River Police think? That he had charged the wrong man, or that he had been right and had failed to produce the evidence? Either way he had lost.
She forced herself to remember that it was being right that mattered, not looking right. She needed to know what had happened to Hattie. If Margaret had taken her to the door and suggested she leave, why had Hattie obeyed her? Where had she gone? To whom? Who had known where to find her, and had killed her to keep her from testifying? What would she have said? That Rupert was innocent? Or that he was guilty?
Now they would never know to whom Hattie had given the cravat, if indeed she had ever actually stolen it. Was it possible that Rupert had killed Parfitt after all? Why did that thought hurt? Simply the pain of disillusion? Or the humiliation of being wrong? Or the wrenching pity for his father?
The following morning Hester was at the clinic early, again asking questions, ascertaining as closely as possible what time Hattie had left. It was a still, heavy day, with rain threatening as she stood outside the door on the street and looked right and left. People were passing, as always. Which of them would do so every morning? Who had regular errands, trips to the baker or the laundry, jobs to go to?
It was too late for the Reid Brewery workers; they would have started hours ago. Factories or shops had been open for a couple of hours at least. Was there a peddler? None that she could see.
She tightened her shawl around her and walked down to Leather Lane and then turned north. A hundred yards away there was a running patterer telling the news in his singsong voice. She interrupted him, to his displeasure, and asked him if he had seen Hattie, describing her as accurately as possible. He knew nothing.
She retraced her steps and went south, almost as far as High Holborn, but no one had seen a young woman answering Hattie’s description.
Discouraged that it was now too many days ago, she went back up to Leather Lane, along Portpool Lane again into the shadow of the brewery and all the way along to Gray’s Inn Road at the other end. She walked north and was almost level with St. Bartholomew’s Church when she saw a peddler selling sandwiches. She stopped and bought one, not because she was hungry but in order to engage him in conversation. It must have been desperately boring standing all day, virtually alone, just exchanging a word or two with strangers, hoping to sell them something, needing to.
She ate the sandwich with pleasure. It was actually very good, and she told him so.
He smiled, gap-toothed, and thanked her.
“I work just down the road.” She indicated with her hand, still clutching the last of the sandwich. “Portpool Lane.”
“I know who you are,” he replied.
She was surprised. “Do you?” She was half convinced he had mistaken her for someone else.
“Yeah! Yer takes in street women wot are sick, or beat up.”
She had no idea from his expression whether he thought that was good or bad. But there was no point in denying it.
“That’s right. I’m looking for one now who left Tuesday of last week and is now missing. She’s still pretty sick, and I’m worried about her.” Hester was not sure how much of the truth she should tell. Panic was rising inside her, and she had to force it down, refuse to follow the fears of what would happen if she failed. Perhaps she was almost as afraid of what knowledge success would bring, things she would not be able to ignore.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, love,” the sandwich man said kindly. “She’ll come back fast enough, if she needs ter.”
Hester was momentarily at a loss. She fished out two threepenny pieces. “May I have another sandwich, please? That ham’s extremely good.” Actually, she did not want it; she had eaten enough.
He gave her one with pleasure, and tuppence change.
“I don’t think she knows how ill she is,” she improvised. “Some of those things are catching. I think she wasn’t alone. She could give it to others.” The story was getting wilder as she tried to interest him. “Maybe someone with children. Children get sick so quickly.”
He shook his head. “Well, I dunno ’ow yer gonna find ’er. The street is full o’ girls.”
“This one was unusual-looking. She had very fair hair, almost white, and a lovely skin. She wasn’t terribly pretty, but sort of … innocent-looking. Very clean, if you know what I mean.” She looked at him hopefully.
“Tuesday last week, yer said?”
“Yes. Did you see her? About this time of day, or a little earlier.”
“Who did yer say she were with?”
“I don’t know. Another woman, maybe …”
“Older, eh? Sort o’ respectable-lookin’. Bit dumpy. Brown ’air.”
“Yes! Yes, that could be right.” She had no idea who it could have been, but she had nothing else to follow. “You saw them? Where did they go?”
“ ’Ow do I know? Up that way?” He pointed north again, past the church.
“To the church? To St. Bartholomew’s?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, sweet ’eart, to the cabbies wot usually wait around there. Best place ter get one.”
“Oh.” She felt the heat rush up her face. “Yes, of course. What did the other woman look like, did you say? Can you remember? What was she wearing?”
“Wot d’yer think I am? Course I can’t remember. It weren’t nothing special, I can tell yer that. ’Cept ’er gloves. She ’ad real good gloves on. Leather. ’And-stitched, wi’ a little piece o’ toolin’ on the cuff, about ’ere.” He pointed to his wrist. “Must a lifted ’em, or ’ad a customer wi’ a lot o’ money.”
“Can you describe her a bit more? What was her skin like? Her teeth?”
“Wot?”
“Her skin? Her teeth?” Hester repeated.
“ ’Ow do I know?” the peddler said indignantly. “ ’Er teeth were just like … teeth! Kind o’ good, come ter think of it.”
Hester felt her heart racing. “Little bit crooked at the front, but nice?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Yer know ’er? She one o’ yours, then?”
“Perhaps.” Was he right, or had she put the idea into his mind and he was simply trying to please her, and get rid of her questions? “Thank you.” She finished the sandwich and thanked him again, then walked quickly toward the place he had pointed to for the hansom cabs.
The description he had given fitted one of the women who had been in the courtroom with Margaret and her mother. Or any other woman in London with pretty and slightly crooked teeth, and enough money to buy good gloves. But Margaret’s sister was the one who would help her, and her father, by taking Hattie Benson away to- where? Had Margaret’s sister known it was to her death, or had she imagined it would be simply a house where Hattie could be kept until it was too late to testify?
It took Hester the rest of the day-and more money than she could really spare in cab fares, sandwiches, cups of tea, and petty bribes-before she found as many of the answers as she was going to so long after the event. Two women, answering the descriptions of Hattie and Gwen, or Celia, had taken a hansom from near St. Bartholomew’s to Avonhill Street in Fulham, just short of Chiswick, almost half an hour after Margaret had shown Hattie out of the door of the clinic in Portpool Lane.
Another hour of tedious questions and invented excuses, and by the time it was growing dark, Hester had found the house where Hattie had been for a few hours.
“Yeah,” the woman said grudgingly after Hester questioned her. She wiped her wet hands on her skirt. “Wot’s it ter you, then? This is a respectable ’ouse, an’ there ain’t no ’oring goes on ’ere. It were a right lady as brought ’er ’ere an’ said as she’d be stayin’ fer a few days.”
“But she didn’t stay for a few days, did she?” Hester pressed. “She was gone in a matter of hours.”
“So she changed ’er mind. She still were paid fer, so why should I care?”
“Who did she go with?” Hester felt her throat tight, her hands clammy.
“Said ’is name were Cardew. Didn’t see ’is face, but real nice-spoken, ’e were.”
Hester thanked her and turned to leave, stumbling against the doorpost but barely feeling the bruise to her hand.
