by Anne Perry
Ballinger backed away a step, looked at her again, then changed his mind and strode away. Two minutes later he was out of sight and she was alone in the street, which was now so dark she could barely see the ends. The lamps hung like straight-edged towers girded by pale wreaths that moved, dissolved, and formed again as the wind from the water gusted between the dark housefronts.
A dog trotted by soundlessly, its shape indistinct. A cat ran, low to the ground, shinned up a wall, seemingly without effort, and dropped on the other side invisibly. Somewhere out of sight a man and a woman were shouting at each other.
Then three men came around the corner, abreast, swaggering towards her. As they passed under the lamp she saw their coarse faces. Two of them were looking at her with anticipation. One of them ran his tongue over his lips.
She dropped the match tray and ran, ignoring her ill-fitting boots on the uneven cobbles, the enclosing darkness, and the stench of garbage. She did not even look which way she was going, anything to get away from the pursuing men, shouting after her, laughing and yelling obscenities.
At the end of the street she turned left, around the nearest corner that allowed her not to cross the open stretch where she would be seen. This alley was darker, but she knew they would still hear her boots on the stones. She turned again, and again, always running. Her dread was that she would find one of the alleys blind, and they would trap her against a wall with nowhere else to go.
A dog was barking furiously. Somewhere ahead there were lights. A tavern door was open, and a yellow lantern gleam spilled out onto the cobbles. The smell of ale was strong. She was tempted to go in; it was bright and looked warm. Perhaps they would help her?
Or perhaps not. No, if someone tore at her clothes they would see the clean linen under them. She would be exposed for a fraud. They would be furious. They would feel mocked, duped. They might even kill her. She had seen the wounds of too many street women who had incurred someone's uncontrolled rage. Keep running. Trust no one.
Her breath stabbed in her aching lungs, but she dared not stop.
There was more shouting behind her. She tried to run faster. Her feet were slipping on the cobbles. Twice she nearly fell, only saving herself by swinging her arms wildly to keep her balance.
She had no idea how long she ran, or where she was when finally she fell, exhausted, huddling in the doorway of some tenement house on a narrow street, walls above her almost meeting at the roofs. She could hear scuffling, the scrape of animal claws, and breathing, but no human boots on the road's surface, no voices shouting or laughing.
There was someone near her, a woman like a pile of laundry, all ragged and tied together with twine. She crept near her, glad of the warmth. Perhaps she could even sleep a little. In the morning she would try to find out where she was. For now she was invisible in the dark, another bundle of rags, just like all the rest.
Hester arrived at the clinic in the morning to find Squeaky Robinson waiting for her. She had barely sat down at her desk to look at the figures for medicines when he knocked and came straight in without waiting for her to answer. He closed the door behind him. He looked angry and worried. He had a piece of stiff, white notepaper in his hand. He started to speak without even the barest civility of a greeting.
Two days! he said sharply. “Nothing at all, not a word. And now ‘ere's her ‘usband writing us letters demanding ‘er ter come ‘ome.” He waved the paper in proof.
“Who?” Hester asked him. She did not question his manners; she could see that he was very obviously distressed.
“‘Er ‘usband!” he snapped. He looked at the papers. “Wallace Burroughs.”
Then she understood, and was instantly as concerned as he. “You mean Claudine hasn't been here for two days? And she hasn't been home either?”
He closed his eyes in exasperation. “That's wot I jus’ said! She's gorn missing, taken off, the stupid …” He fumbled for a word violent enough to express his emotions, and failed to find one he could use in front of her.
“Show me.” Hester held her hand out for the note, and he passed it to her. It was brief to the point of curtness, but perfectly explicit. He said he had forbidden Claudine to involve herself any more deeply in the affairs of the clinic, and she had apparently defied him, and had now been missing from her home and her duties for two whole days and nights. He required immediately that whoever was in charge of the clinic should send Claudine home, and not in future address her or importune her for further assistance, either with time or for financial offerings.
At another time Hester would have been furious with his arrogance and his patronizing and domineering manner, but she read in his tone not only injured pride but also genuine anxiety, not just for his own well-being but for Claudine's.
“This is serious, Squeaky.” She looked up at him. “If she isn't at home, and she isn't here, then it may be that she is in some trouble.”
“I know that!” he said sharply, his voice unusually loud. “Why d'yer think I came ter yer? She's gorn an’ done summink stupid.”
“What sort of thing? What do you know, Squeaky?”
“I dunno nothin’ or I'd be tellin’ yer,” he said. His exasperation had reached the point where he could not keep still. He moved his weight from one foot to the other in agitation. “Nobody's gonna listen ter me. Yer'll ‘ave ter ask Bessie an’ Ruby an’ anyone else, or put the word out. Tell Mr. Monk, if yer ‘ave ter. We gotta find ‘er, or she'll come ter some ‘arm. Gawd knows, she's daft enough.”
Hester drew breath to give a string of alternatives as to where Claudine could be, all of them safe, but of course she knew that Claudine would not have gone on any kind of social trip without telling them, and at the moment her mind was worried and angry over Jericho Phillips, just as they all were.
“I'll speak to Ruby and Bessie.” She stood up. “Then if they have nothing, I'll start with the women we have in at the moment.”
“Good,” he said firmly. He hesitated over whether to thank her or not, and decided not to. She was doing it for herself, not for him. “I'll wait ‘ere,” he finished.
She left him and went to find Bessie, who knew nothing at all, except that she thought Ruby was looking busy and self-important these last couple of days, and now she was a bit preoccupied this morning.
“Thank you,” Hester said fervently.
Ruby was alone in the scullery looking over what vegetables they had left.
Hester decided to preempt any denial by assuming guilt, not a practice she normally approved, but this was not normal. Claudine was lost, and they must find her, and ease any damage to any hurt feelings later.
“Good morning, Ruby,” she began. “Please forget the carrots and listen to me. Mrs. Burroughs is missing and may be in trouble, or even danger. Her husband does not know where she is. She has not been home for two nights, and she has not been here either. If you know something, you must tell me, immediately.”
“She were ‘ere night afore last,” Ruby said intently, dropping a bunch of carrots on to the bench.
“No one saw her here. Are you sure you have the correct night?” Hester asked her.
“Yes, Miss. She came in tired and pretty rough. Din't want no one ter see ‘er. Slept in the fever room. Went out early. I saw ‘er.”
“Did you, indeed? Where did she go?”
Ruby looked straight at her. “I can't tell you, Miss. I gave ‘er me word.” Her eyes were shining, and her face was a little flushed.
Hester was assailed by a terrible thought. It was adventure in Ruby's eyes. Claudine had gone to do something Ruby held in supremely high regard, something wonderful. She found herself almost choking on her own breath. “Ruby, you have to tell me. She may be in terrible danger! Jericho Phillips tortures people and murders them!” She saw Ruby's face go white. “Tell me!” She lifted her hands as if to take Ruby by the shoulders and shake her, and only just restrained herself in time.
“I promised!” Ruby said in a whisper. “I gave ‘
er me word!”
“You are released from it,” Hester said urgently. “Honorably released. Where did she go?”
“Ter find out where they sell ‘em pictures wot Phillips takes,” she answered huskily.
“What?” Hester was appalled. “How? Where did she go to? You can't just walk into a shop and ask if they sell pornography! Has she lost her wits?”
Ruby sighed impatiently. “‘Course not. She went dressed like a match seller, all scuffed up an’ dirty, like. She dressed proper, old boots an’ all. I got ‘er an old skirt and shawl from one o’ the women wot comes in ‘ere, an’ greased ‘er ‘air an’ blackened ‘er face, an’ ‘er teeth. Yer'd never ‘ave known ‘er from the real, I promise yer.”
Hester let her breath out slowly, her mind filled with horror. “Oh, God help us!” she said. There was no point in blaming Ruby. “Thank you for telling me the truth. Count the rest of the carrots.”
“She goin’ ter be all right, Miss ‘Ester?” Ruby asked nervously.
Hester looked at her. Her face was twisted with fear, her eyes dark.
“Yes, of course,” Hester said quickly. “We'll just have to go and find her, that's all.” She turned again and left, going rapidly back to her office, her heels clicking on the wooden floor with a sharp, hasty sound.
She was almost at the end of explaining to Squeaky what she had learned when Margaret Rathbone came in. It was obvious from her expression that she had overheard a good deal of the conversation.
“Good morning, Margaret,” Hester said with surprise. “I didn't know you were there.”
“So I gathered,” Margaret replied coolly. She was wearing a flattering green muslin dress and looked as if she had come to do no more than deliver messages. Her clothing contrasted strongly with Hester's blouse and blue-gray skirt, which was obviously made for working in. Margaret came further into the room, nodding to Squeaky but not speaking to him. “Were you going to tell me that Claudine is missing?”
Squeaky looked at her, then turned back to Hester, eyes wide.
Hester was caught off guard. “I hadn't thought about you at all,” she replied honestly. “I was wondering what best to do to find Claudine. Have you some suggestion?”
“My suggestion would have been not to take Claudine into your confidence about your obsession with Jericho Phillips,” she replied. “She admires you so much she would do anything to earn your friendship. She is a Society lady, bred to be charming, entertaining, obedient, and a good wife and hostess. She has no idea about your world of poverty and crime, except the bits she overhears from the street women who come here. She didn't come to the trial, she was too busy keeping the clinic working, and she certainly wouldn't read about it in the newspapers. Decent women don't read such things, and most street women can't read anyway. She is naive about your world, and if you'd taken any proper responsibility you would know that.”
Hester could think of no defense for herself. To argue whether the streets were “her world” was to evade the point. Claudine was naive, and Hester knew it, or she would have, had she bothered to take any thought. She was just as guilty as Margaret had accused her of being.
“Let us hope to hear that it does not end in tragedy,” Margaret added.
There was a movement at the door and they all swiveled round to see Rathbone come in. Presumably he had accompanied Margaret. Perhaps they had come from some function together, or were intending to leave for one.
He looked at each of them in turn, his face grave. His eyes rested on Hester for a moment, then he spoke to Squeaky. “Mr. Robinson, would you be good enough to leave us for a few moments? Thank you.” The last was an acknowledgment as Squeaky glanced at Hester, and at her nod went out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Hester waited for Rathbone to endorse Margaret's accusation. Instead, he turned to Margaret. “Your criticism is unhelpful, Margaret,” he said quietly. “And I think it is also unfair. Mrs. Burroughs took whatever action she did from her own belief, and from her desire to help. If it turns out to have been foolish, that is tragic. All we can usefully do now is set out to look for her in the hope that she may be rescued from whatever discomfort or distress she is in. Of course Hester is determined to do whatever is possible within the law to stop Jericho Phillips. It is her fault that he is free from the noose for having killed the boy Figgis. I understand her compulsion to put right that error. We would all do better if we acknowledged our mistakes, instead of making excuses for them, and did everything within our power to put them right. Occasionally we need help in that, which Claudine Burroughs realized. The fact that her assistance may be of more harm than use is regrettable, but it is not stupid, nor is it evil.”
The color drained from Margaret's face, and she stared at him in astonishment.
His expression did not alter. “It takes courage,” he went on. “I think those who have never made any grand mistakes do not realize how much that costs. It is to be admired, not criticized.”
Margaret slowly turned from him towards Hester. Her eyes filled with tears. She swung around and walked out, her head high, her back stiff. She did not speak to either of them.
Rathbone did not go after her. “I know that, because I have made a few myself,” he said with a slightly twisted smile, his voice gentler than before. “Phillips was one of them, and I don't know how to put it right.”
Hester blinked, confused, her mind racing. What he had said was true, but she was astounded that he had expressed it aloud.
She looked at his face, remembering all the battles they had fought together in the past, before ever knowing Margaret. It had been more than friendship; there had been understanding, loyalty, and a belief and a cause shared. It was a bond too deep to break easily. He had made a mistake over Phillips; the thing that mattered was that he had owned up to it. Forgiveness was instant and complete.
She smiled at him, and saw the answering warmth in his face, and a flare of intense gratitude, bright and sweet.
“We must find Claudine,” she said aloud. “Before we think of anything else. Squeaky should be the best person for that.”
Rathbone cleared his throat. “Can I help?”
She looked away. “Not yet, but if you can, I'll ask you.”
“Hester …”
“I will! I promise.” Before he could say anything more, and she was suddenly afraid of what that might be, she brushed past him and went to look for Squeaky.
TWELVE
hen Squeaky Robinson left Hester's office he went straight to his own office, intending to wait for her. The discussion between her and Rathbone sounded as if it might become personal, and rather heated. Squeaky had not thought about it much before, but it seemed to him now as if there was a bit more to that friendship than he had supposed. He hoped Hester was not going to get hurt by it. She had already been hurt more than enough by her meddling in the Jericho Phillips affair. Women would be a lot better off, and a lot less trouble, if they had smaller hearts, and bigger brains.
And that certainly went for Claudine Burroughs too. Stupid mare! Now he would have to go and look for her, wherever she had gotten to. And the sooner that was done the better. Dress up as a match seller! Hadn't the wits she was born with! No wonder her husband was as cross as a wet hen. Not that Squeaky knew anything about hens, wet or dry. It was just something he'd heard someone say, and it seemed to fit the kind of pointless and ineffectual temper he imagined of Wallace Burroughs.
It was up to Squeaky to do something sensible. He would do it right now, before Hester could come and tell him differently. He wrote a short note to her and left it on the very top of the ledgers on his desk. “Dear Miss Hester, I know where Mrs. Burroughs might be. Gone to look for her. S. Robinson.”
He went to his bedroom and changed into some far scruffier and more disrespectable clothes than the ones he had taken to wearing in his office recently, and set out from the back door. He picked up a cab in Farringdon Road and asked to be taken to Execution Dock. That was as
good a place to start as he could think of.
On the way he tried to let his mind follow what Claudine would have thought. According to what Hester had from Ruby, Claudine was going to look for shops that sold pornographic photographs of little boys. He let out a howl of anguish at the idiocy of such a thing, but fortunately the driver did not hear him, or took no notice. A man could die in here, and no one would care, he thought aggrievedly And yet if the driver had stopped and come to inquire if he was all right, he would have been even angrier.
On arriving he alighted, paid the cabby the fare, and gave him a tuppence tip, then started walking along the dockside to the nearest alley leading inland. The alleys were narrow, stifling in the heat as the sun rose towards midday. He had not been here in some time, and he had forgotten how disgusting they smelled.
He knew where the brothels were, and the shops that sold pornography of all sorts. He began asking, casually at first. He wanted to know if anyone had seen a match seller answering Claudine's description. It was tedious. Many people were disinclined to reply with any degree of honesty.
He had been working at it for two or three hours before he was mimicked, very disrespectfully, by a couple of urchins, and he realized with a shiver of horror how polite he had become. It was appalling. He had changed beyond all recognition from the man he used to be. He sounded like some daft old stranger.
He lunged after one of the boys and caught him by the scruff of the neck. He lifted him right off the ground, feet dangling, and held him in the air.
“Treat yer elders wi’ respect, yer piece o’ vermin,” he hissed at the child. “Or I'll teach yer the ‘ard way, an’ yer'll wish yer ‘adn't been born. Now I'll ask yer nice, one more time, because I don’ like twistin’ children's ‘eads off. Makes me tired, most especial it does on a summer day. Where did the match woman go as was ‘ere two days ago? Tell me no lies, ‘cause if yer do, I'll come lookin’ fer yer, in the middle o’ the night, when no one'll see wot I do ter yer. Got it?”
