Afterwards he and Durban leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard, and for no reason whatever laughing. Possibly it was because of the other absurd fight in the doss-house. Monk was further bruised, and his cheek was cut, but, extraordinarily, the exertion, even the physical pain, had invigorated him. He looked across at Durban and saw exactly the same thing mirrored in his eyes.
Durban straightened up and pulled his jacket straight. He pushed his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Next one?” he asked.
“I haven’t got a better idea,” Monk replied. “Do you think it means we’re getting closer?”
“No,” Durban said honestly. “They seem to have vanished.” He did not elaborate his fears that they had taken other ships out straightaway, or that they were already dead, but the same thoughts raced through Monk’s mind.
“We haven’t checked the deaths,” Monk said aloud.
“I did,” Durban answered. “When you were talking to the brothel up in Thames Street. The police have identified everyone that might have been ours.”
“How can you know?” Monk challenged.
“Because they know the ones they have,” Durban said simply. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t dead, though, just not found and not buried.” He looked at Monk and his face was rueful. “C’mon, let’s try the next one.”
TEN
On the day that Monk was visited by Sutton, Margaret was in her bedroom preparing to return to the clinic. She meant to give Hester at least one night’s uninterrupted sleep. She was sitting at her dressing table when her mother knocked very briefly, and without waiting, came in.
“Margaret, my dear,” she said, closing the door behind her. “You must not give up hope, you know. You have a difficult nature, and you certainly have an unfortunate tongue, but you are not unpleasing to look at, and at the moment your reputation is unmarked.” Her tone altered very slightly. “You are from an acceptable family whose reputation is unblemished. Just a little care, a great deal more discretion about your opinion, a degree of becoming meekness, and you could be very happy. Your intelligence does not need to be your undoing, although I admit I am worried. You seem to have unusually little sense as to when you should display it, and concerning what!”
Margaret would have liked to pretend that she had no idea what her mother was talking about, but since it seemed Lady Hordern had carried out her threat, she could not hope to be believed. She could not think of any answer that her mother would like, so she said nothing, just continued to pin up her hair, a trifle crookedly and too tightly at the back. She could feel the pins digging into her head. She would end up having to take them out again, which was a waste of time.
Her mother’s voice became sharper. “I assume from the fact that you are wearing that shabby blue dress again that you are thinking of going to that miserable institution in the slums! Good works are very worthy, Margaret, but they are no substitute for a social life. I would greatly prefer that you did something connected with the church. They have lots of suitable endeavors where you could work with people, well-bred people whose backgrounds and interests are like your own.”
We are not discussing it, Margaret thought. You are telling me your views, as usual. But she did not say so. “We may have backgrounds in common, Mama, but no interests. And I am more concerned with where I am going than where I have come from.”
“So am I,” Mrs. Ballinger said tartly, meeting her daughter’s eyes in the mirror. “And where you are going, young lady, is onto the shelf, if you do not look to your behavior and bring Sir Oliver to the question very soon. He is eminently suitable—most of the time. You will not do better, and obviously he is very taken with you, but it is fast becoming time he declared his intentions and spoke to your father. All it requires is for you to spend less time at that wretched clinic and more paying attention to him. Now, take off that unbecoming dress, put on something of a nice color and a proper cut for this season—your father provides you with sufficient means—and go to some social event where you may be seen.” She drew in her breath. “Nothing concentrates a man’s mind so much as the realization that he is not the only one to appreciate your qualities.”
Margaret turned around, stung to an anger almost beyond her ability to bite her words back. “Mama . . .”
“Oh! And there is a most reprehensible-looking person to see you,” Mrs. Ballinger went on. “I have had him wait in Mrs. Timpson’s sitting room.” She was referring to the housekeeper. “Please ask him not to call again. I would not have permitted him to remain this time, but he insisted he had some kind of message for you from Mrs. Monk. I think you should restrict your association with that woman. She is not entirely respectable. Your father agrees with me. Mr. . . . whatever his name is . . . is waiting for you. Don’t detain him. I am sure he has drains to clean, or something . . .”
Margaret was too aware of acute unease to take the time to respond to that last remark. Why would Hester send anyone with a message unless there were something seriously wrong?
“Thank you,” she said curtly, and went out almost at a run, leaving her mother standing in the middle of the bedroom. She went through the upstairs door to the servants’ quarters and down the staircase to the housekeeper’s sitting room. She expected to see Squeaky Robinson there, and was startled when the man standing on the mat in front of the fire was not he. And yet he was someone she had seen before, she simply could not remember when. He was lean, with squarish shoulders and a very weary face which at this moment looked marked by a deep and irrevocable sadness.
“Evenin’, miss,” he said as she closed the door behind her. “I got a message as I gotter tell yer, an’ it’s fer you an’ nob’dy else, no matter wot. I admit as I’d a told yer just wot I ’as ter, but Miss ’Ester said as I gotter tell yer the truth, an’ swear yer in Gawd’s name as yer’ll tell no one else.”
Margaret felt a flicker of fear tighten in her throat. “What is it?” Now she remembered who he was: Sutton, the rat catcher. “What’s happened? Is Hester all right?”
“In a manner o’ speakin’, yes she is,” he answered. “But in another manner, nobody in’t all right. I gotter tell yer, miss, an’ yer gotter tell no one else, or yer could kill ’em all.” His eyes were intent on hers, and there was a fear in him which now gripped her also, so hard she could scarcely draw in her breath.
“What is it? I swear—I swear anything you like, just tell me!”
“Ruth Clark died, miss, but it weren’t pneumonia like yer all thought. It were the plague.”
