this one-simply to ask her for money he knew perfectly well he would not be able to repay. And could Hester ever accept that either?
He touched his fingers gently to her hair. “Yes, of course, murders,” he answered. “And accidental deaths, which is what the authorities seem to be assuming this one is so far. Louvain has not told them otherwise. When I catch the thief and can prove his guilt, then I can prove the murder as well. I have signed statements from Louvain and the morgue attendant.” He hated the thought of working secretly from the River Police. He was not a lover of authority, nor did he take orders with ease or grace, but he was a policeman by training, and even if he despised some of them for lack of imagination or intelligence, he still respected the concept of an organized force, both to prevent and to detect crime.
“I’m hungry,” he said with a smile. “What is there to eat?”
TWO
In the morning the mist had blown away. Monk left the house by seven to begin his investigation, and his education concerning the river and its customs. Hester slept a little later, but by eight she, too, was on her way to the house in Portpool Lane almost under the shadow of Reid’s Brewery. It was over three miles, and necessitated the use of two omnibuses and then a walk, but she was too aware of the expense to waste money on a hansom, except in the middle of the night. She arrived just before nine to find Margaret already there, having made a note of the night’s work and busy considering what might best be done for the day.
Margaret was a slender woman in her late twenties. She had the confidence that goes with a degree of money and education, and the vulnerability of a woman who was not yet married and had therefore failed to fulfill her mother’s ambition for her-and indeed her own for her social and financial survival.
She was dressed in a plain wool skirt and jacket, and had a pencil and piece of paper in her hand. Her face lit when she saw Hester.
“Only one admission during the night,” she said. “A woman with a serious stomachache. I think it’s largely hunger. We gave her porridge and a bed, and she looks better already.” There was a shadow on her face, in spite of the harmlessness of the news.
Since the move from Coldbath Square there was no need for rent to be paid, so Hester knew it was not that which caused Margaret’s concern. This building was theirs-or more accurately, it belonged to Squeaky Robinson, who remained out of prison and with a roof over his head strictly on condition that they had the sole use of the house for as long as they should wish. It had allowed them to expand their work, and now a greater part of London was aware that here prostitutes who were injured or ill could find help, without religious conditions attached or any questions from police.
The building was a warren of rooms and corridors. Originally it had been two large houses with appropriate doors or walls knocked down to turn it into one, and it possessed an adequate kitchen and an excellent laundry. Its use in Squeaky Robinson’s time had been as a brothel; the laundry in particular was an inheritance from that time. Ideally if more walls were removed they could turn rooms into wards, which would make it far simpler to care for patients, but that would cost money they did not have.
As it was, it was getting more difficult to afford the necessities: coal, the raw materials for laundering, cleaning, lighting, and food. Too little money seemed to be available for medicines.
“Where did you put her?” Hester asked.
“Room three,” Margaret answered. “I looked in on her half an hour ago, and she was asleep.”
Hester went to see anyway. She opened the door softly, turning the handle with no noise, and stepped inside. The place was still well furnished from its original use, which had been only a matter of months before. There was quite a good rug, albeit made of bright rags, but it kept the warmth, and there was old paper on the walls, which was better than bare plaster. Now the bed was made up with sheets and blankets, and a young woman lay sound asleep, curled up sideways, her hair knotted loosely at the back of her neck, her thin shoulders easily discernible through the cotton nightgown. It was one belonging to the clinic. She had probably come in wearing her own gaudy street dress, which would show too much flesh and give no protection from the cold.
Hester touched the thin neck with the backs of her fingers. The girl did not stir. She looked about eighteen, but more likely was far less. Her collarbone protruded and her skin was very white, but her pulse was steady enough. Margaret was probably right, it was no more than chronic hunger and exhaustion. When she woke up they would give her more to eat, but after that she would probably have to go. They could not afford to feed her regularly.
Hester wondered who she was. A prostitute without sufficient skill or beauty? A servant thrown out because she had lost her character, either willingly or unwillingly, with one of the men in the house? A girl who had had a baby, and perhaps lost it? An abandoned wife? A petty thief? The possibilities were legion.
She went back out and closed the door. She returned to the main room, which had been created with rather simplistic carpentry from two smaller rooms a few months ago. Margaret was sitting at the table and Bessie was carrying a tray from the kitchen with a teapot and two cups. Bessie was a big woman with a fierce countenance and hair which she screwed back off her brow and twisted into a tight knot on the back of her head. She would never have said so-it would have been a sign of unforgivable sentimentality-but she was devoted to Hester, and even Margaret was earning considerable favor in her eyes.
“Tea,” she said unnecessarily, putting the tray down on the middle of the table. “And toast,” she added, indicating the rack with five pieces propped up to remain crisp. “We in’t got much jam left, an’ I dunno where we’re gonna get any more, ’less we get it given us! An’ ’oo’s gonna give jam ter the likes of us? Beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs. Monk!” And without waiting for an answer she swept out.
“Are we really out of jam?” Hester said unhappily. “And so low we can’t afford any more?” She would have liked to bring some from home, but she was far more aware of the need for economy there than she had allowed Monk to know. She already bought less meat, and cheaper cuts; and herring more often than cod or haddock. She had told the woman who came in to do the heavy cleaning that she was no longer needed, and when she had time she meant to do the work herself.
Before Margaret could respond there was a sharp bang on the door and a moment later, without waiting for an answer, Squeaky Robinson came in. He was a thin man, dried up and bent over. He was dressed in a very old velvet jacket that had lost whatever its original color had been. His trousers were thick and gray and he wore slippers. He carried a leather-bound ledger in his arms. He put it on the table, eyeing the tea and toast, and sat down in the third chair opposite Hester.
“We cut it down,” he said with satisfaction. “But you’ll ’ave ter do better.” He had the air of a schoolmaster with a promising student who had unaccountably fallen short of expectation. “Yer can’t put out more’n you get in.”
Hester looked at him patiently, but it required a certain effort. “You’ve balanced the books, Squeaky. What do we have left?”
“Of course I’ve balanced the books!” he said with satisfaction, even if he was masking it by a pretense of being offended. “That’s wot I’m ’ere fer!” He was there under constant protest, because at first he had had nowhere else to go when Hester and Margaret had very neatly tricked him out of his appalling brothel business, and at a stroke gained the building for use as a clinic. But as he had busied himself with small jobs there, he had gained a certain pleasure from it, even if he would sooner have given blood than admitted it.
“So how much have we left?” she repeated.
He looked at her lugubriously. “Not enough, Mrs. Monk, not enough. We’ll manage food for another five or six days, if yer careful. No jam!” He pulled his lips down at the corners. “ ’Ceptin’ fer yerself, pr’aps, an’ Miss Ballinger. No jam fer these women! An’ careful wi’ the soap an’ vinegar an’ the like.” He took a breath. “An’ don’t tell me yer gotta scrub! I know that, just scrub careful. An’ boil them bandages up an’ use ’em again,” he added unnecessarily. He nodded, pleased with himself. He was becoming more and more proprietary each time they discussed the subject.
“Carbolic?” Hester asked.
“Oh, some,” he conceded. “But we need more money, an’ I dunno where yer gonna get it, ’less’n yer let me foller a few ideas o’ me own.”
