The Shifting Tide wm-14

by Anne Perry

  “Oh. .” Suddenly, and to her fury, she started to shiver, and the tears welled up in her eyes. She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, and Hester heard her footsteps along the passageway.

  Hester tidied the bed a little, then went out and closed the door. She was walking towards Ruth Clark’s room, and from several feet away she heard the voices. They were not loud, but tight and hard with anger. The words were muffled, only one or two distinct. There was something about leaving, and a threat so choked with emotion that the individual words ran into a blur. Only the rage was clear, a pain so intense and so savage that it made the sweat prickle on her skin and her heart pound as if it could reach out and damage her where she stood.

  She shrank from intruding. She wanted to pretend she had not heard it at all, that it was some kind of mistake, a momentary nightmare from which she had awoken into reality.

  She had not steeled herself to do anything, or even been quite sure what she should do, when the door opened and Mercy came out, carrying a bowl of water and a cloth over her arm. Mercy looked angry and frightened. She stopped abruptly when she saw Hester.

  “She thinks she’s better,” she said huskily. “She wants to leave, perhaps tomorrow. She isn’t well enough. . I’m. . I’m trying to convince her.” Her face was pale, her eyes hollow with exhaustion. She looked close to tears.

  “I was told she had family coming for her soon,” Hester replied, trying to be comforting. “If they do, then they will look after her. I imagine that’s what she was referring to. Don’t worry about it. She isn’t well enough to leave without someone to care for her, and she must know that.”

  “Family?” Mercy said in amazement. “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” She was about to add that it was Clement Louvain who had spoken of them, then she changed her mind. Perhaps Mercy had no idea of her brother’s private life, or that of his friend, supposing he existed. “But don’t worry about her,” she said instead. “We can’t keep her here if she wants to leave, but I’ll try to persuade her how foolish it would be.” She looked at Mercy’s drawn face. “She’s a difficult woman. She’s always quarreling with Flo, even accused her of being a thief, and really upset her. Flo’s all kinds of things, and it doesn’t matter. But she’s not a thief and she really cares about that. If someone comes for Ruth, it would be a good thing.”

  Mercy stood still. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly.

  “Go and have a cup of tea,” Hester said. “And something to eat. When did you last sit down?” She put her hand on Mercy’s arm. “We can’t help everyone; some people just won’t be helped. We have to do what we can, and then go on to think of the next person.”

  Mercy moved as if to say something, then the words died on her lips.

  “I know it’s difficult. But it’s the only way to survive.”

  If Mercy found any comfort in that, it did not reflect in her face. She nodded, but more as a matter of form than agreement, and went on down the stairs.

  The rest of the night passed with little incident. Hester managed to get several hours’ sleep. In the morning she sent Squeaky to the undertaker to have him come and remove the body of the dead woman, then set about making breakfast for everyone able to eat.

  Claudine looked tired and withdrawn, but she carried out her duties with slightly increased skill. She even took a dish of gruel up to Ruth Clark and helped her to eat most of it.

  “I’m bothered whether I know if that woman’s better or not,” she said when she returned to the kitchen with the dish. “One minute I think she is, then she has that fever back and looks like she’ll not make it to nightfall.” She put the uneaten gruel down the drain and the dish in the sink. “I’ll go down the street and fetch water,” she added through pursed lips. “It’s as cold as the grave out there.”

  Hester thanked her sincerely and decided to go up and see Ruth herself. She found her propped up very slightly on the pillows, her face flushed, her eyes bright and angry.

  “How are you?” Hester asked briskly. “Claudine says you were able to eat a little.”

  A slightly sour smile touched Ruth’s lips. “Better to swallow it than choke. She has hands like a horse, your pinched-up Mrs. Burroughs. She despises the rest of your help, but I daresay you can see that.” A curious, knowing look crossed her face. “Even if you haven’t the wit to see why,” she added.

  Hester felt a moment’s chill, an acute ugliness in the room, but she refused to entertain it. “I am not concerned why, Miss Clark,” she replied sharply. “Any more than I care why your lover put you out for some friend to bring to a charity clinic to care for you. You are sick and we can help; that is all that concerns me. I am glad you were able to eat a little.”

  “Charity clinic!” Ruth said in a choking voice, as if, had she the strength, she would laugh, but there was hatred in her eyes.

  Hester looked at her and saw fear also. “We’ll do our best,” she said more gently. “See if you can rest for a while. I’ll come back soon.”

  Ruth did not answer her.

  The undertaker came and Squeaky saw to the necessary details, including paying him. It was another strain on their dwindling resources which he complained about vociferously.

  Just before midday the rat catcher arrived. Hester had completely forgotten she had sent for him, and for a moment she was so startled she did not recognize his outline. He was thin, a little square-shouldered, only an inch or two taller than she. Then he moved into the light and she saw his wry, humorous face, and the small brown-and-white terrier at his feet.

  “Mr. Sutton! You gave me a fright. I’d forgotten what day it was. I’m sorry.”

  He smiled at her, lopsidedly because his face was pleasantly asymmetrical, one eyebrow higher than the other. “I guess that these rats in’t too bad then, or yer’d be a day ahead o’ yerself, rather than a day be’ind. But yer look fair wore out, an’ that’s the truth.”

  “We’ve got a lot of sick people in just now,” she replied. “Time of the year, I suppose.”

  “It’s blowin’ fit ter snow out there,” he agreed. “I reckon as it’ll freeze by dark. Even the rats’ll ’ave more sense than ter be out then. Got a lot, ’ave yer?” He glanced around the kitchen, noting the food bins, the clean floor, the pails of water. “Don’t take no bad feelin’ if you ’ave. Rats din’t mind it warm and tidy, no more’n we do. Bit o’ spilled flour or crumbs an’ they’re ’appy.”

  “They’re not bad, actually,” she answered. “I just want the few we’ve got discouraged.”

  He grinned broadly. “Wot’d yer like me ter do, miss? I can sing to ’em? That’d discourage anyone. Rats a got very good ’earin’. ’Alf an hour o’ me singin’ me ’eart out, an’ they’d be beggin’ fer peace. Like or not, most of ’em’d be in the next street. An’ yer staff wif ’em.”

  Hester smiled at him. “If that were sufficient, Mr. Sutton, I could do that myself. My mother always said I could make money singing-they’d pay me to move on.”

  “I thought all young ladies could sing.” He looked at her curiously.

  “Most of us can,” she answered, taking a loaf of bread out of the bin and picking up the serrated knife. “Of those of us who can’t, some have the sense not to try, some haven’t. I have, so I still need your help with the rats. Would you like some lunch?”

  “Yeah, that’d be nice o’ yer,” he accepted the invitation, sitting down at the scrubbed wooden table and motioning the dog to sit also.

  She toasted some of the bread, holding it up to the open stove, piece by piece, on the three-pronged fork, then when it was brown, passing it over to him to set in the rack. Then she fetched the butter and cheese, and a fresh pot of tea.

  They sat down together in the warm, candlelit kitchen, and for over half an hour no one interrupted them. She liked Sutton. He had a vast string of tales about his adventures, and a dry wit describing people and their reactions to rats. It was the first time she had laughed in several days, and sh
e felt the knots easing out at the sheer relief of thinking about trivial things that had no relation whatsoever to life and death in Portpool Lane.

  “I’ll come back this evenin’,” Sutton promised, picking up the last piece of toast and finishing his third cup of tea. “I’ll ’ave traps an’ me dog an’ the lot. We’ll get it tidied up for yer-on the ’ouse, like.”

  “On the house?” she questioned.

  He looked very slightly self-conscious. “Yeah, why not? Yer in’t got money ter spend. Gimme the odd cup o’ tea when I’m in this part o’ town, an’ it’ll do.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sutton,” she accepted. “That is very generous of you.”

  “I’m glad yer don’ stand on no pride.” He looked relieved. “Daft, it is, when yer can do some real good. An’ I reckon yer does.” He stood up and straightened his coat. It was actually rather smart. “I’ll see yer about dark. Good day, Miss ’Ester.” He motioned to the dog. “C’mon, Snoot.”

  “Good day, Mr. Sutton,” she replied.

  She and the others took around bread, gruel, beef tea-whatever they had that their various patients could consume. Mercy had peeled and stewed the apples from Toddy, and that was a very welcome addition.

  At three o’clock all seemed quiet. Hester decided to pay another visit to Ruth Clark to try to persuade her to remain in the clinic for at least two days longer and get her strength back. She was far from well yet, and the bitter air outside could give her a relapse that might even be fatal.

  She opened the door and went into the room, closing it behind her because she expected an argument and did not wish it to be overheard, especially by Mercy. It might reveal more things about Ruth’s situation and her relationship to Clement Louvain than Mercy would be happy to know, nor did Hester wish any unkind remarks Ruth might make to be overheard.

  Ruth was lying down, her head lower on the pillows than Hester would have left her. Someone had no doubt been trying to ease her, and had not known that it was better for those with congestion of the lungs to be raised. She walked over quietly and looked down at the sleeping woman. It was a shame to disturb her; she was resting in profound peace. But she might waken with her lungs choked.

  “Ruth,” Hester said quietly.

  There was no response. Her breathing was so much impaired that there was no sound to it at all, no laboring.

  “Ruth,” she said again, this time putting her hand out to touch her through the bedclothes. “You need to sit up a bit, or you’ll feel worse.”

  There was still no response.

  Hester felt for the pulse in her neck. There was nothing, and her skin was quite cool. She felt again, pushing harder for the pulse. Ruth had seemed to be recovering; she had certainly been quite well enough to quarrel with Mercy, and with Flo again after that.

  But there was definitely no pulse even in the jugular vein, and no breath from her nose or lips when Hester moved the candle closer, then held the back of her polished watch almost touching her. Ruth Clark was dead.

  She straightened up and stood still, surprised at how deeply it affected her. It was not that she had liked the woman; Ruth had been graceless, arrogant, and devoid of any sense of gratitude to those who helped her. It was that she had been so intensely alive that one could not forget or ignore her, one could not be unaware of her passions, the sheer force of her existence. Now, without any warning, she had ceased to be.

  Why had she died so suddenly, without any warning of deterioration? Was Hester at fault? Had there been something she should have seen, and perhaps treated? If she had liked Ruth more would she have taken better care of her, seen the symptoms instead of the abrasive character?

  She looked down at the calm, dead face and wondered what she had been like before she became ill, when she was happy and believed she was loved, or at least wanted. Had she been kinder then, and warm, a gentler woman than she had been at the clinic? How many people could keep the best of themselves if they had been rejected as she had?

  She reached forward to fold the hands in some kind of repose. It was a small act of decency, as if someone cared. It was only when she touched the fingers that she felt the torn nails, and she picked up the candle again to look more closely. Then she set it on the table and examined the other hand. Those nails were torn also. They were new tears, because the ragged pieces were still there; the other nails were perfect, those of a woman who cares for her hands.

  Unease rippled through her, not quite fear yet. She looked at the face again. There was a slight trickle of blood on her lower lip, only the faintest smear, and a trace of mucus on her nose. With the fever and chest congestion she had had, that was hardly surprising. Could she have choked somehow?

  She parted the lips slightly and saw the bitten flesh inside, as if it had been pressed close and hard on her teeth. Now the fear was real. It needed disproving. She seized the pillow and jerked it out from under Ruth’s head. Clean. She turned it over. There on the underside was blood and mucus.

  Slowly she forced herself to open the eyelids one at a time and look. The tiny pinpoints of blood were there too, the little hemorrhages that turned her stomach sick with misery and fear. Ruth Clark had been suffocated, the pillow swift and tight over her face, with someone’s weight pressing down on it.

  Who? And for heaven’s sake, why? There had been quarrels, but they were trivial, stupid! Why murder?

  She backed away slowly and closed the door, leaning against it as if she needed it to hold her up. What should she do? Call the police?

  If she did that they would almost certainly suspect Flo because Ruth had accused her of being a thief. But Mercy Louvain had quarreled with Ruth too, and so had Claudine Burroughs. That was no proof of anything except that Ruth was a very difficult and ungrateful woman.

  Would they close the clinic? What would happen to the sick women then? It was exactly the sort of thing the authorities would use as an excuse to finish all their work here. But even if somehow she could persuade them not to, who would come here after this? A place where sick, helpless women were murdered in their beds. Word would spread like fire, vicious and frightening, destroying, causing panic.

  If only Monk were not busy now with a case he had to solve, he could have come in, so discreetly that no one but Margaret need have known. But Margaret was not here right now. There was no use asking Bessie; she would have no idea what to do, and only be frightened to no purpose.

  Hester could not trust Squeaky. He was helpful as long as it suited him, and he had no real alternative. But he might see this as the perfect opportunity to win his brothel back and catch her as neatly as she had caught him. Could he have killed Ruth for that? No-it was absurd. She was losing all sense.

  Sutton was coming back. He would understand the problem. He might even have some way to help. First it would be a good thing if she were to find out all she could. There might be something here to tell her who was last in the room. People made beds in different ways, folded sheets or tidied things, even arranged a sick person’s clothes.

  And she should prepare Ruth for burial. Should she inform Clement Louvain? Mercy could surely get a message to him. How would Mercy feel? Hester must be careful what she told the other women and how she worded it.

  She straightened up and walked back to the bed again. Was there anything at all that observation could tell her? The bedding was rumpled, but then Ruth had done that herself most of the time when she was feverish. It meant nothing. She looked around the floor, and at the way the corners of the sheets were tucked in at the foot. It looked tight, folded left over right. Bessie’s work, probably. She examined everything else she could think of. The cup of water was on a small square of cardboard, the way Claudine left it, so as not to make a ring mark on the wood of the table. Flo would not have thought of that. It all told her nothing.

  She should wash the body and prepare it for the undertaker. Perhaps she should tell Clement Louvain? Ruth’s family might wish to bury her, and he would know who they were. She went dow
nstairs and fetched a bowl of water; it did not matter that it was barely warm. Ruth would not mind. It was just a case of cleaning and making her decent, a gesture of humanity.

  She did it alone. There was no need to involve anyone else, and she had not yet decided what to say. Carefully she folded back the bedcovers and took off Ruth’s nightgown. It was an awkward job. Perhaps she should have asked someone to help after all. It would not have distressed Bessie; she had washed other dead women with pity and decency, but no fear.

  Ruth had had a handsome body, a little shrunken in illness now, but it was easy enough to see how she had been. She was still firm and shapely, except for an odd, dark shadow under her right armpit, a little like a bruise. Funny that she had not complained of an injury. Perhaps it embarrassed her because of where it was.

  There was another one, less pronounced, on the other side.

  Hester’s heart lurched inside her and the room seemed to waver. She could hardly breathe. With her pulse knocking so loudly she was dizzy, she moved Ruth over a little, and saw what she dreaded with fear so overwhelming it made her almost sick. It was there, another dark swelling-what any medical book would have called a bubo. Ruth Clark had not had pneumonia-she’d had the bubonic plague, the disease that had killed a quarter of the known world in the middle of the fourteenth century and was known as the Black Death.

  Hester plunged her hands into the water in the bowl, and then as quickly snatched them out again. Her whole body was shaking. Even her teeth were chattering! She must get control of herself! She had to make decisions, do whatever must be done. There was no one else to take over, no one to tell her what was right.

  When had the swellings appeared? Who was the last person to wash her or change her gown? It had always been Mercy. Perhaps Ruth had refused to let her see, or Mercy had not known the swellings for what they were.

  And what about all the other women with congestion of the chest? Did they have bronchitis, pneumonia-or were they in the earlier, pneumonic stage of the plague? And if they did not die of that, then would it turn into the true bubonic as well?