was leaning away from her, her arms free, her fists beating against Bessie’s chest. As Hester took a step towards her, Martha’s right fist caught Bessie in the face and Bessie let go of her with a yell of pain, blood spurting from her nose.
Martha half fell against the wall, banging herself and twisting awkwardly.
Hester started towards her, but Martha scrambled upright again and charged off along the passage towards the stairs.
“Don’t bother wi’ me!” Bessie shouted, grasping her apron to her bleeding nose. “Stop ’er! She’s makin’ a run fer it! She’s got them black swellin’s.”
Hester barely hesitated. Bessie would have to wait; Martha must be stopped, at any cost. She was already at the top of the stairs and lurching down them, still screaming.
Flo came out of one of the other bedrooms and saw Bessie, her face and bosom scarlet. She screamed as well and ran floundering forward towards her.
“I’m all right!” Bessie yelled at her. “Stop that stupid cow from runnin’ off! Get ’er! Go ’elp Miss ’Ester, fer Gawd’s sake.”
Flo stopped with a jolt as Hester started down the stairs. Martha was already halfway down and Squeaky Robinson was on the way up, holding on to the railings at both sides.
“Stop her!” Hester shouted. “Martha! Stop! You can’t leave!”
But Martha was beyond listening to anyone or anything. She charged Squeaky and carried him right off his feet, knocking him backwards down the stairs, his legs in the air. She tried to avoid him and tripped, pitching headlong after him, landing heavily, almost smothering him. He screeched furiously, then started howling with pain.
Hester clung to the banister and went down as fast as she could without risking breaking her legs.
Martha was still clambering to her feet when Hester reached the bottom. Squeaky was clutching his right leg and cursing vigorously.
“You can’t leave, Martha!” Hester said loudly and very clearly. “You know that! You’ll spread the plague all over London! Come back upstairs and let us look after you. Come on!”
Squeaky was still swearing.
“Shut up!” she said to him furiously. “Get up and hold on to Martha!”
Squeaky tried to do as he was told, grabbing a handful of Martha’s nightgown skirts to haul himself up. She lashed out at him and sent him sprawling backwards to land with a thud against the wall. Whether she thought he was molesting her, or she simply was not going to let anyone prevent her escape, was irrelevant.
Squeaky lay where he fell.
Martha blundered away, gathering speed, and Hester ran after her. Martha knew her way and was heading for the kitchen and the back door. Hester called out, desperation making her voice high and shrill. She was not even sure if she was trying to stop Martha or to warn Sutton and call for help. Would she have the nerve to order the dogs set on her? Even with the plague, could she cause the death of someone in such a terrible way?
Martha was in the kitchen. Claudine was sitting half asleep in the chair. She woke up with a start as Martha almost banged into her. She lunged forward, realizing instantly what Martha was trying to do. Her weight carried Martha forward, and they fell together against the kitchen table. Claudine went down first, Martha on top of her.
There was a high-pitched, ear-splitting series of barks. Snoot shot out of the door from the laundry as it opened and Sutton appeared.
“Wot the ’ell is. .” he started.
Martha was the first to her feet. “Let me go!” she shrieked. “I gotta get out of ’ere! Let me. .” And again she plunged towards the back door.
Hester tried to shout, but she could not draw her breath.
“Don’t!” Sutton yelled. “Don’t do it!”
But Martha was beyond reach; in her own mind she must escape or die. The plague was here in this house, and beyond in the night was freedom and life. She ran barefoot out into the yard.
Hester propped herself up onto her hands and knees.
Sutton gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a second, then he opened them again. “Get ’er!” he shouted.
Martha was floundering across the cobbles of the yard. Out of the shadows from two different directions shot two pit bull terriers. They leapt just as she shrieked, and their weight carried her down hard and heavily. As instinct and training taught them, they went for her throat.
Hester screamed. “No! No! Oh, God no!” She lurched to her feet.
Claudine was standing as well, one hand across her mouth, the other clenched over her stomach where she had fallen against the table corner.
Sutton stumbled to the door and out into the darkness. The men were calling their dogs off. Martha lay motionless, her white nightgown stained with widening blotches of crimson.
Sutton reached her and bent down. He touched her gently, feeling for a pulse. The two dog owners stood by, hands on their animals, reassuring them they had not done wrong, but their voices trembled and Hester knew they were talking as much to themselves as to their animals.
Sutton looked up at them from where he knelt.
“Thanks, Joe, Arnie. That can’t be easy ter do, but yer did right. Please ’eaven yer won’t ’ave ter do it no more, but if yer do, then yer must.” He turned to Hester, who was now outside in the light rain almost beside him. “She in’t dead, but she’s bleedin’ summink ’orrible. Still, I s’pose yer seen that before, yer bein’ in the army an’ all. We’d best get ’er inside an’ see if yer can stitch ’er up, poor little cow. I dunno wot for. This’d be an easier way to go, Gawd ’elp us.”
Claudine was outside now as well. She was gasping for breath, trying to control the hysteria rising in her.
“You murderer!” She choked out the words, staring transfixed with horror at Sutton.
“No he isn’t!” Hester protested, her own voice thick with held-in anguish.
“He set the dogs on her!” Claudine said coldly. “You saw it! God! Look at her! They’ve torn her throat out.”
“No, they haven’t.” Hester bent down to her knees to look at the mangled, scarlet mess, praying that what she said was true. Or maybe that it wasn’t.
Claudine began to gasp for breath, the air scraping and wheezing in her chest.
Sutton put his arm around her and with the other struck her hard on the back.
She turned on him in fury. “Going to kill me now, are you?” she shrieked, raising both her fists as if to strike him in the face.
“I might do, missus,” he said grimly. “I really might do-but not yet. I’ll ’ave enough ter bury without you, an’ yer getting’ ter be more use every day, spite o’ yerself. Now get an’ ’elp Miss ’Ester wi’ this poor little cow. ’old the water or the needle or summink. Don’t stand there wi’ yer bleedin’ mouth open. In’t no flies ter catch this time o’ night.”
Claudine realized she was breathing clearly again. She was beside herself with rage. “You. .” she started.
But Sutton was not listening to her. “Shut yer face an’ be useful, yer great lump!” he told her abruptly. “Afore she bleeds ter death ’ere in the yard an’ yer ’ave ter spend yer mornin’ wi’ a broom an’ vinegar tryin’ ter clean it up.”
Partly out of sheer surprise, Claudine obeyed. Together all three of them managed to carry Martha back inside and lay her on the kitchen table. In the light she looked even worse.
“Can yer stitch ’er?” Sutton whispered.
Hester looked at the blood-soiled clothes and the mangled flesh. Martha was still bleeding freely, but it was not with the brilliant scarlet of arterial blood, and it was still pumping, which meant that she was alive.
“I can try,” she answered. “But I need to be very quick. Claudine, you’ll have to help. Bessie’s got what looks like a broken nose, and Mercy’ll have to deal with that. Anyway, we’ve no time. Get my needle and silk out of the top drawer of the cupboard over by the sink.” As she spoke she was tearing out the other sleeve of Martha’s nightgown and rolling it up into a pad, holding it onto the worst of the wounds. “Sutton, fetch the bottle of brandy
