” He stopped, shrugged slightly.

  The woman was most perceptive. “She already has a large family?” she suggested.

  “Indeed.”

  “Unfortunate. I assume, sir, that she is not—happy—with the event?”

  “Not happy at all,” he agreed. “In fact, it may well jeopardize her health. There is a limit….” He looked away and spoke very quietly. “I believe if she knew how to—take steps …”

  “Could she afford … assistance?” the woman inquired, also very quietly.

  He turned to face her. “Oh yes … if it were anything within reason.”

  The woman disappeared and returned several moments later with a piece of paper folded over to conceal the writing on it.

  “Give her this,” she offered.

  “Thank you. I will.” He hesitated.

  She smiled. “Have her tell them who gave you the address. That will be sufficient.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  Before he went to the address she had given him, which was in one of the back streets off the Whitechapel Road, he walked some distance in that general direction, thinking long and carefully about the story he would present. It crossed his mind with some humor that he should take Hester and say that she was the lady in need of help. But dearly as he would have liked to do that—the poetic justice of it would have been sweet—she was too importantly occupied as she was at the hospital.

  He could no longer pretend to be going for a sister. The abortionist would expect the woman herself; it was not something which could be done at one removed. The only case where she might accept a man making the inquiries would be if the woman were too young to come in person until the last moment—or too important to risk being seen unnecessarily. Yes—that was an excellent idea! He would say he was inquiring for a lady—someone who would not commit herself until she knew it was safe.

  He hailed a cab, gave the driver directions to the Whitechapel Road, and sat back, rehearsing what he would say.

  It was a long journey. The horse was tired and the cabby sullen. They seemed to stop every few yards and the air was loud with the shouts of other frustrated drivers. Peddlers and costers called their wares, the driver of a dray misjudged a comer and knocked over a stall, and there was a brief and vicious fight, ending with bloody noses and a lot of blasphemous language. A drunken coachman ran straight over a junction at something close to a gallop, and several other horses either shied or bolted. Monk’s own hansom had gone a full block before the driver managed to bring it under control again.

  Monk alighted onto the Whitechapel Road, paid the driver, who by now was in an unspeakable temper, then began walking toward the address he had been given at the milliner’s shop.

  At first he thought he had made a mistake. It was a butcher’s. There were pies and strings of sausages in the window. If he were right, someone had a macabre sense of humor—or none at all.

  Three thin children in dirty clothes stood on the pavement watching him. They were all white-faced. One, about ten or eleven years old, had broken front teeth. A dog with mange in its fur crept around the corner and went in the doorway.

  After a moment’s hesitation Monk went in after it.

  Inside was hot and dim, little light getting through the grimy windows—the smoke of countless factory chimneys and domestic fires had grayed them over the months, and the summer thunderstorms had done nothing to help. The air was heavy and smelled stale and rancid. A large fly buzzed lazily and settled on the counter. The young woman apparently awaiting customers picked up an old newspaper and slammed it down, killing the fly instantly.

  “Gotcher!” she said with satisfaction. “What can I do for yer?” she asked Monk cheerfully. “We got fresh mutton, rabbit pie, pigs’ trotters, calves’-foot jellies, brawn, best in the East End, and tripes, sheeps’ brains, pigs’ liver, and sausages o’ course! What yer want then?”

  “Sausages look good,” he lied. “But what I really want is to see Mrs. Anderson. Is this the right address?”

  “That depends,” she said guardedly. “There are lots of Mrs. Andersons. What did yer want ’er for?”

  “She was recommended to me by a lady who sells hats….”

  “Was she now.” She looked him up and down. “I can’t think what for.”

  “For a lady of my acquaintance who would rather not be seen in this neighborhood until it is absolutely necessary.”

  “So she sent you, did she?” She smiled with a mixture of satisfaction, amusement, and contempt. “Well, maybe Mrs. Anderson’ll see you an’ maybe not. I’ll ask ’er.” And she turned and walked slowly toward the back of the room and through a paint-peeled door.

  Monk waited. Another fly came in and buzzed lazily around, settling on the blood-spotted counter.

  The woman came back and wordlessly held the door open. Monk accepted the invitation and went through. The room beyond was a large kitchen opening onto a yard with coal scuttles, bins overflowing with rubbish, several broken boxes, and a cracked sink full of rainwater. A tomcat slunk across the yard, his body low like a leopard’s, a dead rat in his mouth.

  Inside the kitchen was chaotic. Bloodstained linen filled one of the two stone sinks by the wall to the right, and the thick, warm smell of blood hung in the air. To the left was a wooden dresser with plates, bowls, knives, scissors, and skewers heaped haphazardly on it. Several bottles of gin lay around, some open, some still sealed.

  In the center of the room was a wooden table, dark with repeated soaking of blood. Dried blood made black lines in the cracks and there were splashes of it on the floor. A girl with an ashen face sat in a rocking chair, hugging herself and weeping.

  Two dogs lay by the dead ashes of the fire. One scratched itself, grunting with each movement of its leg.

  Mrs. Anderson was a large woman with sleeves rolled up to show immense forearms. Her fingernails were chipped and dark with immovable dirt.

  “ ’Allo,” she said cheerfully, pushing her fair gold hair out of her eyes. She cannot have been more than thirty-five at the most. “Need a spot of ’elp do yer, dearie? Well there ain’t nothin’ I can do for yer, now is there? She’ll ’ave to come in ’ere ’erself, sooner or later. ’Ow far gorn is she?”

  Monk felt a wave of anger so violent it actually nauseated him. He was forced to breathe deeply for several seconds to regain his composure. With a flood of memory so vivid the sounds and smells returned to him, the thick sweetness of blood, the sounds of a girl whimpering in pain and terror, rats’ feet scuttering across a stained floor.
He had been in back-street abortionists like this before, God knew how many times, or whether in connection with some woman bled to death, poisoned by septicemia, or simply the knowledge of the crime and the extortionate money.

  And yet he also knew of the white-faced women, exhausted by bearing child after child, unable to feed them, selling them as babies for a few shillings to pay for food for the rest.

  He wanted to smash something, hurl it to pieces and hear the splintering and cracking as it shattered, but after the instant satisfaction everything else would be the same. If he could weep perhaps he could ease the weight which was choking inside him.

  “Well?” the woman said wearily. “Are yer gonna tell me or not? I can’t do nothing for ’er if yer just stand there like an idiot! ’Ow far gorn is she? Or doncher know?”

  “Four months,” Monk blurted.

  The woman shook her head. “Left it a bit, ain’t yer? Still … I spec’ I can do summink. Gets dangerous, but I s’pose ’avin it’d be worse.”

  The girl in the chair whimpered softly, bright blood seeping into the blanket around her and dripping through its thin folds onto the floor. Monk pulled his wits together. He was here for a purpose. Indulgence in his own emotions would solve nothing and not help convict Herbert Stanhope.

  “Here?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

  “No—out in the street,” she said sarcastically. “Of course ’ere, yer fool! Where d’yer think? I don’t go to people’s houses. If yer want summink fancy yer’ll ’ave to see if yer can bribe some surgeon—although I dunno where yer’ll find one. It’s an ’anging crime, or it used ter be. Now it’s just jail—and ruin.”

  “You don’t seem worried,” he retorted.

  “I’m safe enough,” she said with dry humor. “Them as comes ter me is desperate, or they wouldn’t be ’ere. And I don’t charge too much. The fact they’re ’ere makes ’em as guilty as me. Anyway, it’s a public service as I give—’oo ’round here is gonna turn me in?” She gestured to indicate the whole street and its environs. “Even the rozzers don’t bother me if I keep discreet, like. An’ I do. So you mind ’ow yer go. I wouldn’t wancher ter ’ave an accident….” Her face was still smiling, but her eyes were hard, and the threat was unmistakable.

  “How do I find one of these surgeons that do abortions?” he asked, watching her intently. “The lady I’m asking for can afford to pay.”

  “Not sure as I’d tell yer if I knew—which I don’t. Ladies as can pay that sort ’ave their own ways o’ findin’ ’em.”

  “I see.” He believed her. He had no reason except instinct, but for once, even with thought, he had confidence in his own judgment. This sickening rage was familiar, and the helplessness. He could see in his mind confused and bitter widowers, frightened at being faced suddenly with looking after a dozen children by themselves, not knowing, not understanding what had happened or why. Their wives had faced the growing burden of incessant childbearing without speaking of it. They had gone to the abortionist secretly and alone. They had bled to death without even sharing the reason; it was private, shameful, women’s business. The husband had never stretched his imagination beyond his own physical pleasures. Children were a natural thing—and what women were made for. Now he was bereaved, frightened, angry, and totally bemused.

  And Monk could see just as clearly young girls, not yet sixteen, ashen-faced, sick with fear of the abortionist and her instruments, her gin bottle, and the shame of it, just like the girl in the chair now; and yet knowing even this was still better than the ruin of becoming a fallen woman. And what waited for a bastard child of a destitute mother? Death was better—death before birth, in some filthy back kitchen with a woman who smiled at you, was gentle according to her abilities, took all the money you could scrape together, and kept her mouth shut. He wished so fiercely it hurt him that he could do something for this child here now, weeping quietly and bleeding. But what was there?

  “I’ll try to find a surgeon,” Monk said with ironic honesty.

  “Please yerself,” the woman answered, apparently without rancor. “But yer lady friend won’t thank yer if yer spread it all over the city among ’er fine friends. Keepin’ it quiet is wot it’s all for, in’it?”

  “I’ll be discreet,” Monk answered, suddenly longing to be outside this place. It seemed to him as if the very walls were as soaked with pain as the linens and the table were with blood. Even the Whitechapel Road with its grime and poverty would be better than this. It choked him and felt thick in his nostrils and he could taste it at the back of his throat. “Thank you.” It was a ridiculous thing to say to her; it was merely a way of closing the encounter. He turned on his heel and flung the door open, strode through the butcher’s shop and outside into the street, taking in long gasps of air. Leaden with the smells of smoke and drains as it was, it was still infinitely better than that abominable kitchen.

  He would go on looking, but first he must get out of Whitechapel altogether. There was no point in looking to the back-street abortionists, thank God. Stanhope would never have trusted his business to them: they would betray him as quickly as thought—he took some of their best paying customers. He would be a fool to lay his life in their hands. The opportunities to blackmail for half his profit were too rich to pass up—half or more! He would have to look higher in society, if he could think of a way.

  There was no time for subtlety. Maybe there was only a day, two at the most.

  Callandra! She might know something, and there was no better person to ask. It would mean telling her that Sir Herbert was guilty, and how they knew, but there was no time or opportunity to ask Rathbone’s permission. He had told Monk because Monk was his employee in this case, and bound by the same rules of confidentiality. Callandra was not. But that was a nicety Monk did not give a damn about. Sir Herbert could complain from the gallows steps!

  It was late when Monk delivered his news, after six in the evening.

  Callandra was horrified when the full impact struck her of what he had said. He had left with what little advice she could give, his face pale and set in an expression which frightened her. Now she was alone in her comfortable room lit by the fading sun, with a dark weight of knowledge. A week ago it would have made her heart sing, simply with the sheer certainty that Kristian was not guilty of Prudence’s death. Now all she could think of was that Sir Herbert would almost certainly walk free—and more oppressive yet, of the pain that hung over Lady Stanhope, a new grief which she must face. Whether she would ever know that Sir Herbert was guilty of murder, Callandra could only guess, probably not. But she must be told that her eldest son had been the father of Victoria’s aborted child. The act of incest was not often a sole event. Her other daughters stood in danger of the same crippling tragedy.

  There was no way to ease the telling, nothing Callandra could think of or imagine which would make it bearable. And there was no point in sitting here in her soft chair amid the bowls of flowers and the books and cushions, the cats asleep in the sun and the dog looking at her hopefully with one eye, in case she should decide to walk.

  She rose and went to the hall, calling for the butler and the footman. She would take the carriage to Lady Stanhope’s house now. It was an uncivil time for calling, and it was unlikely Lady Stanhope was receiving visitors in the circumstances anyway, but she was prepared to force the issue if that was necessary. She was wearing a very simple afternoon dress, fashionable two years ago, and it did not occur to her to change.

  She rode in the carriage deep in thought, and was startled to be told she had arrived. She instructed the coachman to wait, alighted without assistance, and went straight to the front door. It was handsome, discreet, speaking of a great deal of money. She noted it absently, aware with bitterness that Sir Herbert would keep all this, probably even with his reputation little damaged. It gave her no satisfaction that his personal life would be scarred forever. All her thoughts were filled with the pain she was about to inflict upon his wife.


  She rang the bell, and it was answered by a footman. Perhaps in these anguished times the women were being kept in the rear of the house. It might be deemed better for a man to deal with the curious and tasteless who might call.

  “Yes ma’am?” he said guardedly.

  “Lady Callandra Daviot,” Callandra said briskly, passing him her card. “I have a matter of extreme urgency to discuss with Lady Stanhope, and I regret it cannot wait until a more fortunate time. Will you inform her that I am here.” It was an order, not a question.

  “Certainly ma’am,” he replied stiffly, taking the card without reading it. “But Lady Stanhope is not receiving at present.”

  “This is not a social call,” Callandra replied. “It is a matter of medical emergency.”

  “Is—is Sir Herbert ill?” The man’s face paled.

  “Not so far as I am aware.”

  He hesitated, in spite of experience, uncertain what best to do. Then he met her eyes; something in him recognized power and authority and a strength of will which would not be overridden or gainsaid.

  “Yes, ma’am. If you would be good enough to wait in the morning room.” He opened the door wider to allow her in, and then showed her to a very formal room, at present devoid of flowers and bleak in its sense of being unused. It was like a house in mourning.

  Philomena Stanhope came after only a few moments, looking pinched and anxious. She regarded Callandra without apparent recognition. Society had never meant anything to her, and the hospital was only a place where her husband worked. Callandra was touched by pity for the ruinous disillusion she was about to inflict on her. Her comfortable family and home were about to be ripped apart.

  “Lady Callandra?” Philomena said questioningly. “My footman says you have some news for me.”

  “I am afraid I have. I profoundly regret it, but further tragedy may occur if I do not.”

  Philomena remained standing, her face even paler.