He could no longer pretend to be going for a sister. The abortionist would expect the woman herself; it was not something which could be done at one removed. The only case where she might accept a man making the inquiries would be if the woman were too young to come in person until the last moment-or too important to risk being seen unnecessarily. Yes-that was an excellent idea! He would say he was inquiring for a lady-someone who would not commit herself until she knew it was safe.
He hailed a cab, gave the driver directions to the White-chapel Road, and sat back, rehearsing what he would say.
It was a long journey. The horse was tired and the cabby sullen. They seemed to stop every few yards and the air was loud with the shouts of other frustrated drivers. Peddlers and costers called their wares, the driver of a dray misjudged a corner and knocked over a stall, and (here was a brief and vicious fight, ending with bloody noses and a lot of blasphemous language. A drunken coachman ran straight over a junction at something close to a gallop, and several other horses either shied or bolted. Monk's own hansom had gone a full block before the driver managed to bring it under control again.
Monk alighted onto the Whitechapel Road, paid the driver, who by now was in an unspeakable temper, then began walking toward the address he had been given at the milliner's shop.
At first he thought he had made a mistake. It was a butcher's. There were pies and strings of sausages in the window. If he were right, someone had a macabre sense of humor-or none at all.
Three thin children in dirty clothes stood on the pavement watching him. They were all white-faced. One, about ten or eleven years old, had broken front teeth. A dog with mange in its fur crept around the corner and went in the doorway.
After a moment's hesitation Monk went in after it.
Inside was hot and dim, little light getting through the grimy windows-the smoke of countless factory chimneys and domestic fires had grayed them over the months, and the summer thunderstorms had done nothing to help. The air was heavy and smelled stale and rancid. A large fly buzzed lazily and settled on the counter. The young woman apparently awaiting customers picked up an old newspaper and slammed it down, killing the fly instantly.
'Gotcher!' she said with satisfaction. 'What can I do for yer?' she asked Monk cheerfully. 'We got fresh mutton, rabbit pie, pigs' trotters, calves'-foot jellies, brawn, best in the East End, and tripes, sheeps' brains, pigs' liver, and sausages o' course! What yer want then?'
'Sausages look good,' he lied. 'But what I really want is to see Mrs. Anderson. Is this the right address?'
'That depends,' she said guardedly. 'There are lots of Mrs. Andersons. What did yer want 'er for?'
'She was recommended to me by a lady who sells hats…'
'Was she now.' She looked him up and down. 'I can't think what for.'
'For a lady of my acquaintance who would rather not be seen in this neighborhood until it is absolutely necessary.'
'So she sent you, did she?' She smiled with a mixture of satisfaction, amusement, and contempt. 'Well, maybe Mrs. Anderson'll see you an' maybe not. I'll ask 'er.' And she turned and walked slowly toward the back of the room and through a paint-peeled door.
Monk waited. Another fly came in and buzzed lazily around, settling on the blood-spotted counter.
The woman came back and wordlessly held the door open. Monk accepted the invitation and went through. The room beyond was a large kitchen opening onto a yard with coal scuttles, bins overflowing with rubbish, several broken boxes, and a cracked sink full of rainwater. A tomcat slunk across the yard, his body low like a leopard's, a dead rat in his mouth.
Inside the kitchen was chaotic. Bloodstained linen filled one of the two stone sinks by the wall to the right, and the thick, warm smell of blood hung in the air. To the left was a wooden dresser with plates, bowls, knives, scissors, and skewers heaped haphazardly on it. Several bottles of gin lay around, some open, some still sealed.
In the center of the room was a wooden table, dark with repeated soaking of blood. Dried blood made black lines in the cracks and there were splashes of it on the floor. A girl with an ashen face sat in a rocking chair, hugging herself and weeping.
Two dogs lay by the dead ashes of the fire. One scratched itself, grunting with each movement of its leg.
Mrs. Anderson was a large woman with sleeves rolled up to show immense forearms. Her fingernails were chipped and dark with immovable dirt.
' 'Allo,' she said cheerfully, pushing her fair gold hair out of her eyes. She cannot have been more than thirty- five at the most. 'Need a spot of 'elp do yer, dearie? Well there ain't nothin' I can do for yer, now is there? She'll 'ave to come in 'ere 'erself, sooner or later. 'Ow far gorn is she?'
Monk felt a wave of anger so violent it actually nauseated him. He was forced to breathe deeply for several seconds to regain his composure. With a flood of memory so vivid the sounds and smells returned to him, the thick sweetness of blood, the sounds of a girl whimpering in pain and terror, rats' feet scuttering across a stained floor. He had been in back-street abortionists like this before, God knew how many times, or whether in connection with some woman bled to death, poisoned by septicemia, or simply the knowledge of the crime and the extortionate money.
And yet he also knew of the white-faced women, exhausted by bearing child after child, unable to feed them, selling them as babies for a few shillings to pay for food for the rest.
He wanted to smash something, hurl it to pieces and hear the splintering and cracking as it shattered, but after the instant satisfaction everything else would be the same. If he could weep perhaps he could ease the weight which was choking inside him.
'Well?' the woman said wearily. 'Are yer gonna tell me or not? I can't do nothing for 'er if yer just stand there like an idiot! 'Ow far gorn is she? Or doncher know?'
'Four months,' Monk blurted.
The woman shook her head. 'Left it a bit, ain't yer? Still… I spec' I can do summink. Gets dangerous, but I s'pose 'avin it'd be worse.'
The girl in the chair whimpered softly, bright blood seeping into the blanket around her and dripping through its thin folds onto the floor. Monk pulled his wits together. He was here for a purpose. Indulgence in his own emotions would solve nothing and not help convict Herbert Stanhope.
'Here?' he asked, although he knew the answer.
'No-out in the street,' she said sarcastically. 'Of course 'ere, yer fool! Where d'yer think? I don't go to people's houses. Tf yer want summink fancy yer'll 'ave to see if yer can bribe some surgeon-although I dunno where yer'll find one. It's an 'anging crime, or it used ter be. Now it's just jail-and ruin.'
'You don't seem worried,' he retorted.
'I'm safe enough,' she said with dry humor. 'Them as comes ter me is desperate, or they wouldn't be 'ere. And I don't charge too much. The fact they're 'ere makes 'em as guilty as me. Anyway, it's a public service as I give-'oo 'round here is gonna turn me in?' She gestured to indicate the whole street and its environs. 'Even the rozzers don't bother me if I keep discreet, like. An' I do. So you mind 'ow yer go. I wouldn't wancher ter 'ave an accident…' Her face was still smiling, but her eyes were hard, and the threat was unmistakable.
'How do I find one of these surgeons that do abortions?' he asked, watching her intently. 'The lady I'm asking for can afford to pay.'
'Not sure as I'd tell yer if I knew-which I don't. Ladies as can pay that sort 'ave their own ways o' findin' 'em.'
'I see.' He believed her. He had no reason except instinct, but for once, even with thought, he had confidence in his own judgment. This sickening rage was familiar, and the helplessness. He could see in his mind confused and bitter widowers, frightened at being faced suddenly with looking after a dozen children by themselves, not knowing, not understanding what had happened or why. Their wives had faced the growing burden of incessant childbeanng without speaking of it. They had gone to the abortionist secretly and alone. They had bled to death without even sharing the reason; it was private, shameful, women's business. The husband had never stretched his imagination beyond his own physical pleasures. Children were a natural thing- and what women were made for. Now he was bereaved, frightened, angry, and totally bemused.
And Monk could see just as clearly young girls, not yet sixteen, ashen-faced, sick with fear of the abortionist and her instruments, her gin bottle, and the shame of it, just like the girl in the chair now; and yet knowing even
