The Shifting Tide

EIGHT

Squeaky Robinson staggered into the kitchen at Portpool Lane and heaved two baskets of shopping onto the table. His fingers were still bent from the weight of them.

“ ’ave yer got any idea ’ow ’eavy that lot is?” he demanded, looking at Hester indignantly.

“Of course I have,” she replied, barely turning from the stove, where she was straining beef tea. “I usually carry it myself. I just haven’t had time to go out lately. Unpack it, will you? And put everything away.”

“I dunno where it goes!” he protested.

“Then this is an excellent time to learn,” she told him. “Unless you’d rather do something else? Like laundry, or scrubbing the floor? Or we could always do with more water. We seem to be using a great deal at the moment.”

“You’re a terrible ’ard woman!” he grumbled, picking the items out of the baskets one by one.

Claudine Burroughs came in from the laundry, her face pinched with distaste at the smell, her sleeves rolled up above the elbows, and her hands and lower arms red.

“I have none of that stuff-potash,” she said to Hester. “I can’t work without supplies.”

“I got some,” Squeaky said cheerfully. “ ’ere.” He pointed to the bag on the floor. “I’ll take it down fer yer. We’re gonna ’ave ter use a little less o’ all this, least until we get some more money. I dunno where folks’ ’earts is anymore. ’Ard, they are. ’Ard like flint. Come on, missus, I’ll give yer an ’and.”

Claudine looked at him in disbelief. She drew in her breath to rebuff him for his familiarity, but he was impervious to it. He picked up the large bag of potash, lifting it with some effort, although he had carried it all the way from the next street with greater ease. Claudine let out her breath again, and with as big an effort as his, she thanked him and followed him to the laundry.

Flo came in, carrying a full scuttle of coal, a grin on her face.

“Learnin’ ’er ’ow the other ’alf lives, are yer?” she said with relish. “If ol’ Squeaky spoke to ’er in the street she’d ’ave kittens.”

“We need her,” Hester pointed out. “Thank you for getting the coal in. How much have we left?”

“Need more day arter termorrer,” Flo replied. “I know where ter get more cheap. Yer want it?”

“No thank you. I can’t afford to have the police here.”

“I said cheap!” Flo was insulted, not on behalf of her honesty but her intelligence. “I din’t say free!”

“Do what you can,” Hester accepted. “Sorry.”

Flo smiled patiently. “That’s all right. I don’ take no offense. Yer can’t ’elp it.”

Hester finished the beef tea, put more water in the kettle and replaced it on the stove, then with the tea in a large cup she went up the stairs to see how Ruth Clark was this morning. Bessie had been up with her most of the night, but had reported she now seemed no worse than some of the other women with fever and bronchitis.

“If yer ask me,” Bessie said briskly, “ ’alf ’er trouble’s that ’er lover threw ’er out! Took in someone else with a softer tongue, I daresay, an’ ’oo knows wot side ’er bread’s butter’d on. Now she’s got no bread at all, butter’d or not, an’ she’s crosser’n a wet cat. She in’t no sicker’n nob’dy else.”

Hester did not argue, there was no time and no point. At the top of the stairs she met Mercy Louvain with an armful of dirty laundry.

“I’ve left most of it,” the girl said with a smile. “That Agnes is feeling pretty bad, and I changed hers. She’s got a very high fever. I don’t think the poor creature has had a decent meal in weeks, maybe months. I’ll take these to Claudine.” A flash of amusement crossed her face. She said nothing, but Hester knew precisely what was in her mind.

“Perhaps you can give her a little help?” she suggested. “Especially with the mangle.”

“I’m no better at it,” Mercy confessed. “I got my own apron caught up in it yesterday. Tore the strings off and had to stitch them back on again. And that’s something I’m not very good at either. I can paint pretty well, but what use is that?”

“Everything that’s beautiful is of use,” Hester replied. “There are times when it is the only thing that helps.”

Mercy smiled. “But this certainly isn’t one of them. I’ll take these down and help Claudine mangle the last lot. Between the two of us we’ll make a passable job of it. I might even make her laugh, although I doubt it.” She dropped one of the sheets and bent to pick it up again. “Although if she gets herself caught in the mangle again, it might make me laugh! And if Flo’s there, she’ll never stop!” She gave a tiny little giggle, then it died as she heard someone along the passage call out and Hester went to her.

Margaret came in just after midday, bringing with her a bag of potatoes, three loaves of bread, two very large mutton bones, and three pounds, six shillings, and ninepence in money. She was dressed for work, and she looked vigorous and ready to tackle anything, and enormously pleased with herself.

Hester was so relieved she almost laughed just to see her.

“I’ve got jam,” Margaret said conspiratorially. “And I brought a couple of slices of cold mutton for your lunch. Eat it quickly; there isn’t enough to share. It was all I could take without getting Cook into trouble. I made a sandwich for you.” She unwrapped it as she spoke. “When did you last go home? Poor William must think you’ve abandoned him.” She passed the sandwich across. It was sliced a little crookedly, but had been made with plenty of butter, mint jelly, and thick meat. Hester knew Margaret had done it herself.

“Thank you,” she said with profound gratitude, biting into it and feeling the taste fill her.

Margaret made fresh tea and brought it to the table, pouring a cup for each of them. “How is everyone?” she asked.

“Much the same,” Hester replied with her mouth full. “Where did you get the money?”

“A friend of Sir Oliver’s,” Margaret answered. She looked down at her cup. She was annoyed with herself for allowing her feelings to be so clear, and yet she also wanted to share them with Hester. There was a need in her not to be alone in the turmoil, the vulnerability she felt, and the acute anxiety in case Lady Hordern carried out her threat to call on Mrs. Ballinger and repeat the conversation from the soiree. Margaret had actually broached the subject herself, in order to forestall disaster, but she was not at all sure that she had succeeded.

“I think he put a certain amount of pressure on the poor man to contribute,” she said with an uncomfortable memory, raising her eyes to meet Hester’s. “You know, in spite of himself, he’s awfully proud of you and what we do here.” She bit her lip self-consciously, not because she had said Rathbone was proud of Hester, which was true, but because his emotions were caught up with Margaret, and they both knew that. It had been unmistakable since he had been willing to help gain this building because Margaret had asked him.

Tired as she was, Hester found herself smiling. She understood exactly the mixture of modesty, of hope and fear, which made Margaret phrase it as she had. “If he’s prepared to admit it, then he certainly is,” she agreed. “And I’m grateful for anything he is able to coerce out of people. I suppose it’s the time of year, but we have far more women in here with bronchitis and pneumonia than a month or two ago.”

“I’d have pneumonia if I were walking the streets at night,” Margaret said with feeling. “I wish I could persuade people to give regularly, but you should see their faces when they think I’m collecting for missionary work, or something like that, and then the change in them when they know it’s for street women. I’ve been sorely tempted to decorate the truth a little, and just take the money.”

“I think it has something to do with acute discomfort that we allowed the misery to happen in the first place,” Hester replied. “Leprosy isn’t our fault, but tuberculosis or syphilis might be. And there’s the other side of it too. We don’t mind thinking about leprosy, because we don’t believe there’s any chance of our catching it. With the other things we might, in spite of everything we try to do to prevent it.”

“Syphilis?” Margaret questioned.

“Especially that,” Hester answered. “Street women are seen as the ones who pass it on. Husbands use them, wives get the disease.” She looked down. “You can’t blame them for anger-and fear.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Margaret admitted. “No, perhaps I wouldn’t be so willing either, when you think of that. Perhaps my judgment was a little quick.”

Margaret stayed and worked hard all afternoon. She was there to help when an injured woman was brought in, several bones broken in her fingers, but her most serious distress was fever and a hacking cough. She looked worn until her strength and will were exhausted, and when they helped her upstairs and into a bed, she lay silent and white-faced, oblivious of all they could do to help her.

Margaret left shortly after eight in the evening, intending to purchase more of the most important supplies, such as quinine-which was expensive and not easy to find-and such simple things as bandages and good surgical silk and gut.

Hester snatched some sleep for four hours, and woke with a start when it was just after midnight. Claudine Burroughs was standing next to the bed, her long face filled with anxiety and distaste. She looked annoyed.

“What is it?” Hester sat up slowly, struggling to reach full consciousness. Her head ached and her eyes felt hot and gritty. She would have paid almost any price to slide back into sleep again. The room around her wavered. The cold air chilled her skin. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“The new woman who came in,” Claudine said, framing her words carefully, “I think she has a. . a disease of. . a moral nature.” Her nostrils flared as though she could smell its odor in the room.

Hester had a terse answer on her tongue, then she remembered how much she needed Claudine’s help, unskilled as it was. She complained, she disapproved, but through it she kept working, almost as if she found some perverse comfort in it. A thought flickered through Hester’s mind as to what her life at home must be like that she came seeking some kind of happiness or purpose for herself here. But she had no time to pursue it.

“What are her symptoms?” she asked, swinging her feet over onto the floor.

“I don’t know much about such things,” Claudine defended herself. “But she has scars like the pox on her shoulders and arms, and other things I’d prefer not to mention.” She stood very stiffly, balanced as if to retreat. Her face was oddly crumpled. “I think the poor thing is like to die,” she added, a harsh and sudden pity in her voice, and then gone again, as though she was ashamed of it.

For the first time, Hester wondered if Claudine had ever seen death before, and if she was afraid of it. She had not thought to consider that possibility until now. She stood up slowly. She was stiff from lying too heavily asleep in one position.

“I’ll come and see what I can do,” she said in answer to the summons. “There may not be much.”

“I’ll help,” Claudine offered. “You. . you look tired.”

Hester accepted, asking her to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth.

Claudine was right; the woman looked very ill indeed. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her skin was hot and dry and her breathing rattled, her pulse was weak. Now and again she moved her eyes and tried to speak, but no distinguishable words came.

Hester waited with her, leaving Mercy Louvain to tend to Ruth Clark and try to keep her fever down. Claudine came and went, each time more anxious.

“Can’t you do anything for her?” she asked, whispering in deference to the possibility that the sick woman might hear her.

“No. Just be here so she is not alone,” Hester replied. She had a light hold on the woman’s hand, just enough to exert a slight pressure in acknowledgment of her presence.

“So many of them. .” Claudine did not like to say die like this, but it was in her pale face, the tightness of her lips. She smoothed her apron over her stomach, her hands, red-knuckled, were stiff.

“Yes,” Hester said simply. “It’s a hazard of the job, but it’s less certain than starvation.”

“The job!” Claudine all but choked on the word. “You make it sound like a decent labor! Have you any idea what heartache they bring to-” She stopped abruptly.

Hester heard the anguish in the sudden bitten-back words, as if Claudine had already betrayed herself. She turned and looked up at Claudine and saw the shame in her eyes, and fear, as if Hester might already know more than Claudine could bear to have known.

Hester spoke quietly. “The best way I ever found of dealing with it is to stop imagining the details of other people’s lives, particularly the parts that ought to be private, and try to help some of the mess. I’ve made the odd error myself.”

“Well, we’re none of us saints,” Claudine said awkwardly.

Before she could have any further thought the woman on the bed made a dry little sound in her throat and stopped breathing. Hester leaned closer to her and felt for the pulse in her neck. There was nothing. She folded the woman’s hands and stood up slowly.

Claudine was staring at her, her face ashen. “Is she. .”

“Yes.”

“Oh. .” Suddenly, and to her fury, she started to shiver, and the tears welled up in her eyes. She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, and Hester heard her footsteps along the passageway.

Hester tidied the bed a little, then went out and closed the door. She was walking towards Ruth Clark’s room, and from several feet away she heard the voices. They were not loud, but tight and hard with anger. The words were muffled, only one or two distinct. There was something about leaving, and a threat so choked with emotion that the individual words ran into a blur. Only the rage was clear, a pain so intense and so savage that it made the sweat prickle on her skin and her heart pound as if it could reach out and damage her where she stood.

She shrank from intruding. She wanted to pretend she had not heard it at all, that it was some kind of mistake, a momentary nightmare from which she had awoken into reality.

She had not steeled herself to do anything, or even been quite sure what she should do, when the door opened and Mercy came out, carrying a bowl of water and a cloth over her arm. Mercy looked angry and frightened. She stopped abruptly when she saw Hester.

“She thinks she’s better,” she said huskily. “She wants to leave, perhaps tomorrow. She isn’t well enough. . I’m. . I’m trying to convince her.” Her face was pale, her eyes hollow with exhaustion. She looked close to tears.

“I was told she had family coming for her soon,” Hester replied, trying to be comforting. “If they do, then they will look after her. I imagine that’s what she was referring to. Don’t worry about it. She isn’t well enough to leave without someone to care for her, and she must know that.”

“Family?” Mercy said in amazement. “Who?”

“I don’t know.” She was about to add that it was Clement Louvain who had spoken of them, then she changed her mind. Perhaps Mercy had no idea of her brother’s private life, or that of his friend, supposing he existed. “But don’t worry about her,” she said instead. “We can’t keep her here if she wants to leave, but I’ll try to persuade her how foolish it would be.” She looked at Mercy’s drawn face. “She’s a difficult woman. She’s always quarreling with Flo, even accused her of being a thief, and really upset her. Flo’s all kinds of things, and it doesn’t matter. But she’s not a thief and she really cares about that. If someone comes for Ruth, it would be a good thing.”

Mercy stood still. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly.

“Go and have a cup of tea,” Hester said. “And something to eat. When did you last sit down?” She put her hand on Mercy’s arm. “We can’t help everyone; some people just won’t be helped. We have to do what we can, and then go on to think of the next person.”

Mercy moved as if to say something, then the words died on her lips.

“I know it’s difficult. But it’s the only way to survive.”

If Mercy found any comfort in that, it did not reflect in her face. She nodded, but more as a matter of form than agreement, and went on down the stairs.

The rest of the night passed with little incident. Hester managed to get several hours’ sleep. In the morning she sent Squeaky to the undertaker to have him come and remove the body of the dead woman, then set about making breakfast for everyone able to eat.

Claudine looked tired and withdrawn, but she carried out her duties with slightly increased skill. She even took a dish of gruel up to Ruth Clark and helped her to eat most of it.

“I’m bothered whether I know if that woman’s better or not,” she said when she returned to the kitchen with the dish. “One minute I think she is, then she has that fever back and looks like she’ll not make it to nightfall.” She put the uneaten gruel down the drain and the dish in the sink. “I’ll go down the street and fetch water,” she added through pursed lips. “It’s as cold as the grave out there.”

Hester thanked her sincerely and decided to go up and see Ruth herself. She found her propped up very slightly on the pillows, her face flushed, her eyes bright and angry.

“How are you?” Hester asked briskly. “Claudine says you were able to eat a little.”

A slightly sour smile touched Ruth’s lips. “Better to swallow it than choke. She has hands like a horse, your pinched-up Mrs. Burroughs. She despises the rest of your help, but I daresay you can see that.” A curious, knowing look crossed her face. “Even if you haven’t the wit to see why,” she added.

Hester felt a moment’s chill, an acute ugliness in the room, but she refused to entertain it. “I am not concerned why, Miss Clark,” she replied sharply. “Any more than I care why your lover put you out for some friend to bring to a charity clinic to care for you. You are sick and we can help; that is all that concerns me. I am glad you were able to eat a little.”

“Charity clinic!” Ruth said in a choking voice, as if, had she the strength, she would laugh, but there was hatred in her eyes.

Hester looked at her and saw fear also. “We’ll do our best,” she said more gently. “See if you can rest for a while. I’ll come back soon.”

Ruth did not answer her.

The undertaker came and Squeaky saw to the necessary details, including paying him. It was another strain on their dwindling resources which he complained about vociferously.

Just before midday the rat catcher arrived. Hester had completely forgotten she had sent for him, and for a moment she was so startled she did not recognize his outline. He was thin, a little square-shouldered, only an inch or two taller than she. Then he moved into the light and she saw his wry, humorous face, and the small brown-and-white terrier at his feet.

“Mr. Sutton! You gave me a fright. I’d forgotten what day it was. I’m sorry.”

He smiled at her, lopsidedly because his face was pleasantly asymmetrical, one eyebrow higher than the other. “I guess that these rats in’t too bad then, or yer’d be a day ahead o’ yerself, rather than a day be’ind. But yer look fair wore out, an’ that’s the truth.”

“We’ve got a lot of sick people in just now,” she replied. “Time of the year, I suppose.”

“It’s blowin’ fit ter snow out there,” he agreed. “I reckon as it’ll freeze by dark. Even the rats’ll ’ave more sense than ter be out then. Got a lot, ’ave yer?” He glanced around the kitchen, noting the food bins, the clean floor, the pails of water. “Don’t take no bad feelin’ if you ’ave. Rats din’t mind it warm and tidy, no more’n we do. Bit o’ spilled flour or crumbs an’ they’re ’appy.”

“They’re not bad, actually,” she answered. “I just want the few we’ve got discouraged.”

He grinned broadly. “Wot’d yer like me ter do, miss? I can sing to ’em? That’d discourage anyone. Rats a got very good ’earin’. ’Alf an hour o’ me singin’ me ’eart out, an’ they’d be beggin’ fer peace. Like or not, most of ’em’d be in the next street. An’ yer staff wif ’em.”

Hester smiled at him. “If that were sufficient, Mr. Sutton, I could do that myself. My mother always said I could make money singing-they’d pay me to move on.”

“I thought all young ladies could sing.” He looked at her curiously.

“Most of us can,” she answered, taking a loaf of bread out of the bin and picking up the serrated knife. “Of those of us who can’t, some have the sense not to try, some haven’t. I have, so I still need your help with the rats. Would you like some lunch?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice o’ yer,” he accepted the invitation, sitting down at the scrubbed wooden table and motioning the dog to sit also.

She toasted some of the bread, holding it up to the open stove, piece by piece, on the three-pronged fork, then when it was brown, passing it over to him to set in the rack. Then she fetched the butter and cheese, and a fresh pot of tea.

They sat down together in the warm, candlelit kitchen, and for over half an hour no one interrupted them. She liked Sutton. He had a vast string of tales about his adventures, and a dry wit describing people and their reactions to rats. It was the first time she had laughed in several days, and she felt the knots easing out at the sheer relief of thinking about trivial things that had no relation whatsoever to life and death in Portpool Lane.

“I’ll come back this evenin’,” Sutton promised, picking up the last piece of toast and finishing his third cup of tea. “I’ll ’ave traps an’ me dog an’ the lot. We’ll get it tidied up for yer-on the ’ouse, like.”

“On the house?” she questioned.

He looked very slightly self-conscious. “Yeah, why not? Yer in’t got money ter spend. Gimme the odd cup o’ tea when I’m in this part o’ town, an’ it’ll do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sutton,” she accepted. “That is very generous of you.”

“I’m glad yer don’ stand on no pride.” He looked relieved. “Daft, it is, when yer can do some real good. An’ I reckon yer does.” He stood up and straightened his coat. It was actually rather smart. “I’ll see yer about dark. Good day, Miss ’Ester.” He motioned to the dog. “C’mon, Snoot.”

“Good day, Mr. Sutton,” she replied.

She and the others took around bread, gruel, beef tea-whatever they had that their various patients could consume. Mercy had peeled and stewed the apples from Toddy, and that was a very welcome addition.

At three o’clock all seemed quiet. Hester decided to pay another visit to Ruth Clark to try to persuade her to remain in the clinic for at least two days longer and get her strength back. She was far from well yet, and the bitter air outside could give her a relapse that might even be fatal.

She opened the door and went into the room, closing it behind her because she expected an argument and did not wish it to be overheard, especially by Mercy. It might reveal more things about Ruth’s situation and her relationship to Clement Louvain than Mercy would be happy to know, nor did Hester wish any unkind remarks Ruth might make to be overheard.

Ruth was lying down, her head lower on the pillows than Hester would have left her. Someone had no doubt been trying to ease her, and had not known that it was better for those with congestion of the lungs to be raised. She walked over quietly and looked down at the sleeping woman. It was a shame to disturb her; she was resting in profound peace. But she might waken with her lungs choked.

“Ruth,” Hester said quietly.

There was no response. Her breathing was so much impaired that there was no sound to it at all, no laboring.

“Ruth,” she said again, this time putting her hand out to touch her through the bedclothes. “You need to sit up a bit, or you’ll feel worse.”

There was still no response.

Hester felt for the pulse in her neck. There was nothing, and her skin was quite cool. She felt again, pushing harder for the pulse. Ruth had seemed to be recovering; she had certainly been quite well enough to quarrel with Mercy, and with Flo again after that.

But there was definitely no pulse even in the jugular vein, and no breath from her nose or lips when Hester moved the candle closer, then held the back of her polished watch almost touching her. Ruth Clark was dead.

She straightened up and stood still, surprised at how deeply it affected her. It was not that she had liked the woman; Ruth had been graceless, arrogant, and devoid of any sense of gratitude to those who helped her. It was that she had been so intensely alive that one could not forget or ignore her, one could not be unaware of her passions, the sheer force of her existence. Now, without any warning, she had ceased to be.

Why had she died so suddenly, without any warning of deterioration? Was Hester at fault? Had there been something she should have seen, and perhaps treated? If she had liked Ruth more would she have taken better care of her, seen the symptoms instead of the abrasive character?

She looked down at the calm, dead face and wondered what she had been like before she became ill, when she was happy and believed she was loved, or at least wanted. Had she been kinder then, and warm, a gentler woman than she had been at the clinic? How many people could keep the best of themselves if they had been rejected as she had?

She reached forward to fold the hands in some kind of repose. It was a small act of decency, as if someone cared. It was only when she touched the fingers that she felt the torn nails, and she picked up the candle again to look more closely. Then she set it on the table and examined the other hand. Those nails were torn also. They were new tears, because the ragged pieces were still there; the other nails were perfect, those of a woman who cares for her hands.

Unease rippled through her, not quite fear yet. She looked at the face again. There was a slight trickle of blood on her lower lip, only the faintest smear, and a trace of mucus on her nose. With the fever and chest congestion she had had, that was hardly surprising. Could she have choked somehow?

She parted the lips slightly and saw the bitten flesh inside, as if it had been pressed close and hard on her teeth. Now the fear was real. It needed disproving. She seized the pillow and jerked it out from under Ruth’s head. Clean. She turned it over. There on the underside was blood and mucus.

Slowly she forced herself to open the eyelids one at a time and look. The tiny pinpoints of blood were there too, the little hemorrhages that turned her stomach sick with misery and fear. Ruth Clark had been suffocated, the pillow swift and tight over her face, with someone’s weight pressing down on it.

Who? And for heaven’s sake, why? There had been quarrels, but they were trivial, stupid! Why murder?

She backed away slowly and closed the door, leaning against it as if she needed it to hold her up. What should she do? Call the police?

If she did that they would almost certainly suspect Flo because Ruth had accused her of being a thief. But Mercy Louvain had quarreled with Ruth too, and so had Claudine Burroughs. That was no proof of anything except that Ruth was a very difficult and ungrateful woman.

Would they close the clinic? What would happen to the sick women then? It was exactly the sort of thing the authorities would use as an excuse to finish all their work here. But even if somehow she could persuade them not to, who would come here after this? A place where sick, helpless women were murdered in their beds. Word would spread like fire, vicious and frightening, destroying, causing panic.

If only Monk were not busy now with a case he had to solve, he could have come in, so discreetly that no one but Margaret need have known. But Margaret was not here right now. There was no use asking Bessie; she would have no idea what to do, and only be frightened to no purpose.

Hester could not trust Squeaky. He was helpful as long as it suited him, and he had no real alternative. But he might see this as the perfect opportunity to win his brothel back and catch her as neatly as she had caught him. Could he have killed Ruth for that? No-it was absurd. She was losing all sense.

Sutton was coming back. He would understand the problem. He might even have some way to help. First it would be a good thing if she were to find out all she could. There might be something here to tell her who was last in the room. People made beds in different ways, folded sheets or tidied things, even arranged a sick person’s clothes.

And she should prepare Ruth for burial. Should she inform Clement Louvain? Mercy could surely get a message to him. How would Mercy feel? Hester must be careful what she told the other women and how she worded it.

She straightened up and walked back to the bed again. Was there anything at all that observation could tell her? The bedding was rumpled, but then Ruth had done that herself most of the time when she was feverish. It meant nothing. She looked around the floor, and at the way the corners of the sheets were tucked in at the foot. It looked tight, folded left over right. Bessie’s work, probably. She examined everything else she could think of. The cup of water was on a small square of cardboard, the way Claudine left it, so as not to make a ring mark on the wood of the table. Flo would not have thought of that. It all told her nothing.

She should wash the body and prepare it for the undertaker. Perhaps she should tell Clement Louvain? Ruth’s family might wish to bury her, and he would know who they were. She went downstairs and fetched a bowl of water; it did not matter that it was barely warm. Ruth would not mind. It was just a case of cleaning and making her decent, a gesture of humanity.

She did it alone. There was no need to involve anyone else, and she had not yet decided what to say. Carefully she folded back the bedcovers and took off Ruth’s nightgown. It was an awkward job. Perhaps she should have asked someone to help after all. It would not have distressed Bessie; she had washed other dead women with pity and decency, but no fear.

Ruth had had a handsome body, a little shrunken in illness now, but it was easy enough to see how she had been. She was still firm and shapely, except for an odd, dark shadow under her right armpit, a little like a bruise. Funny that she had not complained of an injury. Perhaps it embarrassed her because of where it was.

There was another one, less pronounced, on the other side.

Hester’s heart lurched inside her and the room seemed to waver. She could hardly breathe. With her pulse knocking so loudly she was dizzy, she moved Ruth over a little, and saw what she dreaded with fear so overwhelming it made her almost sick. It was there, another dark swelling-what any medical book would have called a bubo. Ruth Clark had not had pneumonia-she’d had the bubonic plague, the disease that had killed a quarter of the known world in the middle of the fourteenth century and was known as the Black Death.

Hester plunged her hands into the water in the bowl, and then as quickly snatched them out again. Her whole body was shaking. Even her teeth were chattering! She must get control of herself! She had to make decisions, do whatever must be done. There was no one else to take over, no one to tell her what was right.

When had the swellings appeared? Who was the last person to wash her or change her gown? It had always been Mercy. Perhaps Ruth had refused to let her see, or Mercy had not known the swellings for what they were.

And what about all the other women with congestion of the chest? Did they have bronchitis, pneumonia-or were they in the earlier, pneumonic stage of the plague? And if they did not die of that, then would it turn into the true bubonic as well?

She had no answer. She had to assume that it would. So no one must leave! It would spread like fire in tinder. How many people had brought it into the country in 1348? One? A dozen? In weeks it could spread through half of London and into the countryside beyond! With modern travel, trains the length and breadth of the country, it could be in Scotland and Wales the day after.

And Margaret must not come back! Heaven knew she would miss Margaret’s help, her courage, her companionship. But no one must come in-or go out.

How would she stop that? She would have to have help. Lots of it. But who? What if she told the others who were here now, and they panicked and left? She had no power to hold them. What on earth was she to do? Was there even any point in trying to see that no one else became infected?

No. That was absurd. Everyone had already been in the room any number of times. It was hideously possible that they had caught it, and it was too late to help and save anything. At least she would prevent anyone else from seeing Ruth’s buboes and understanding what they meant. That would stop panic. There was one room with a door that locked. She must wrap the body tightly in a sheet and get Bessie to help her carry it there and lock her in.

She covered Ruth’s body again, binding the sheet to leave nothing showing, then went out into the passageway and closed the door. She saw Flo’s back as she was about to go downstairs, and called to her.

“Find Bessie and send her up here, will you? Immediately, please!”

Flo heard the edge in Hester’s voice. “Summink wrong wi’ that miserable cow again?”

“Just do it!” Hester’s tone was high and sharp, but she could not help it. “Now!”

Flo gave a shrug and went off, clearly annoyed at being spoken to that way, but she must have obeyed, because Bessie came within three or four minutes.

“Ruth Clark is dead,” Hester said as soon as Bessie was beside her. “I want you to help me put her body in the end room that has a lock on it, so Mercy and Claudine don’t panic at another death so soon. I. . I don’t want them running off, so say nothing. It matters very much!”

Bessie frowned. “Yer all right, Miss ’Ester? Yer look terrible pale.”

“Yes, thank you. Just help me get Ruth into that room before anyone else knows.”

It was difficult. Ruth was heavy, and still limp. It was all they could do not to let her slip through their hands onto the floor. However, Bessie was strong, and Hester at least had some experience with moving the dead. After nearly fifteen minutes of desperate effort they succeeded, and Bessie promised not to say anything to the others yet. At least for the time being, Hester had a reprieve, and she scrubbed out the room with hot water and vinegar, all the time knowing it was probably useless.

At five o’clock Mercy came to tell her that Sutton was back with his dog and traps.

“Oh-good!” Hester was overwhelmed with relief.

“Are they that bad?” Mercy said with surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any. There was one little creature in the laundry, but I thought it was a mouse.”

“Baby rat,” Hester said quickly, with no idea whether it had been one or not. “Get a nest sometimes. I’ll go and see Sutton now. Thank you.” And she hurried away, leaving Mercy on the landing looking startled.

She found Sutton in the kitchen. Snoot was sitting obediently at his heels, his bright little face full of attention, waiting to begin his job.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Hester said straightaway. “May I show you the laundry, where I think they are?”

He sensed something wrong. His face puckered in concern. “Yer all right, miss? Yer look rotten poorly yerself. Yer comin’ down wi’ summink? ’ere, sit down. I can find the rats meself. It’s me job. Me an’ Snoot ’ere”-he gestured to the little dog-“we ’ave all we need.”

“I. . I know you have.” Hester pushed her hand over her brow. Her head was pounding. “I need to speak to you. I. .” She gulped and swallowed hard, feeling her stomach knot.

Sutton took a step toward her. “Wot’s the matter?” he said gently. “Wot ’appened?”

She felt the tears come to her eyes. She wanted to laugh, and to cry; it was so much worse than anything he was imagining. She wished passionately that she could tell him some quarrel, some domestic tragedy or fear, anything but what was the truth. “Downstairs,” she said. “In the laundry, please?”

“If yer want,” he conceded, puzzled now, and worried. “C’mon, Snoot.”

Hester led the way to the laundry, Sutton and the dog behind her. She asked him to close the door, and he obeyed. She left the one candle burning, and sat down on the single hard-backed chair because she felt her legs weak. Sutton leaned against the wooden tub, his face masklike in the flickering light.

“Yer got me scared for yer,” he said with a frown. “Wot is it? Wot can be that bad, eh?”

Telling him was a relief so intense it was almost as if it were a solution. “One of our patients is dead,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Someone suffocated her.”

His face tightened, but there was no horror in it; in fact, she saw almost an easing of the fear. He had expected something worse. “It ’appens.” He pursed his lips. “Yer wanna tell the rozzers or get rid of it quiet? I think gettin’ rid of it quiet’d be better. It in’t a good thing ter do, but ’avin’ the place buzzin’ wi’ bluebottles’d be worse. I could ’elp yer?”

“She would have died anyway.” She heard her voice wobbling. “You see, that isn’t the real problem. . I mean, someone suffocating her.”

“Gawd! Then wot is? If she were goin’ ter die anyway?” He was confused.

Hester took a deep breath. “I thought she had pneumonia. When I came to wash her and prepare her for the undertaker, I. . I discovered what was really wrong with her.”

He frowned. “Wot could be that bad? So she got syphilis, or summink like that? Jus’ keep quiet about it. Lots o’ folk do, an’ some as yer wouldn’t think. We’re all ’uman.”

“No, I wouldn’t care if it were that.” Suddenly she wondered if she should tell him. What would he do? Would he panic, let everyone know, and run out spreading it everywhere? Would a quarter of England die-again?

He saw the terror in her. “Yer better tell me, Miss ’Ester,” he said, dropping into sudden, gentle familiarity.

She knew of nothing else to do. She could not reach Monk, and certainly not Rathbone. Even Callandra was gone. “Plague,” she whispered.

For a second there was incomprehension in his face, then paralyzing horror. “Jeez! Yer don’t mean. .” He gestured to his chest, just by the armpit.

She nodded. “Buboes. The Black Death. Sutton, what am I going to do?” She closed her eyes, praying please God he would not run away and leave her.

He leaned against the wooden tub, his legs suddenly weak as well. His face had lost all its color except a sickly yellow in the candlelight, and slowly he slid down until he was sitting on the floor.

“Gawd ’elp us!” he breathed out. “Well, fer a start, we in’t tellin’ nobody, nobody at all! Then we in’t lettin’ nobody out o’ ’ere. It spreads like”-he smiled bitterly, his voice catching in his throat-“like the plague!”

The tears ran down her face, and she took several seconds to control them and to stop her breath from coming in gasps and choking her. He was going to help. He had said we, not you. She nodded. “I want to give her a decent burial, but I can’t afford to let anyone see her body. Nothing else causes dark swellings like that. Anyone would know.”

He rubbed the heel of his hand across his cheek. “We gotter stop that at any price at all,” he said hoarsely. “If folks know, there’d be some as’d mob this place, others as’d put a torch ter it, burn yer down, ’ouse an’ everyone in it! It’d be terrible.”

“It would be better than having the plague spread throughout London,” she pointed out.

“Miss ’Ester. .”

“I know! I’ve no intention of being burned alive! But how can we keep everyone here? How do I stop Claudine from going home if she wants to, or Flo from leaving, or anyone who gets better. . if they do?” Her voice was wavering again. “How do I get food in, or water, or coal. . or anything?”

He said nothing for several seconds.

Hester waited. The laundry was strangely silent. It smelled of fat and potash and the steam that filled it during the day. The one candle with its yellow circle of light made the darkness seem endless.

“We gotta make certain no one leaves,” Sutton said finally. “I got friends as’ll ’elp, but it won’t be nice.” He looked at her intently. “We gotta do it fer real, Miss ’Ester. No one gotta leave, no matter wot. In’t no room fer ’sorry’ in this. If yer right, an’ that’s wot she ’ad, then better some dead ’ere fer tryin’ ter leave than ’alf o’ Europe dead ’cos we let ’em.”

“What can we do?” she asked.

“I got friends wi’ dogs, not nice little ratters like Snoot ’ere, but pit bulls as’d tear yer throat out. I’ll ask ’em ter patrol ’round the place, front an’ back. They’ll make sure fer certain as no one leaves. An’ I’ll get fellers as’ll bring food an’ water an’ coal, o’ course. An’ we’ll spread the word as the clinic is full, so yer can’t take nobody else in, no matter wot’s ’appened to ’em.”

“We can’t pay them,” she pointed out. “And we can’t tell them why!”

“They’ll do it ’cos I ask ’em,” he answered. “Yer doin’ enough for folks ’round ’ere. An’ I’ll tell ’em it’s cholera. That’ll do.”

She nodded. “Would. . would we really set the dogs on anyone? I mean. . I don’t think I. .”

“Yer won’t ’ave ter,” he answered her. “I’ll do it.”

“Would you?” she whispered, her throat tight.

“We gotter,” he answered. “One death, quick. In’t that better than lettin’ it get out?”

She tried to say yes, but her mouth was so dry the word was a croak.

There was a sound outside the door and a moment later it opened. Mercy Louvain stood in the entrance, a candlestick in her hand.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said a little awkwardly. “But do you need Claudine to stay tonight?”

Hester glanced at Sutton, then back at Mercy. “Yes,” she said hoarsely. She swallowed. “Sorry, I’m so tired my voice is going. Yes, please. Don’t let her go home.”

“She won’t mind, I don’t think,” Mercy answered. “Are you all right? Do we have a lot of rats?”

“Not bad,” Sutton replied, climbing to his feet. “But we’ll get rid of ’em, don’t worry. I just need ter go an’ get a few more things done, see a couple o’ friends, like, then I’ll be back. Yer jus’ get yerselves a cup o’ tea, or summink. Don’t do nothin’ till I come back.” That was said firmly, like an order.

“No, of course not,” Hester agreed. “We’ll just. . get everybody supper. Thank you.”

Sutton left, and Hester did as she had said she would, measuring out the food carefully; now it was even more precious than before. She was conscious that Claudine and Mercy were both watching her with surprise and a shadow of anxiety. She could not afford to say anything to them. She was deceiving them by silence, but she had no choice. She felt guilty, angry, and above all suffocatingly afraid.

It seemed like hours until Sutton came back. Hester was in the front room. She had given up even pretending that she was not waiting for him. Everyone else had gone to look after the seriously ill, or in Bessie’s case, to take a few hours’ sleep before relieving Claudine in the small hours of the morning.

“I got ’em,” Sutton said simply. “They’re outside, dogs an’ all. I got a sack o’ potatoes an’ some bones. I’ll get cabbages an’ onions an’ the like from Toddy same as usual.”

“Thank you.” Suddenly she realized what her own imprisonment was going to mean. Perhaps she would never leave this place. Worse than anything else at all, she would never see Monk again. There would be no chance for good-byes, or to tell him how he had given passion, laughter, and joy to her life. In his companionship she had become who she was designed to be. All the best in her, the happiest was made real.

“Can you take a letter to my husband. . so he knows why I don’t come home? And why he can’t come here. .”

“I’ll tell ’im,” Sutton answered.

“And you’d better tell Margaret, Miss Ballinger, too. She can’t come back. Anyway, we will need her help raising money even more than before. Make her see that, won’t you!”

He nodded. His face was sad and bleak. “Yer gonna tell ’em ’ere?”

She hesitated.

“Yer gotta,” he said simply. “They can’t leave. If they try, they’ll set the dogs on ’em too. That in’t a death as yer’d wish on anyone.”

“No. . I know.”

“No you don’t, Miss ’Ester, not unless yer seen anyone taken down by dogs.”

“I’ll tell them!” She stood up slowly and walked over to the door as if she were pushing herself against a tide. She reached it and called out into the passage beyond. “Claudine! Mercy! Flo! Someone please waken Bessie as well, and Squeaky. I need you all in here. I’m sorry, but you have to come.”

It was ten minutes before they were all there, Bessie still dazed with sleep. It was Mercy who first realized something terrible had happened. She sat down hard on one of the chairs, her face white. She looked as if she had not eaten or slept properly in days. “What is it?” she said quietly.

There was no point in stretching out the fear which already sat thick and heavy in the room.

“Ruth Clark is dead,” Hester said, looking at the incomprehension in their faces. They saw nothing beyond a small loss in the midst of others. Most of them had not liked her. Hester drew in a shivering breath. “She did not die of pneumonia. She died of plague. . ” She watched their faces. One of them knew that was a lie. Had that person any idea at all of the deeper, infinitely more terrible truth than murder? She saw nothing except the slow struggle to understand, to grasp the enormity and the true horror of it.

“Plague?” Claudine said in bewilderment. “What sort of plague? What do you mean?”

“What the ’ell are you talking about?” Squeaky demanded.

“Bubonic plague,” Hester replied. “In some cases it starts as pneumonic congestion in the chest. Some people recover, not many. Some die with it in that stage. In others it goes on to the bubonic-swellings in the armpits and the groin that go black. We call it the Black Death.”

Flo stood motionless, her mouth open.

Squeaky turned white as a sheet.

Claudine fainted.

Mercy caught her and pushed her head between her knees, holding her until she struggled back to consciousness, gasping and choking.

Bessie sat blinking, her breath rasping in her throat.

“No one can leave, in case we carry it out of here to the rest of London,” Hester went on. “No one at all, at any time or for any reason. Sutton has already arranged for friends of his, with pit bull terriers, to patrol outside. If anyone leaves, they will set the dogs on them. Please believe that they will really do that. Whatever happens, we cannot allow the disease to spread. In the fourteenth century it killed nearly half of Europe-man, woman, and child. It changed the world. Our few lives are nothing; we must stop that from happening again.”

“ ’Ow are we gonna live?” Squeaky asked furiously, as if it were some kind of reason to deny it all.

“Other people will bring us food, water, and coal,” Hester replied. “They will leave them outside, and we will go and fetch them. We will never meet. We have told them it’s cholera, and they must never ever think differently.”

Mercy rubbed her hands up over her face, sweeping her hair back. “If anyone outside gets to know. .”

“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.