He did not move. She could see his head on the pillow, hair ruffled, still damp from his bath.
“Scuff,” she repeated, more loudly.
He stirred, and when she spoke a third time, he opened his eyes and sat up, holding his nightshirt around himself with one hand.
She came and sat on the end of the bed, where he could see her face in the light.
“Wos wrong?” he asked, noticing the tears. “Wos ’appened?” His perception of her grief was instant, and it filled him with fear. She realized with a sharp stab how much of his world was bound up in her.
“Hattie’s dead,” she replied, so he would not be afraid that it was something to do with Monk. “She was killed-not an accident, though. William just told me. He wanted to wait until he could find out exactly how it happened, but it came out in court today.”
He blinked. “Somebody killed ’er?” He gulped, then reached forward and put his small, thin hand over hers, so lightly, she saw it rather than felt it. “Don’t cry for ’er,” he whispered. “She were always gonna finish bad. This way it won’t ’urt so much. Quick. Like yer should pull a tooth out, if yer’ve gotter, like.”
She wanted to hug him, but it would be an intrusion too far. Not everyone liked to be hugged.
“You are quite right,” she agreed, angry with herself because her voice trembled. “But I still feel that I need to know how she left the clinic, and who helped her. You understand?”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers, still full of fear. If she wavered even slightly, all his doubts would storm back, drowning his courage.
“D’yer reckon as someone took ’er?” he asked.
“No, I think they more likely tricked her, told her she’d be safe, or told her a lie of some sort. I want to know who, because I mustn’t ever trust that person again.” Did that sound too extreme? As if she never forgave a mistake? Would she make him fear that if he made a mistake he would forfeit love forever? “If they did it on purpose, I mean,” she added.
“ ’Ow’d they kill ’er?” he whispered. “Like Mickey Parfitt?”
“Yes, exactly like that. I expect she didn’t even know what happened.”
“Were it the same person wot done ’im?”
“Yes, I expect it was. She was found in the water, as he was, and pretty close to the same place.”
“In’t Mr. Ballinger in jail?” He pulled the bedclothes a little tighter round his body.
“He is now, but he wasn’t when she was killed. But neither was Rupert Cardew.”
His eyes opened wider. “Yer think as ’e done ’er?”
“No, I don’t. But they might try to make it look that way, to get Mr. Ballinger off.”
“Yer like Mr. Cardew, don’t yer?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t have anything to do with it. At least, it shouldn’t.”
He looked puzzled. “You wouldn’t like ’im anymore if ’e done it?”
His hand was still lying on top of hers, as if he had forgotten it. She was careful not to move. “I might still like him. You don’t stop liking people, or even loving them, because they’ve done something horrible. I suppose first you try to understand why. And it makes a difference if they’re sorry-really sorry. But it doesn’t mean they don’t have to pay for it, or put as much of it right as they can. You have to have right and wrong the same for everybody, or it isn’t fair.”
He nodded. “So wot are we gonna do?”
“Find out what happened.”
“Termorrer?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I woke you up to tell you, but there might not be time in the morning … and …”
He waited, eyes shadowed.
“I just wanted to tell you now.”
His mouth tightened. “You thought I were gonna cry.” He was on the very edge of it, and angry with himself.
“No,” she told him. “I thought I was. I still might!”
He smiled at her widely, as if it were funny, and two large tears spilled over and rolled down his cheeks.
This time she did put her arms around him and hug him. At first he merely let her, then quite suddenly he hugged her back, hard, hanging on to her and burying his face in her shoulder, where the hair that had slipped out of its pins was loose.
In the morning Monk went back to the court, and Hester and Scuff went to the clinic.
“You don’t have to be here,” Squeaky said as soon as she was through the door and into the room where he was working at a table spread with receipts. “Nor you neither,” he added to Scuff.
“Yes, I do,” Hester responded. “And Scuff can help me.” There was no allowance for argument in her voice, and no prevarication. “I want to find out exactly what happened to Hattie Benson, why she left here and who said something to her that prompted her to go.”
Squeaky regarded her dismally. “Won’t do no good. Maybe she lied to you. Have you thought of that?”
“Yes, and I don’t believe it. It came out in court yesterday, Squeaky. She was murdered, exactly the same way as Mickey Parfitt-strangled and put in the river, up at Chiswick.”
“Gawd Almighty, woman!” Squeaky exploded. “What d’you want to go and say that for, in front of the boy? Sometimes you’re a cold-hearted mare, and that’s the truth!”
Scuff charged forward, fists clenched, glaring at Squeaky across the table. “Don’t yer dare talk to ’er like that, yer bleedin’ worm! Yer in’t fit ter clean ’er boots …”
Hester thought of pulling him back, and then decided not to. She could not rob him of the right to defend them both, but she had to bite her lip to hide a weak smile.
Squeaky backed off a little, only a matter of leaning away while still in his chair.
“Y’in’t fit ter …” Scuff went on. Then he drew in his breath and regarded Squeaky with disgust. “D’yer think I’m some kind o’ baby, then, that you can’t tell me the truth? Yer gotta pretend, as if yer think I can ’ear yer?”
Squeaky considered for a moment. “I grant that, pound for pound, you’re worse than a wild cat,” he opined. “Never mind defending you, I should be looking after myself from the pair of you.” He turned to Hester, his eyes bright with a strange, almost embarrassed amusement, as if he were pleased but did not want them to know. “And how are you going to find out who took poor Hattie to the door and pushed her out, then?”
“I’m going to ask,” Hester replied. “We will begin with a full account of who was here, when they arrived, and what they did, exactly.”
“Like the bleeding police,” Squeaky said with disgust.
Hester caught Scuff just as he was about to launch forward at Squeaky again, his fists clenched.
“Yes,” she agreed. “What did you expect? That I would first ask everyone nicely if they’d set Hattie up to be murdered?”
“I s’pose you want me to write it all down?” he said accusingly. “Don’t blame me if they all walk out in a huff.”
Hester thought of several retorts, and bit them all off before she said them. She needed his help.
“Who was in that day?”
“You think I can remember?” he countered.
“I think you will know exactly who was here, what they did that was useful, and how much they ate,” she replied. “I shall be disappointed in my judgment of your skills if you don’t.”
He considered that a moment or two, weighing up her precise meaning. Then he decided to take it as a compliment, and dug his books out of the desk drawer, finding the appropriate pages for the day of Hattie’s disappearance.
Scuff watched him, fascinated.
“Does ’e ’ave it all there, in them little squiggles o’ writing?” Scuff whispered to her.
“Yes. Marvelous, isn’t it?” she replied.
Scuff gave her a sideways look. She had not yet persuaded him of the necessity of learning to read. He could count. He considered that to be enough.
Squeaky read out who was resident and who had arrived that morning and at what time. He also listed what duties they had performed, and if, in his opinion, they had been requisitely appreciated for their efforts.
Hester made a couple of notes on a piece of paper, borrowing his pencil for the task, then set out to question
