Shifting Tide

The rain was turning to sleet, drifting across the arcs of light shed by the street lamps and disappearing into the darkness again. She pulled Sutton’s coat more tightly around her.

Without warning they came to a stop and she stood, still twenty feet away, while the two men took the body out of the cart and led the way very slowly, guided by the bull’s-eye lanterns, through the graveyard gates. She waited until they were almost out of sight before she went after them along the paths between the stones.

A thin figure loomed up ahead, standing by the earth of a new grave, dug ready for the morning. The mound of fresher earth, excavated deeper, was barely visible in the darkness.

“Quick!” was the only word spoken, but she heard the slither of soil and then the thud as shovel blades hit harder ground. There was a minute’s silence. Dimly she saw the figures straighten and bend again as they lowered Mercy down. Then all three piled the earth back in. It was bitterly cold, and she heard the faint splash of water in the bottom of the grave. At least the downpour would wash the mud from their hands afterwards.

It seemed an age until Mercy was completely covered, but at last it was done.

One of the men walked over and stopped about ten feet from Hester. “Yer wanner say summink?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” Hester took a step sideways, closer to the grave, but away from him. “Rest in peace,” she said clearly, the rain icy in her face, washing away the tears. “If we loved you as much as we did, and could understand, you have no need to fear God—He has to love you more, and understand even better. Don’t be afraid. Good-bye, Mercy.”

“Amen,” the others said in unison, then led the way ahead of her through the gravestones back to the rat cart and the cold, bitter journey home.

The next day passed with no one else developing symptoms. They waited in dread and hope, listening for every cough, feeling for tenderness, watching for an awkward movement. They worked together to scrub, launder, cook, change bandages for the injured still trapped with them, and tend to those recovering from what now seemed to have been only pneumonia or bronchitis.

No one spoke much. They were all deeply subdued by Mercy’s death. Even Snoot seemed to have lost his heart for ratting, although he had possibly got them all anyway.

Once or twice Claudine seemed about to say something, deliberately filling her expression with hope, then as if it were too fragile to expose to reality, she changed her mind and kept silent, redoubling her efforts at scrubbing or mixing or whatever else she was doing.

Flo chopped vegetables as if she were slitting the throat of an enemy, biting back tears all the time; and Bessie banged pots, pans, folded linen, and grunted. But whether it was out of satisfaction, the ache in her shoulders and back, or too much hope bottled up inside her, she did not allow anyone to know. In the evening they all sat together around the kitchen table and ate the last of the soup. From now on there would be nothing except gruel, but no one complained. In everyone’s mind there was just the one prayer, that the plague be gone.

In the morning one of the men with the dogs knocked on the back door. When Claudine allowed him time, then went to answer it, she found a box of food, three pails of fresh water, and two envelopes tucked where they were kept dry. She carried them inside in triumph.

One note was for Margaret. Hester watched as she opened it and her face filled with joy, her eyes brimming. She read it twice, regardless of her tears, then looked across at Hester, whose note was still unopened.

“It’s Oliver,” she said, gulping. “He brought the food himself.” Involuntarily she glanced at the courtyard. “He was right outside the door.” She did not offer any further comment; they both knew the effort it must have cost him, and the victory.

Hester tore hers open as well, and read:

My dearest Hester,

The thing you will care most about is that Monk is well, but he looks exhausted, and his fear for your welfare is eating him alive. He is working night and day to find the crew of the Maude Idris who were paid off before the ship reached the Pool of London, but we fear they may already be dead, or else have gone back to sea in new ships.

However, we have succeeded in saving the life of the thief, Gould, with a verdict of not guilty because of reasonable doubt, and thus justice is served without the terror of the truth being known.

When I last saw Monk, after the trial, I did not yet know that I would find the courage to deliver this myself, or I could have brought you a letter from him. But you will already know all that he would have written.

My admiration for you was always greater than I told you, but now it grows beyond my ability to measure. I shall be proud if you still wish to consider me a friend.

Yours as always,

Oliver

She smiled, folding it up to put into her pocket, then looked up at Margaret. “I told you he would,” she said with infinite satisfaction.

They spent the day scrubbing everything they could reach. Rathbone had thoughtfully included carbolic among the things he had left. By suppertime they were exhausted, but every room was clean and the chemical’s sharp, stinging odor was everywhere. At any other time it would have been offensive; now they stood in the kitchen and inhaled it with pleasure.

That night they all slept—except Bessie, who now and again walked the corridors just to make certain there was still no one worse or complaining of new symptoms.

In the morning there was a crisp, hard frost, and the light was sharp with pale sun. It was November 11, twenty-one days since Clement Louvain had summoned Monk to find his ivory and see the dead body of Hodge.

“Yer beat it!” Sutton said with a huge grin. “Yer beat the plague, Miss ’Ester. I’ll take yer ’ome!”

“We beat it,” she corrected him, grinning back at him. She lifted her hands tentatively, wanting to touch him, shake his hand, something. Then she abandoned conventions, even the fear of embarrassing him, and did what she