thankless task.
The following day the newspapers carried headlines on the shocking death of well-respected railway owner Nolan Baltimore, found in extraordinary circumstances in Leather Lane, off the Farringdon Road. His family was desolated with grief, and all society was outraged that a decent man of spotless reputation should be attacked in the street and left to die in such circumstances. It was a national scandal, and his son, Jarvis Baltimore, had sworn that it would be his crusade to clear away the crime and prostitution that stained the capital city’s honor and made such foul murders possible. The metropolitan police had failed in their duty to the citizens of the nation, and it was every caring man’s responsibility to make sure that it was not allowed to remain so.
Of far more concern to Hester was the fact that the night after Constable Hart’s second visit to her, a young woman was brought into the house by her friends so seriously beaten that she had to be carried. The three frightened and angry women waited huddled in the corner, staring.
The injured woman lay on the table curled over, holding her abdomen, her body shaking, blood oozing between her fingers.
White-faced, Margaret looked at Hester.
“Yes,” Hester agreed quietly. “Send one of the women for Mr. Lockhart. Tell him to come as quickly as he may.”
Margaret nodded and turned away. She gave directions to one of the waiting women where to start looking for the doctor, and not to stop until she had found him. Then she went over to the stove for water, vinegar, brandy, and clean cloths. She worked blindly, reaching for things because she was too shaken and too horrified to see clearly what she was doing.
Hester must staunch the bleeding and overcome her horror at such a wound, telling herself to remember the battlefields, the shattered men she had helped lift off the wagons after the charge of the Light Brigade at Sebastopol, or after the Battle of the Alma, blood-soaked, dead and dying, limbs torn, hacked by swords or splintered by shot.
She had been able to help them. Why was this woman any different? Hester was there to do a job, not indulge her own emotions, however deep or compassionate. The woman needed help, not pity.
“Let go of it,” she said very gently. “I’ll stop the bleeding.” Please God she could. She took the woman’s hands in hers, feeling the clenched muscles, the fear transmitting itself as if for a moment she were part of the same flesh. She was aware of the sweat breaking out on her skin and running cold over her body.
“Can you ’elp ’er?” one of the women asked from behind. She had come over silently, unable to keep away in spite of her fear.
“I think so,” Hester replied. “What is her name?”
“Fanny,” the woman said hoarsely.
Hester bent over the woman. “Fanny, let me look at it,” she said firmly. “Let me see.” With more strength she pulled the woman’s hands away and saw the scarlet-soaked cloth of her dress. She prayed they would find Lockhart and he would come quickly. She needed help with this.
Margaret handed her scissors and she took them, cutting the fabric to expose the flesh. “Bandages,” she said without looking up. “Rolled,” she added. She lifted the dress away from the wound and saw raw flesh still running blood but not pumping. Relief washed over her, breaking out in prickling sweat again. It might be only a surface wound after all. It was not the gushing, arterial blood she had dreaded. But still she could not afford to wait and see if Lockhart turned up. Choking for a moment on her words, she asked for cloths, brandy and a needle threaded with gut.
Behind her, one of the women started to cry.
Hester talked all the time she worked. Most of it was probably nonsense; her mind was on the bloody flesh, trying to stitch it together evenly, without cobbling, without missing a vessel where the blood was still oozing, without causing more pain than was absolutely unavoidable.
Silently, Margaret handed her more and more cloths, and took away those that were soaked and useless.
Where was Lockhart? Why did he not come? Was he drunk again, lying in someone else’s bed, under a table, or worse, in a gutter where no one would ever recognize him, much less find him and sober him up? She cursed him under her breath.
She lost track of how long it was since Margaret had sent the woman out. All that mattered was the wound and the pain. She did not even notice the street door opening and closing.
Then suddenly there was another pair of hands, delicate and strong, and above all clean. Her back was so locked in position that when she straightened up it hurt, and it took her a moment to refocus her eyes on the young man beside her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, his fair hair was damp around his brow as if he had splashed his face with water. He looked down at the wound.
“Good job,” he said approvingly. “Looks as if you’ve got it.”
“Where have you been?” she replied between her teeth, overwhelmed with relief that he was there, and furious that he had not come sooner.
He grinned ruefully and shrugged, then turned his attention back to the wound. He explored it with sensitive, expert touch, all the while looking every few moments at the patient’s face to make sure she was no worse.
Hester considered apologizing to him for her implied criticism and decided it did not matter now. It would not help, and she did not pay him, so perhaps he owed her nothing. She caught Margaret looking at her, and saw the relief in her eyes also.
It seemed as if the bleeding was stopped. She handed Lockhart the final bandages soaked in balm and he bound them in place, then stood back.
“Not bad,” he said gravely. “We’ll need to watch her for infection.” He did not bother to ask what had happened. He knew no one would tell him. “A little beef tea, or sherry if you have it. Not yet, but in a while. You know what else.” He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug and smiled. “Probably better than I do.”
Hester nodded. Now that the immediate crisis was over she was overwhelmed with weariness. Her mouth was dry and she was trembling a little. Margaret had gone to the stove for hot water so they could wash the worst of the blood away, and to make tea for them.
Hester turned to the waiting women, and the question in all their faces. “Give it time,” she said quietly. “We can’t tell yet. It’s too soon.”
“Can she stay ’ere?” one of them asked. “Please, missus! ’E’ll only do it again if she goes back.”
“What’s the matter with him?” Hester let her fury out at last. “He could have killed her. He’s got to be a madman-you should get rid of him. Don’t you have some kind of-”
“It weren’t Bert!” another of the women said quickly. “I know that ’cos ’e were out cold drunk in the gutter w’en it ’appened. I know that fer sure, ’cos I seed’im meself. Great useless, bleedin’ oaf!”
“A customer?” Hester said in surprise and increasing anger.
“Nah!” The woman shuddered.
“Yer dunno that,” the third woman said grimly. “Fanny in’t sayin’ ’oo it were, missus. She’s that scared she won’t say nuffin’, but we reckon as it’s some bastard as she knows, but it in’t ’er reg’lar pimp, ’cos like Jenny said, ’e were blind drunk an’ not fit ter beat a rice puddin’, never mind do that ter anyone.” She grimaced. “Besides, wot sense does it make ter put yer own women out o’ work? Gawd! There’s little enough around now without cuttin’ anyone open. Even a bleedin’ eejut can see that!”
“Then who would do it?” Hester asked as Margaret poured hot water into a bowl on the other table, then added cold to it to make it bearable to wash in. The carbolic was already to hand.
Lockhart rolled his sleeves farther up, ignoring the blood on them, and began to wash. Hester followed straight after him and he handed her the towel.
Margaret made tea for all of them, including herself, and brought it over, hot and very strong. Hester was glad to sit down at last and made no demur when Lockhart carried the bowl away to empty it down the drain.
Fanny was lying on the main table, her head on a pillow, her face ashen white. It was too soon to think of moving her, even to a bed.
“Who would do it?” Hester repeated, looking at the woman.
“Dunno,” the first one replied. “Ta.” She accepted a mug of tea from Margaret. “That’s wot’s got us frit. Fanny’s a good girl. She don’ take nothin’ wot don’ belong to ’er. She does wot she’s told, poor little cow! P’rhaps she was once quite decent.” She lowered her voice. “Parlor maid or summink like that. Got inter trouble, an’ afore
