The Shifting Tide

THIRTEEN

In Portpool Lane time was measured not in nights and days but in loads of laundry, whether it was light enough to blow out the candles, or dark enough to ask the men in the yard to fetch water from the well at the end of the street. Everything still had to be done by signs from the back door. No one must come close enough to risk catching the contagion.

Four women had died now, including Ruth Clark and Martha. Hester went to each of the survivors as often as she could. For those with pneumonia or bronchitis it was a matter of keeping the fever down and making sure they drank as much as possible: water, tea, soup—anything to make up for the fluid loss.

For the three whose illness was recognizably plague there was less to be done, and a more desperate desire to try anything at all to lessen the pain, which was acute. It was not only the knowledge of almost certain death, but the poison that raged through their bodies before it erupted in the blackened, putrefying flesh of the buboes, that made a person so ill that he or she longed for oblivion. The moments of awareness between one delirium and another were so agonizing that they cried out, and there was nothing Hester or any of the others could do but administer cool cloths, a sip of water, and not leave them alone.

“I wouldn’t wish this on anyone,” Flo said softly, pulling uncomfortably on the sleeve of her blouse—like all of them, conscious every moment of her arms and groin. She set down another bowl of water on the table outside one of the rooms so Hester could wring out cloths for the woman inside. “Not even that Ruth Clark, the lyin’ bampot.” Her face was pale with tiredness, the freckles on it standing out like dirty marks, her eyes dark ringed. “I may be a tart, Miss ’Ester, an’ a few other things, I daresay, but I in’t never bin a thief. I got a name like anybody else, an’ she got no right to take it from me by tellin’ lies. Why’d she do that? I in’t never done nothin’ to ’er?”

“She was an angry woman,” Hester replied, putting the cloths over her arm, then picking up the bowl. “A man she trusted, maybe even loved, threw her aside like so much rubbish when she most needed him. She just lashed out at everyone.”

Flo shrugged. “If she trusted a man wot paid for ’er, the more fool ’er!” She looked at Hester defiantly, and Hester stared straight back at her. Flo sighed and lowered her gaze. “Well . . . I s’pose we’re all stupid sometimes, poor cow,” she said reluctantly. Then she smiled. “I’m alive, an’ she ain’t, so I reckon I don’t ’old no grudges. I won, eh?”

Hester felt the cold grasp her as if the outside door had been opened onto the night. “Is that what you call winning, Flo?”

“Well . . .” Flo started, then she froze. “Geez! I din’t do nothin’ to ’er, Miss ’Ester!”

The cold deepened inside Hester, gripping like ice. “Why would I think you did, Flo?” she asked very quietly.

“ ’Cos she called me a thief, an’ I i’nt!” Flo said indignantly. “That’s a nice thing ter say! If yer’d believed ’er yer could a put me out on the street, fer Gawd’s sake! I could die out there!” A wry, miserable smile flickered across her face. “Come ter think on it, I could die in ’ere too. But in ’ere I’m wi’ friends, an’ that counts.”

“I never thought you were a thief, Flo,” Hester said, surprised how completely she meant it.

Flo’s face lit with amazement and joy. “Din’t yer? Really?”

Hester felt tears prickle in her eyes. It must be tiredness. She could not remember when she had last slept more than an hour at a time. “No, I didn’t.”

Flo shook her head, still smiling. “Then I’m glad I never fetched the poor sod in the chops, an’ b’lieve me, I thought of it! D’yer want some more towels, then?”

“Yes, yes please,” Hester accepted. “Bring them next time you come.”

Another woman died, and Hester and Mercy tied her in one of the dark blankets as a winding sheet. When they were finished Hester looked across and saw how white-faced Mercy was, and when Mercy turned her head, hearing footsteps on the stairs, the candlelight accentuated the hollowness around her eyes.

“We’ll get Squeaky to help us carry her down,” Hester said. “Don’t you do it.”

Mercy started to argue, then gave up. “Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded. “It would be terrible to drop her—poor soul.” Her face was filled with pity and there was also a note of anger. Hester wondered why, but she was too tired to pursue it.

Claudine stood in the doorway. She looked at Hester for a moment, then at the bundle on the bed. It was a woman she had despised, but even a glance at her face showed that death had cleansed judgment from her and left only a common humanity.

“I’ll tell the men,” she said. She turned from Hester to Mercy. “You don’t look as if you could lift your own feet, let alone anyone else’s. I’d better fetch that useless man away from his books!” And without asking Hester’s agreement she withdrew. They heard her feet going down the passageway, still sharp-heeled on the wood, but slower than before. She too was on the edge of exhaustion. It would soon be time for Bessie and Flo to take over for the rest of the night.

“We can manage,” Hester said to Mercy. “Go to bed now. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

For once Mercy didn’t demur.

Claudine returned with Squeaky a step behind her, grizzling all the way.

“In’t my job ter be a bleedin’ undertaker!” he complained. “Wot if I get the plague, eh? Wot then? Carryin’ bodies! Mr. Bleedin’ Rathbone din’t say as I ’ad ter be carryin’ bodies—that weren’t part o’ the agreement. Wot if I get it, eh? Yer don’t answer me that, did yer?”

“You didn’t hold your tongue long enough to give me the chance,” Claudine responded tartly. “But if you can’t work out the answer for yourself, then I’ll tell you. You’ll die of it, that’s what. Exactly the same as the rest of us.”

“Yer’d like that, wouldn’t yer!” he accused her, glaring at her where she stood just inside the door, her head high, hair untidy, hands on her wide hips.

“Of course I wouldn’t like that!” she snapped. “If you were dead I would have to carry all the water myself, instead of just most of it, as I do now. Apart from that, who’d carry you out?”

“Yer a cold and ’eartless woman,” he said miserably. “An’ yer don’ carry most o’ the water, yer carries ’alf, just like I does.”

“Well, carry half that poor woman’s body,” she ordered. “Not the bottom half, the top!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s heavier, of course. Use the wits you were born with, man.”

“Poor woman, is it?” he sneered. “That’s not wot yer called ’er a couple o’ days ago. Nothin’ weren’t bad enough for ’er then, ’cos she made ’er livin’ on ’er back, like most of ’em ’ere. Yer just despises ’er ’cos yer wouldn’t a made an ’a’penny yerself, not even in the dark!”

Hester tensed, ready to stem the onslaught she expected in reply to this insult.

But Claudine remained perfectly calm. “Don’t put words in my mouth, you stupid little man,” she said wearily. “Just pick her up and help me carry her down the stairs. And do it discreetly! She’s not so much dirty laundry to be slung about.”

Squeaky obeyed. “You’ve changed yer tune, ’aven’t yer? So tarts off the street are all right again, as long as they’re dead, eh?” He bent and picked up the wrapped bundle approximately where her shoulders were, and staggered a little under the weight.

“Well there isn’t much point in criticizing the dead, is there?” Claudine challenged him. “Poor soul is God’s problem now.”

Squeaky let out a high-pitched expletive. “She’s my bleedin’ problem if I rips me guts out carryin’ ’er! D’yer put a couple o’ lead bricks in wi’ ’er?”

“For heaven’s sake, man!” Claudine exploded. “Bend your knees! Straighten your back! What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever picked up anything before?” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Here!” She bent down carefully and with surprising grace, keeping her back perfectly straight, and picked up the dead woman’s feet. “Come on!” she ordered.

Squeaky copied her exactly, his face twisted in concentration, then lifted the other end of the corpse. He did it with comparative care, hesitated, transparently doubting within himself whether to thank her or not, and very graciously decided to do so. “Yeah!” he said. “It in’t so ’ard.”

“Oh, get on with it!” Claudine told him impatiently. “What are you waiting for, a round of applause?”

He glared at her and set off backwards down the candlelit corridor towards the stairs.

Hester followed, calling out and warning just as Squeaky reached the top of the stairs and looked like he’d fall backwards down them.

“You fool!” Claudine said in utter exasperation, probably because she had not thought to warn him herself.

“I dunno why we bother wi’ Sutton an’ ’is bleedin’ dogs!” Squeaky said indignantly. “Got a mouth like a rattrap, you ’ave! Catch all the bleedin’ rats in the place, yer would! Mebbe that’s wot’s wrong wi’ yer! Swallowin’ too many bleedin’ rats!”

“Stop complaining and carry this poor woman to her grave,” Claudine responded, apparently unmoved.

Squeaky steadied himself and started backwards down the stairs. Claudine went gently, with considerable regard for his balance and speed, waiting whenever it was necessary, and without further criticism. When they reached the bottom she told Squeaky when to go left, when right, and when he seemed lost, she waited.

Finally they reached the back door and Sutton, who was standing beside it, opened it on to the rain-soaked night. The lamplight gleamed on the stones, and the gutters were awash. Under the eaves two men were waiting, dogs sitting patiently at their heels. Two more detached themselves from the shadows, ready to come forward for the body when the door was closed. The rat cart would be waiting at the curb, but it was out of sight.

Squeaky let go of the body with relief and then Claudine let go of her end in turn. To everyone’s amazement she stood quite still, in the rain, her head bowed.

“May the Good Lord have mercy on her soul and remember only what was good in her,” she said quietly. “Amen.” She jerked her head up. “What are you staring at?”

Squeaky glowered at her, his body hunched and tight, shivering in the cold.

“Amen!” he replied, then splashed back over the cobbles to the kitchen door, scattering water everywhere, Claudine immediately behind him.

Hester smiled, thanking them both, just as Bessie appeared, announcing her arrival to take over for a while. Hester excused herself and went upstairs again to find a quiet place and snatch a few hours of sleep, sinking into oblivion with immeasurable gratitude.

She awoke what seemed only a few minutes later, but it must actually have been several hours, because the thin, winter daylight came in through the window. Flo was standing beside her, her long, freckled face filled with misery.

Hester dragged herself into consciousness and forced herself to sit up. The air was cold and her head ached. “What is it, Flo?” she asked.

“I went ter waken Miss Mercy,” Flo replied. “She looks ’orrible pale, an’ I can’t get ’er ter waken proper.”

“She’s probably exhausted,” Hester answered, pulling the bedclothes around herself. “She’s been working almost without a stop for days. We can leave her for a little longer. I’ll get up. Has anything happened during the night? How is everyone?” As she straightened up she touched her fingers to the skin under her armpits, dreading to feel the tenderness and only half believing it was not there.

“That Minnie looks worse,” Flo replied, pretending she had not noticed the gesture. She understood it perfectly. “Coughin’ fit to bring ’er guts up, she is,” she went on. “But still got plenty ter say fer ’erself, so I reckon’s she’s good fer another day or two, poor little cow. Kettle’s on when yer ready.”

“Thank you.”

Flo went out, closing the door behind her. Stiffly, shivering as the air hit her skin, Hester got up. She dressed again and splashed her face from the small dish of cold water she had spared herself. Then she started to go downstairs for the tea Flo had offered and a slice or two of toast. Thanks to Margaret’s constant efforts, they had sufficient food and fuel. She pushed the thought of Margaret out of her mind because she missed her company, her encouragement, just the knowledge that she could glance at her and know that they understood each other in unique ways. The loneliness might cripple her if she allowed it.

If she thought of Monk, she would find herself in tears. She could not bear to think of being with him again—his voice, his touch, the feel of his lips on her face—because the sweetness of it was everything she longed for. Nor could she think of the possibility that she would not, because that robbed her of hope. He was the only reward that mattered and it was enough to drive her through exhaustion and pity and grief.

She was halfway down the stairs when she thought she had better have a look at Mercy. She was probably just exhausted. She was a young woman of good birth and a fairly sheltered upbringing. This kind of physical labor, let alone the constant fear, would have crippled most girls like her.

Hester knocked lightly on the door, and there was no answer. She pushed it open and went in. Mercy looked to be sound asleep, but not motionless. She moved slightly, took an unsteady breath, then turned her head.

“Mercy?” Hester said quietly.

There was no answer.

Hester walked over to her. Even in the dim daylight through the curtains she could see that Mercy was not awake. She was tossing and turning in fever, her cheeks flushed, a beading of sweat on her lip.

Hester felt a slow settling of pain inside her and fear took hold of her stomach, knotting it tight. With a trembling hand she reached over and pulled the bedclothes back. Her fingers rested lightly over the place where the sleeve of the nightgown met the bodice. She felt the hard lumps. Perhaps it was going to happen to all of them. It was only sooner or later, that was all. Now for Mercy it was a terrible certainty.

Hester’s throat was thick with tears. She found it suddenly hard to breathe. Looking down at the flushed face and the fair, tangled hair, she realized how much she liked Mercy. She was angry that this should happen to her, and not someone who had less to lose or who would not be missed so much. It was a stupid emotion, and she should have known better than to allow herself to feel it, but all the reason in the world made no difference.

Slowly she turned and walked away, closing the door of the room behind her and going down the stairs as if in a dream. She must get something to eat, stay strong. She would nurse Mercy herself, make sure she never woke alone. No one could help; no one could remove the physical pain, the horror or the inevitability of death. Lies would be no comfort, only dig a gulf between them. She could do nothing but simply be there.

She walked into the kitchen. They all turned to look at her, but it was Sutton who spoke. He came over to her, his face pinched with concern.

“Tea!” he ordered Flo. “Then get yerself off.” To Claudine he just waved a hand, and, white-faced, she went to resume the endless laundry. There was little water left, but she did not mention it, and certainly did not complain. She would reuse what was there if it proved necessary. Squeaky was nowhere to be seen. Fear was in the air, like the cold.

Flo poured the tea and excused herself. Hester sat down, still without having spoken. She placed her hands around the steaming mug and let the warmth run through them.

“D’yer know ’oo did it?” Sutton said quietly.

“Killed Ruth?” She was surprised. It seemed to matter so little now. “No, I don’t. I’m not sure how much I care. The poor woman was dying anyway, she just took longer than some of the others. Partly it was because of the way the disease went, and partly because she was strong, not living on the streets half starved. I think if I had plague, I wouldn’t mind a lot if someone just snuffed me out a little faster. And don’t bother to tell me you shouldn’t do that. I know. I’m just admitting that I haven’t even thought about it lately. Have you?”

“Not much,” he replied. “She quarreled a lot with Claudine and Flo. Mercy was the only one ’oo ’ad the measure of ’er, but then seems it were Mercy ’oo looked after ’er. As it were ’er brother ’oo brung ’er ’ere, so mebbe she know’d plenty about ’er. Could bin ’er as done it.” He pulled his face into a gruesome expression of disbelief. “Or it could a bin anyb’dy else. She were a nasty piece o’ work, Gawd rest ’er.”

“I don’t think it’s going to matter if Mercy did,” Hester said quietly, her voice flat.

Sutton caught the tone, and he looked at her with intense sorrow. “She got it too?”

Hester took a shuddering breath. “Yes . . .” It ended in a sob.

He put out his hand, automatically, to touch hers, very lightly, as if he did not want to intrude. She felt the warmth of it and ached to be able to hold on to him. But it would have embarrassed him. She was there to be a leader, not to turn to others for comfort as if she were just as terrified as they were. They might guess it, but they must never know.

She sat there silently for a moment longer, forcing her breathing to become even again, and the tears to choke back out of her throat. Then she brought her head up and began to drink her tea.

Ten minutes later she went back upstairs to sit with Mercy. She spoke to her every so often, not certain if she was awake enough to hear or understand. She talked about all sorts of things: past experiences, things she had seen, like the first Christmas in the Crimea, the beauty of the landscape, snowbound under a full moon. And she described other things, closer to home, wandering in her memories at random, simply for the sake of talking.

Once or twice Mercy opened her eyes and smiled. Hester tried to get her to drink a little beef tea, and she managed a mouthful or two, but she was very weak. How she had kept going for so long was hard to imagine. She must have been in great pain.

Hester thanked her for all she had done, above all for her gentleness, for her friendship. And she praised her, hoping she would understand at least some of it. Late in the afternoon she seemed to find almost an hour of sleep.

In the evening Hester went downstairs again to see how everyone else was doing—if there was enough water, food, soap—and to fetch another candle. Her head was aching, her eyes prickled with weariness, and her mouth was dry. She had just started back upstairs when she was aware of the room blurring a little, sliding away from her vision. The next thing she lost her balance and slipped into darkness, only vaguely aware of something hitting her hard on the left side.

She opened her eyes to see the smoke-stained patch on the ceiling, then Claudine’s face, ashen with fear, tears on her cheeks.

With a wave of terror so intense the room spun around again, she remembered the moment she had touched Mercy’s armpit and felt the hard swelling. Had she looked as Claudine did now? It was the end; she had gotten it after all. She would never see Monk again.

Sutton was beside her, his arm around her, holding her head up a little. Snoot was pushing against him, wagging his tail.

“Yer’ve no right to give up yet,” Sutton said scathingly. “Yer’ve nothin’ ter give up for! Yer not ill, yer just daft!” He gulped. “Beggin’ yer pardon fer the familiarity, but there in’t nuffin’ under yer arms. Yer just too skinny ter stand the pace!”

“What?” she mumbled.

“Yer not got the plague!” he hissed at her. “Yer just got a fit o’ the vapors, like any other lady wot’s bin brung up right! Claudine’ll get yer ter yer bed, an’ yer stay there until yer told yer can come out. Sent ter yer room, like. In’t that wot yer ma did to yer when yer was full o’ lip?”

“Sent to my room . . .” Hester wanted to giggle, but she hadn’t the strength. “But Mercy . . .”

“The world in’t gonner stop just ’cos yer in’t pushin’ it ’round,” Sutton said disgustedly, but his hand on her was as gentle and his eyes as soft as when he fondled his little dog. “Just do as yer told, for once!” he snapped, his voice suddenly choking. “We in’t got time ter be pickin’ yer up off the floor every five minutes!” He turned away quickly, blushing hard.

Claudine bent down and helped her up, holding her so tightly she couldn’t have buckled at the knees if she had wanted to. Together, awkwardly, trying to keep in step and not trip each other, they made their way back up the stairs, passing a horrified Squeaky Robinson on the landing.

“Don’t look like that, you daft ha’porth!” Claudine shot a furious glare at him. “She’s just tired! If you want to be useful, go and fetch some water from the yard. And if there isn’t any there, tell those blasted men to go and get some.” And without waiting to see if he was going to obey her, she swept Hester along to the bedroom and half heaved her onto the bed. “Now go to sleep!” she ordered furiously. “Just do it! I’ll look after everything.”

Hester stopped struggling and let go.

She woke with a start. The only light in the room was from the candle burning on the small table beside her. In its flame she could see Margaret sitting on the chair, looking back at her, a little anxious but smiling.

Hester shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She sat up slowly, blinking, but Margaret was still there. Horror welled up inside her. “You can’t have . . .”

“I haven’t,” Margaret said, understanding immediately. She leaned forward and took Hester’s arm. “Neither have you. You’re just exhausted.”

“They shouldn’t have told you!” Hester protested, struggling to sit up. Now fear for Margaret drowned out all other thoughts.

Margaret shook her head. “They didn’t. I came because I couldn’t leave you here alone.” She said it quite simply, without protestations of morality or friendship. It was simply a fact.

Hester smiled widely and lay back, filled with warmth, just for now refusing to think beyond the moment.

Later they met together over toast and jam and a cup of tea, while Hester told Margaret all that had happened since she had left.

“I’m sorry about Mercy,” Margaret said quietly. “I liked her. It seems a terrible sacrifice. She’s so young, and had everything before her. At least . . .” She frowned. “I don’t really know anything except that she is Clement Louvain’s sister. One tends to think that if people have a good family, and are more than pleasing to look at, they will be happy, and that’s silly, really. She may have all kinds of private griefs we know nothing of.” Her face became reflective, deep in her own thoughts, and there was more than a shadow of pain in it.

Hester knew what it was; there was only one thing that would trouble Margaret in such a way. There was all the difference in the world between the ache in the heart caused by love, its disillusion and loneliness, and the fear of any other kind of calamity. She had realized even more intensely in these last days that the passion, the tenderness—above all, the companionship—of heart and mind were the gifts that gave light and meaning to all others, or took it from them.

“Oliver?” she said gently.

Margaret’s eyes opened wide, then she blushed. “Am I so transparent?”

Hester smiled. “To another woman, yes, of course, you are.”

“He asked me to marry him,” Margaret said quietly. She bit her lip. “I had been waiting for him to do that, dreaming of it, and it was all exactly as it should have been.” She gave a rueful, bewildered little laugh. “Except that nothing was really right. How could I possibly accept marriage now and go away, leaving you here alone to cope with this? What would I be worth if I could, and how could he not know that? What does he believe of me that he would even ask?”

Hester watched Margaret’s face. “What did you say?”

Margaret took a sharp breath. “That I could not, of course. I told him that I was coming here. He didn’t want me to, at least part of him didn’t. Illness . . . frightens him . . .” She said it with hesitation, as if betraying a confidence and yet unable to bear it alone.

“I know.” Hester smiled. “He’s not perfect. It costs him all the courage he has even to think of it, let alone come close to it.”

Margaret said nothing.

“Perhaps he can face things we find harder, or even turn away from,” Hester went on. “If he were afraid of nothing, if he had never run away, never failed or been ashamed, never needed time and another chance, what would he have in common with the rest of us, and how would he learn to be gentle with us?”

Margaret looked at her steadily, searching her eyes.

“You’re disappointed?” Hester asked.

“No!” Margaret answered instantly, then looked away. “I . . . I’m afraid he’ll think I am, because I was for a moment or two. And maybe he won’t ask me again. Maybe nobody will, but that doesn’t matter, because I really don’t want anyone else. Apart from you, there’s nobody else I . . . like so much.” She looked up again. “Do you understand?”

“Absolutely. I believe he will ask you, but if he is cautious, you will have to deal with that.”

“You mean be patient, wait?”

“No, I don’t!” Hester responded instantly. “I mean do something about it. Put him in a situation where he is obliged to speak—not that I am in the least useful at doing that sort of thing myself, but I know it can be done.”

Sutton came in through the back door, Snoot at his heels. Hester poured tea for him, offered him toast, and invited him to sit down.

“It’s good to see you, miss,” he said to Margaret, accepting the invitation. The words were bare enough, but the expression in his face was profound approval, and Margaret found herself coloring at the unspoken praise.

Hester took the crusts from her toast and gave them to Snoot. “I know I shouldn’t,” she acknowledged to Sutton. “But he’s done such a good job.”

“He’s a beggar!” Sutton said tartly. “ ’Ow many times ’ave I told yer not to beg, yer little ’ound?” His voice was full of pride. “ ’e ’as done a good job, Miss ’Ester. I in’t seed a rat fer two days now.”

Hester felt a hollowness at the thought that Sutton might leave. She realized how much she relied upon him, even with Margaret back. His resourcefulness, his wry, brave wit, his companionship could not be replaced by anybody else.

“There might still be some,” she said too quickly.

“I’ll show yer where I bin,” he replied, waiting until she was ready to move.

She finished her tea, and when he had also she followed him to the laundry. It smelled of carbolic, wet stone, and cotton. He stopped. “We in’t had no more new cases o’ the plague since Miss Mercy. Mebbe we’re gonna get the better of it,” he said softly. “But I in’t goin’ till yer find out ’oo killed that Clark woman. Not as she din’t deserve it, like, but nob’dy can take the law into their own ’ands.” He looked at her in the dim light. “I bin thinkin’, it’s gotter be between Flo, Miss Claudine, an’ Miss Mercy, though why Miss Mercy should wanter kill ’er I in’t got no idea. Summink ter do wi’ ’er brother, mebbe. Bessie could’ve o’ course, but she in’t like that. The rest of ’em were too poorly accordin’ ter Bessie, an’ din’t never see ’er.”

“Or Squeaky,” Hester added. “But so far as I know, he didn’t see her either. And why on earth would he want to kill her?”

“That’s exactly it,” Sutton said unhappily. “An’ as yer said, it were Mr. Louvain as brung ’er in.”

“Yes. He said she was the mistress of a friend of his.”

He raised an eyebrow in a lopsided expression of doubt. “Or mebbe not? ’ave yer thought as mebbe she were ’is own mistress, like?”

“Yes, of course, I have.” A coldness touched her. “You mean that Mercy knew that, perhaps even knew her?”

“In’t wot I wanna think,” he said sadly. “Nor wouldn’t I wanter think as mebbe that’s why she come ’ere ter ’elp—”

“Just to murder Ruth Clark?” Hester refused to believe it. “She was here for days before Ruth was killed. If that’s what she came for, why would she wait?”

“I dunno. Mebbe she wanted ter argue the Clark woman inter leavin’ the family alone?” he suggested, his face pinched with weariness. “But p’r’aps the Clark woman ’ad ideas o’ becomin’ Mrs. Louvain? Or mebbe just o’ bleedin’ ’im o’ money. Miss Mercy could a bin protectin’ ’im.”

“No.” This time she was quite certain. “He doesn’t need anyone to do that. If Ruth Clark was trying to blackmail him, or get money in any way, he’d simply have dumped her in the river himself.”

He looked at her, shaking his head a little. “Someb’dy put a piller over ’er ’ead. D’yer reckon as it were Flo—or Miss Claudine? Miss Claudine got a tongue on ’er as’d slice bacon, but she wouldn’t stoop ’erself to ’it anyb’dy. I seen ’er wi’ Squeaky. She’d fair bust ’er stays, but she wouldn’t ’it ’im. Flo’s a different kettle o’ fish. She’d a throttled ’er if she’d really lost ’er rag, like. But d’yer reckon as she’d a carried it off after, all cool an’ surprised, like? An’ nob’dy’d guessed it were ’er?”

“No . . .”

“Then I reckon yer’ve gotter think as it were Miss Mercy.” His face was marked with weariness and sorrow. “I wish I ’adn’t ’ad ter say that.”

“I was just putting off thinking it,” she admitted. “I sensed emotion between them, but I really didn’t think it was hatred, and I would have sworn that Ruth wasn’t afraid of her. If there’d been that kind of threat between them, if Ruth was blackmailing Clement Louvain, or imagining she would marry him, then surely she’d know Mercy would try to stop it? Wouldn’t she have been afraid?”

He was disconcerted. “ ’Ow daft were she?”

“Not at all. She was quick, well educated; in fact, they seemed to belong to the same social class, except that Ruth was possibly Louvain’s mistress, whereas Mercy is his sister.”

There was a sound at the doorway, and Claudine came in, aware that she was probably interrupting and ignoring the fact. Her eyes were bleak and she held her voice in control with difficulty. “Mrs. Monk, I think Mercy is sinking. Flo is with her, but I thought you’d like to be there yourself if she rallies long enough to know.”

Hester was not ready. Her thoughts were in turmoil and she needed to know the truth, however deeply it hurt, if only to free Flo and Claudine from suspicion. Nor was she ready emotionally. She liked Mercy, liked her patience, her curiosity, the way she was willing to learn skills outside her class or style of life, her generosity of spirit, her ease to praise others, even her occasional flashes of temper. Hester was not prepared to accept her death with so much turbulence of heart, so many painful questions unanswered.

But time would not wait; the hand of plague waited for nothing.

“I’m coming,” she said, glancing once at Sutton. Then she followed Claudine out through the kitchen and up the stairs to Mercy’s room.

Flo was sitting beside the bed, leaning forward a little to hold Mercy’s hand. Mercy lay quite still, her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily and the sweat stood out on her skin.

Flo rose and allowed Hester to take her place, moving silently to the door.

Hester touched Mercy’s head, then wrung out the cloth in the dish of water and placed it on her brow. A few minutes later Mercy opened her eyes. She saw Hester and smiled, just the corner of her lips moving a fraction.

“I’m here,” Hester whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

Mercy seemed to be struggling to say something. Hester wet her lips with the cloth.

“Are there any more?” Mercy breathed, the words barely audible.

“Any more?” Hester did not understand what she meant, but she could see that it was of intense importance to her.

“Any more . . . sick?” Mercy whispered.

“No, no more,” Hester answered.

There were several more minutes of silence. Mercy was blue about the lips and she was obviously in severe pain. The poison that had blackened the buboes under her arms and groin was racking her whole body now. Hester had seen death often enough to know that it would not be long. She would have to get word out to Clement Louvain when it was over and they could communicate with the outside world. She would have to tell him about Ruth Clark as well, whatever the truth of his regard for her had been. Odd, such lovely words: Mercy and Clement. And the sister was Charity—the same meaning again. And Ruth Clark too. The word was usually used in the negative—ruthless—so ruth must be a kind of mercy and forbearance, a gentleness of spirit. Presumably, Clement Louvain would tell Charity. What a lot of grief for one man to bear.

Had he known that Ruth had plague? Was that why he had brought her here instead of having her nursed in his own home? If she had been his mistress, then he could well have it too by now.

Mercy’s eyes were open.

Hester looked at her. “Did you know that Ruth Clark had the plague?”

Mercy blinked. “Ruth?” It was almost as if she did not know who Hester meant.

“Ruth Clark, the first one to die,” Hester reminded her. “She was suffocated. Someone put a pillow over her face and stifled her, but she would have died of plague anyway—almost certainly. Hardly anyone ever recovers.”

“Leaving . . .” Mercy said hoarsely. “Not listen to me. Spread it . . .”

“No, she didn’t,” Hester assured her gently, her eyes brimming with tears. “She never went outside the clinic, except to be buried.” She put her hand on Mercy’s and felt the fingers respond very slightly. “That’s why you killed her, isn’t it?” Her throat was tight and aching. “To stop her from leaving. You knew she had plague, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” It was hardly more than a breath.

“How? Was she your brother’s mistress?”

Mercy made a funny little sound in her throat, a gasping as if she had something caught in it, and it was a couple of seconds before Hester realized it was laughter.

“Wasn’t she?” she asked. “Who was Ruth Clark?”

“Charity . . .” Mercy answered. “My sister. Stanley died at sea, but Charity thought she could escape. I wouldn’t let her . . . not with plague. I . . .” But she had no more strength. Her eyelids fluttered and her breath eased out slowly and did not come again.

Hester reached for her pulse, but she knew it would not be there. She sat motionless, overwhelmed with the reality of the loss. She had not known Mercy long, but they had shared sorrow, pity, and laughter; shared grubby manual duties, fear and hope, and feelings that mattered. Now she knew that Mercy had come here deliberately, knowing what it might cost her, to stop her sister from carrying plague away into the city, the country. She had paid the price to the last drop.

Slowly, Hester moved from the chair and bent to her knees. She had prayed often for the dead—it was a natural thing to do—but before now it had been for the comfort of those remaining. This time it was for Mercy, and it was directed to no listener except that divine power who judges and forgives the souls of men.

“Forgive her,” she said in her mind. “Please—she didn’t know anything better to do—please! Please?”

She did not know how long she knelt, saying the words over and over until she felt the hand on her shoulder and flinched as if she had been struck.

“If she’s gone, Miss ’Ester, we gotter get ’er away from ’ere an’ buried proper.” It was Sutton.

“Yes, I know.” She climbed to her feet. “She has to be buried in a graveyard.” She stated it as a fact. She had already decided to tell no one what Mercy had said. As far as they were concerned Ruth Clark was a prostitute who had died of pneumonia and no more.

“She will, Miss ’Ester.” Sutton bit his lip. “I told the men yesterday. They got a place. But we gotter ’urry. There’s a grave new dug not far from ’ere, mile an’ a ’alf, mebbe. It’s rainin’ like stair rods, which’ll keep folk off the streets. Flo’s bringin’ one o’ them dark blankets an’ we’ll wrap ’er up. But we in’t got time ter grieve . . . I’m sorry.”

Hester felt her eyes hot and stinging with unshed tears, but she obeyed. When Flo came with the blanket she took it from her and insisted on wrapping Mercy in it herself. Then the three of them, Sutton at the feet and the two women at the head, carried Mercy down to the back door. Squeaky, Claudine, and Margaret were waiting, heads bowed, faces pale. No one spoke. Margaret looked at Hester, the question in her eyes.

Hester shook her head. She turned to Sutton. “I’m going with them.” It was a statement.

“Yer can’t do that . . .” he started, then he saw the blind grief in her face. “Yer can’t go out now,” he said gently. “Yer’ve kept in all this time—”

“I won’t go near anyone,” she cut across him. “I’ll walk behind, by myself.”

He shook his head, but it was in defeat rather than denial, and his eyes were swimming in tears.

Flo sniffed fiercely. “Don’ yer forget yer goin’ fer all of us! An’ for all of them as we buried as ’as got no one.”

“Say something for us as well,” Claudine agreed.

Hester nodded. “Of course I will.” And before anyone could say anything more and break what little composure she had left, she opened the door and Sutton helped them carry the body outside into the yard and lay it down. “Look after ’er,” he said to the men when they came for it.

Hester waited until they were almost to the street, then she pulled her shawl over her head and followed over the cobbles in the drenching rain, Sutton’s coat around her shoulders. She waited under the arch of the gate as they passed under the street lamp and across the footpath and placed the body gently into the rat cart. One man picked up the shafts and started to pull, his dog beside him; the other went behind, his dog at his heels.

Hester went after them, about twenty feet behind. They knew she was there, and possibly they walked a little more slowly to allow her to keep up. They moved through the sodden night unspeaking, but every now and then glancing backwards to make sure she was still there.

She thought of the other women who had been buried this way, unmarked and unmourned. Whoever had loved them would never know where they were, nor that at the very least someone had dealt with them in some reverence.

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 wished. She threw her arms around him and hugged him.

He stood frozen for a moment, then responded, gently at first, as if she might break, then strongly with sheer joy.

Claudine came into the room, gasped, then whisked around and took hold of Flo, behind her, and hugged her too, almost bumping into Margaret.

There was a knock on the door and Sutton stepped over and threw it open, blinking in amazement when he saw a smartly dressed man with fair hair and a long, intelligent face, at the moment filled with overwhelming emotion.

“Oliver!” Hester said in disbelief.

Rathbone looked questioningly from one to another of them, then solely at Margaret.

“Come in,” Margaret invited him. “Have breakfast with us. It’s perfectly all right.” Then she smiled hugely as well. “We’ve beaten it!”

He did not hesitate an instant; he strode in and took her in his arms, hugging her just as all the others had, in a bewilderment of happiness.

Finally he turned to Hester. “You haven’t been home for over a week. I’ll take you now.” It was not a question.

She smiled at him, shaking her head. “Thank you, Oliver, but—”

“No,” he cut across her. “Margaret will stay here now; you must go home. Even if you don’t think you deserve it, Monk does.”

“I’ll go home,” she said meekly. “I’ll just go with Sutton, if you don’t mind.”

He hesitated only an instant. “Of course I don’t mind,” he replied. “Mr. Sutton deserves that honor.”

So Hester walked home beside Sutton, pulling the rat cart, smiling all the way. Snoot sat upright in the front, quivering with excitement at all the new sights and smells, and the infinite possibility of ratting ahead of him.

Sutton put down the cart in Fitzroy Street and turned to Hester.

“Thank you,” she said with profound sincerity. “That is far too small a word for what I feel, but I don’t know any large enough.” She offered him her hand.

He took it a little awkwardly. “Yer don’t need ter thank me, Miss ’Ester. We done well together.”

“Yes we did.” She shook his hand, then let it go and turned to walk up to the step. She would have to knock, or look for her key. She had thought Rathbone had said Monk was home, but perhaps she only wanted to believe that. How absurd it would be if he were not!

The door opened, as if Monk had been watching for her. He stood just inside the hall looking thin and ashen-faced, his eyes shining with joy so intense he could not speak.

Rathbone had planned this—she knew it now—but there was no time even to think of him. She walked straight into Monk’s arms and clung to him so fiercely she must have bruised his body. She felt him shudder, holding on to her with such passion he could scarcely breathe, his tears wetting her face.

It was the rat catcher who softly closed the door, leaving them alone.