“They’ll burn the place down!” Flo finished for her. “Mrs. Monk’s right. We gotta keep it a secret from everyone. It’s the only chance we got-God ’elp us!”
“Oh, Gawd!” Bessie said, rocking back and forth in her chair. “Oh, Gawd!”
“I never thought of praying,” Claudine said with wry bitterness. “But I suppose that’s all we have!”
Hester looked across at Sutton. He was the only other person, apart from herself, and one more, who knew that they also had a murderer in the house.
NINE
Monk was sitting at home, building up the fire to try to create in the house the warmth that was gone from it because Hester was devoting so much time to the clinic. Her absence robbed him of a great deal of the pleasure he would have felt had he been able to share his triumph with her. He had been extraordinarily successful. He had pulled off a master stroke, retrieving the ivory and getting it to Louvain right under the noses of the thieves-and of Culpepper, for whom it was taken, and even of the River Police! Louvain had paid him handsomely, and his reputation was now high. Other jobs would come from it. But there was no one to tell.
He was not finished. He still needed to find out who had killed Hodge. It might have been Gould’s partner, but that was likely only if he had gone on board after Gould, found Hodge stirring, and killed him. That would have been a result of panic, and completely unnecessary-unless the man was someone paid by Louvain, and thus had betrayed him? Louvain would exact a bitter vengeance for that, and it would explain why Hodge had been killed and not merely knocked senseless.
And then there was the other possibility, that Hodge had been killed by a member of the crew in some personal quarrel that had nothing to do with the theft.
If he found out who Gould’s partner had been, it might be possible to prove whether he had ever come on board the
Louvain would not like it; he might even try to block him, but Monk had taken care of that. He had no intention of allowing Hodge’s murderer to escape. He had never known Hodge, and might well have disliked him if he had, but that was irrelevant. The less anyone else cared, the more it mattered that he was given some kind of justice.
Monk was sitting by the fire, getting too hot but barely noticing it, when he realized there was someone knocking on the door. It could not be Hester; she had a key. Was it a new client? He could not accept one, unless he or she was prepared to wait. He stood up and went to answer.
The man on the step was lean, and quite smartly dressed, but his shoes were worn. His wry, intelligent face was lined with weariness, and there was a small brown-and-white terrier at his feet. Monk would be sorry to have to refuse him.
“Mr. William Monk?” the man enquired.
“Yes.”
“I have a message for yer, sir. May I come in?”
Monk was puzzled and already concerned. Who would send him a message in this fashion? “What is it?” he said a little sharply. “A message from whom?”
“From Mrs. Monk. Can I come in?” There was an odd dignity to the man, a confidence despite his obvious lack of education.
Monk opened the door and stepped back to allow him to walk past into the warmth, followed by the dog. Then he closed the door and swung around to face him.
“What is it?” Now his voice was sharp, the edge of fear audible. Why would Hester send a message through a man like this? Why not a note if she was delayed and wanted to tell him? “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Sutton,” the man replied. “I’m a rat catcher. I’ve know’d Mrs. Monk awhile now-”
“What did she say?” Monk cut across him. “Is she all right?”
“Yeah, she’s all right,” Sutton said gravely. “Though she’s workin’ too ’ard, like most times.”
Monk looked at him. There was nothing in the man’s face or his demeanor to ease Monk’s growing alarm.
“Wot I got ter tell yer in’t a few moments’ worth,” Sutton went on. “So yer’d best sit down an’ listen. There in’t nothing yer can do ’ceptin’ keep yer ’ead, and then ’old yer tongue.”
Monk suddenly found his legs were weak and he felt a rush of panic well up inside him. He was glad to sit down.
Sutton sat in the other chair. “Thank yer,” he said as if Monk had invited him. He did not tease out the suspense. “One o’ the women wot was brought inter the clinic died today. When Miss ’Ester come ter wash ’er fer the undertaker, she seed what she really died of, which weren’t pneumonia like she thought.” He stopped, his eyes shadowed, his face intensely serious.
Monk leapt to the conclusion that was most familiar to him. “Murdered?” He leaned forward to stand up. He should go there immediately. Helping Gould would have to wait. He could afford a few days.
“Sit down, Mr. Monk,” Sutton said in a low, very clear voice. “The trouble in’t nothin’ ter do wi’ murder. It’s far more ’orrible than that. An’ yer gotta act right, or yer could bring down a disaster like the world in’t seen in five ’undred years.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Monk demanded. Was the man mad? He looked perfectly sane; the gravity in him was saner than in a score of men who governed the fates of businesses and societies. “What is it?”
“Plague,” Sutton answered, his eyes fixed on Monk. “Not yer cholera or yer pox, or any o’ them diseases. It’s the real thing-the Black Death.”
Monk could not grasp what Sutton had said. It had no reality; it was just huge words, too big to mean anything.
“That’s why nobody’s goin’ in there, an’ nobody’s comin’ out,” Sutton went on quietly. “They gotta keep it closed, no matter wot.”
“You did!” Monk said instantly.
“I kept away from Miss ’Ester an’ the woman wot nursed the dead one, an’ I in’t comin’ out again arter this.”
“I’m still going in,” Monk insisted. Hester was there without him. She was facing something worse than any human nightmare. How could he possibly stay out here, safe, doing nothing? “She’ll need help. Anyway, how could you stop people from leaving? I mean, the sheer practicality? You have to tell the authorities! Get doctors-”
“There in’t nothin’ a doctor can do fer the Black Death.” Sutton sat almost motionless. His face was impassive, beyond emotion. It was as if the horror of it had drained everything out of him. “If it takes yer, it takes yer, an’ if it leaves yer, it leaves yer. In’t no use tellin’ the authorities. In’t nothin’ they can do. An’ wot d’yer think’d ’appen then, eh?”
The hideousness of it was very slowly becoming real. In his mind, Monk could see exactly what this strange, composed man was saying. “How will you stop people from leaving?” he asked.
“Dogs,” Sutton said with a slight movement of his shoulders. “I got friends with pit bulls. They’re guardin’ all the outsides. I ’ope nobody runs fer it, but so ’elp me, they’ll set the dogs on ’em if they do. Better one torn ter bits than lettin’ ’er spread it over all the land, all over the world, mebbe.”
“What if they tell people?”
“We told ’em it’s cholera an’ they don’ know different.”
Monk tried not to think of what his own words meant. “I must still go and help. I can’t leave her alone there. I won’t.”
“Yer gotter. .” Sutton began.
“I won’t come out again!”
