A Sudden, Fearful Death

Chapter 12

They stood in Rathbone's office in the early morning sun, Rathbone white-faced, Hester filled with confusion and despair, Monk incredulous with fury.

"Damn it, don't stand there!" Monk exploded. "What are you going to do? He's guilty!"

"I know he's guilty," Rathbone said between his teeth. "But he's also right-there is nothing I can do. The letters are not proof, and anyway, we've already read them into evidence once, we can't go back now and try to tell the court they mean something else. It's only Hester's interpretation. It's the right one-but I can't repeat anything Sir Herbert said to me in confidence-even if I didn't care about being disbarred, which I do! They'd declare a mistrial anyway."

"But there must be something," Hester protested, desperately clenching her fists, her body rigid. "Even the law can't just let that happen."

"If you can think of anything," Rathbone said with a bitter smile, "so help me God, I'll do it. Apart from the monumental injustice of it, I can't think when I have hated a man so much." He closed his eyes, the muscles in his cheeks and jaws tight. "He stood there with that bloody smile on his face-he knows I have to defend him, and he was laughing at me!"

Hester stared at him helplessly.

"I beg your pardon." He apologized automatically for his language. She dismissed it with an impatient gesture. It was totally unimportant.

Monk was lost in concentration, not seeing the room around them but something far in his inner mind.

On the mahogany mantel the clock ticked the seconds by. The sun shone in a bright pool on the polished floor between the window and the edge of the carpet. Beyond in the street someone hailed a cab. There were no clerks or juniors in the office yet.

Monk shifted position.

"What?" Hester and Rathbone demanded in unison.

"Stanhope was performing abortions," Monk said slowly.

"No proof," Rathbone said, dismissing it. "Different nurse each time, and always women too ignorant to know how to do anything but pass him the instruments he pointed at and clean up after him. They would accept that the operation was whatever he told them-removal of a tumor seems most obvious."

"How do you know?"

"Because he told me. He is perfectly open about it, because he knows I can't testify to it!"

"His word," Monk pointed out dryly. "But that isn't the point."

"It is," Rathbone contradicted. "Apart from the fact that we don't know which nurses-and God knows, there are enough ignorant ones in the hospital. They won't testify, and the court wouldn't believe them above Sir Herbert even if they would. Can you imagine one of them, ignorant, frightened, sullen, probably dirty and not necessarily sober." His face twisted with a bitter, furious smile. "I would rip her apart in moments."

He assumed a stance at once graceful and satirical. "Now, Mrs. Moggs-how do you know that this operation was an abortion and not the removal of a tumor, as the eminent surgeon, Sir Herbert Stanhope, has sworn? What did you see-precisely?" He raised his eyebrows. "And what is your medical expertise for saying such a thing? I beg your pardon, where did you say you trained? How long had you been on duty? All night? Doing what? Oh yes-emptying the slop pail, sweeping the floor, stoking the fire. Are these your usual duties, Mrs. Moggs? Yes I see. How many glasses of porter? The difference between a large tumor and a six-week fetus? I don't know. Neither do you? Thank you, Mrs. Moggs-that will be all."

Monk drew in his breath to speak, but Rathbone cut him off.

"And you have absolutely no chance at all of getting the patients to testify. Even if you could find them, which you can't. They would simply support Sir Herbert and say it was a tumor." He shook his head in tightly controlled fury. "Anyway it is all immaterial! We can't call them. And Lovat-Smith doesn't know anything about it! And his case is closed. He can't reopen it at this point without an exceptional reason."

Monk looked bleak.

"I know all that. I wasn't thinking of the women. Of course they won't testify. But how did they know that Sir Herbert would perform abortions?"

"What?"

"How did-" Monk began.

"Yes! Yes I heard you!" Rathbone cut across him again. "Yes, that is certainly an excellent question, but I don't see how the answer could help us, even if we knew it. It is not a thing one advertises. It must be word of mouth in some way." He turned to Hester. "Where does one go if one wishes to obtain an abortion?"

"I don't know," she said indignantly. Then, the moment after, she frowned. "But perhaps we could find out?'

"Don't bother." Rathbone dismissed it with a sharp return of misery. "Even if you found out, with proof, we couldn't call a witness, nor could we tell Lovat-Smith. Our hands are tied."

Monk stood near the window, the clarity of the sunlight only emphasizing the hard lines of his face, the smooth skin over his cheeks, and the power of his nose and mouth.

"Maybe," he conceded. "But it won't stop me looking. He killed her, and I'm going to see that sod hang for it if I can." And without waiting to see what either of them thought, he turned on his heel and went out, leaving the door swinging behind him.

Rathbone looked at Hester standing in the center of the floor.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she said quietly. "But I'm going to do something. What you must do"-she smiled very slightly to soften the arrogance of what she was saying-"is keep the trial going as long as you can."

"How?" His eyebrows shot up. "I've finished!"

"I don't know! Call more character witnesses to say what a fine man he is."

"I don't need them," he protested.

"I know you don't. Call them anyway." She waved a hand wildly. "Do something, anything-just don't let the jury bring in a verdict yet."

"There's no point-"

"Do it!" she exploded, her voice tight with fury and exasperation. "Just don't give up."

He smiled very slightly, merely a touch at the corners of his lips, but there was a shining admiration in his eyes, even if there was no hope at all.

"For a while," he conceded. "But there isn't any point."

Callandra knew how the trial was progressing. She had been there on that last afternoon, and she saw Sir Herbert's face, and the way he stood in the dock, calm-eyed and straight-backed, and she saw that the jurors were quite happy to look at him. There was not one who avoided his glance or whose cheeks colored when he looked toward them. It was plain they believed him not guilty.

So someone else was-someone else had murdered Prudence Barrymore.

Kristian Beck? Because he perfonned abortions and she knew it, and had threatened to tell the authorities?

The thought was so sickening she could no longer keep it at the back of her mind. It poisoned everything. She tossed and turned in bed until long after midnight, then finally sat up hunched over with her hands around her knees, trying to find the courage to force the issue at last. She visualized facing him, telling him what she had seen. Over and over again she worded it and reworded it to find a way that sounded bearable. None did.

She played in her mind all the possible answers he might give. He might simply lie-and she would know it was a he and be heartsick. The hot tears filled her eyes and her throat at the thought of it. Or he might confess it and make some pathetic, self-serving excuse. And that would be almost worse. She thrust that thought away without finishing it.

She was cold; she sat shivering on the bed with the covers tangled uselessly beside her.

Or he might be angry and tell her to mind her own business, order her to get out. It might be a quarrel she could never heal-perhaps never really want to. That would be horrible-but better than either of the other two. It would be violent, ugly, but at least there would be a certain kind of honestly in it.

Or there was a last possibility: that he would give her some explanation of what she had seen which was not abortion at all but some other operation-perhaps trying to save Marianne after a back-street butchery? That would be the best of all and he would have kept it secret for her sake.

But was that really possible? Was she not deluding herself? And if he did tell her such a thing, would she believe it? Or would it simply return her to where she was now- full of doubt and fear, and with the awful suspicion of a crime far worse.

She bent her head to her knees and sat crumpled without knowledge of time.

Gradually she came to an understanding that was inescapable. She must face him and live with whatever followed. There was no other course which was tolerable.

"Come in."

She pushed the door open firmly and entered. She, was shaking, and there was no strength in her limbs, but neither was there indecision, that had been resolved and there was no thought of escape now.

Kristian was sitting at his desk. He rose as soon as he saw her, a smile of pleasure on his face in spite of very obvious tiredness. Was that the sleeplessness of guilt? She swallowed, and her breath caught in her throat, almost choking her.

"Callandra? Are you all right?" He pulled out the other chair for her and held it while she sat down. She had intended to stand, but found herself accepting, perhaps because it put off the moment fractionally.

"No." She launched into the attack without prevarication as he returned to his own seat. "I am extremely worried, and I have decided to consult you about it at last. I cannot evade it any longer."

The blood drained from his face, leaving him ashen. The dark circles around his eyes stood out like bruises. His voice when he spoke was very quiet and the strain was naked in it.

'Tell me."

This was even worse than she had thought. He looked so stricken, like a man facing sentence.

"You look very tired…" she began, then was furious with herself. It was a stupid observation, and pointless.

The sad ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

"Sir Herbert has been absent some time. I am doing what I can to care for his patients, but with them as well as my own it is hard." He shook his head minutely. "But that is unimportant. Tell me what you can of your health. What pain do you have? What signs that disturb you?"

How stupid of her. Of course he was tired-he must be exhausted, trying to do Sir Herbert's job as well as his own.

She had not even thought of that. Neither had any of the other governors, so far as she knew. What a group of incompetents they were! All they had spoken of when they met was the hospital's reputation.

And he had assumed she was ill-naturally. Why else would she consult him with trembling body and husky voice?

"I am not ill," she said, meeting his eyes with apology and pain. "I am troubled by fear and conscience." At last it was said, and it was the truth, no evasions. She loved him. It eased her to admit it in words, without evasion at last She stared at his face with all its intelligence, passion, humor, and sensuality. Whatever he had done, that could not suddenly be torn out. If it came out at all, it would leave a raw wound, like the roots of a giant tree ripping out of the soil, upheaving all the land around it.

"By what?" he asked, staring at her. "Do you know something about Prudence Barrymore's death?"

"I don't think so-I hope not…"

"Then what?"

This was the moment.

"A short while ago," she began, "I accidentally intruded on you while you were performing an operation. You did not see or hear me, and I left without speaking." He was watching her with a small pucker of concern between his brows. "I recognized the patient," she went on. "It was Marianne Gillespie, and I fear that the operation was to abort the child she was carrying." She did not need to go on. She knew from his face, the total lack of surprise or horror in it, that it was true. She tried to numb herself so she would not feel the pain inside. She must distance herself from him, realize that she could not love a man who had done such things, not possibly. This abominable hurt would not last!

"Yes it was," he said, and there was neither guilt nor fear in his eyes. "She was with child as a result of rape by her brother-in-law. She was in the very early stages, less than six weeks." He looked sad and tired, and there was fear of hurt in his face, but not shame. "I have performed abortions on several occasions before," he said quietly, "when I have been consulted early enough, in the first eight or ten weeks, and the child is a result of violence or the woman is very young indeed, sometimes even less than twelve years old"-or if she is in such a state of ill health that to bear the child would, in my judgment, cost her her own life. Not in any other circumstances and not ever for payment." She wanted to interrupt him and say something, but her throat was too tight, her lips stiff. "I am sorry if that is abhorrent to you." A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "Very sorry indeed. You must know how deeply I care for you, although it has never been right that I should tell you, since I am not free to offer you anything honorable-but whatever you feel about it, I have thought long and deeply. I have even prayed." Again the self-mocking humor flashed and disappeared. "And I believe it to be right-acceptable before God. I believe in those cases a woman has the right to choose. I cannot change that, even for you."

Now she was terrified for him. He would be caught, and that would mean professional ruin and imprisonment. She was aching inside with the tension of fear.

"Victoria Stanhope," she said huskily, her heart full of memories of a girl in a pink dress, her face drawn, her eyes full of hope, and then despair. She had to know this one last thing, and then dismiss it forever. "Did you operate on her?"

His face shadowed with grief.

"No. I would have, since the child was the result of both incest and seduction-her brother Arthur, God help him- but she was only four months from term. It was too late. There was nothing I could do. I wish there had been."

Suddenly the whole picture was different. It was not abortion for money but an attempt to help some of the weakest and most desperate people to cope with a situation beyond their bearing. Should he have? Or was it still a sin?

Surely not? Surely it was compassion-and wisdom?

She stared at him, unable to grasp the joy of it, the immeasurable relief that washed over her. Her eyes were prickling with tears and her voice was trapped somewhere in her throat.

"Callandra?" he said gently.

She smiled, a ridiculous, radiant smile, meeting his eyes with such intensity it was like a physical touch.

Very slowly he began to smile too. He reached out his hand across the desktop and took hers. If it occurred to him that she had thought also that he had killed Prudence, he did not say so. Nor did he ask her why she had not told the police. She would have told him it was because she loved him fiercely, unwillingly and painfully, but it was far better for all that such things be unsaid. It was known between them, and understood, with all the other impossibilities which did not need words now.

For several minutes they sat in silence, hands clasped, staring across the desk and smiling.

Rathbone entered court in a white-hot anger. Lovat-Smith sat somberly at his table, knowing he had lost. He looked up at Rathbone without interest, then saw his expression and stiffened. He glanced up at the dock. Sir Herbert was standing with a faint smile on his lips and an air of calm confidence, nothing so vulgar or ill-judged as jubilation, but unmistakable nonetheless.

"Mr. Rathbone?" Judge Hardie looked at him question-ingly. "Are you ready to present your closing argument?"

Rathbone forced his voice to sound as level as he could.

"No, my lord. If it please the court, I have one or two further witnesses I should like to call."

Hardie looked surprised, and Lovat-Smith's eyes widened. There was a faint rustle around the public benches. Several of the jurors frowned.

"If you think it necessary, Mr. Rathbone," Hardie said doubtfully.

"I do, my lord," Rathbone replied. 'To do my client complete justice." As he said it he glanced up at the dock and saw Sir Herbert's smile fade just a fraction and a tiny furrow mark his brows. But it did not last The smile reappeared; he met Rathbone's eyes with confidence and a brilliance which only the two of them knew was contempt.

Lovat-Smith looked curious, shifting his glance from Rathbone to the dock and back again, sitting up a little straighter at his table.

"I would like to call Dr. James Cantrell," Rathbone said clearly.

"Call Dr. James Cantrell," the usher repeated in a loud voice.

After several seconds he duly appeared, young, thin, his chin and throat spotted with blood where he had cut himself shaving in his nervousness. He was a student doctor and his career hung in the balance. He was sworn in and Rathbone began to ask him long, detailed questions about Sir Herbert's immaculate professional behavior.

The jury was bored, Hardie was growing irritated, and Lovat-Smith was quite candidly interested. The smile never faltered on Sir Herbert's face.

Rathbone struggled on, feeling more and more absurd- and hopeless-but he would give Monk all the time he could.

Hester had arranged with another nurse to take care of her duties for a few hours, promising to return the favor in due course at double the hours. She met Monk at his lodgings at six in the morning. Every minute must be made use of. Already the sun was high, and they did not know how long Rathbone could give them.

"Where shall we begin?" she asked. "I have been thinking, and I confess I do not feel nearly as optimistic as I did before."

"I was never optimistic," he said savagely. "I'm just certain I'm not going to let that bastard walk away." He smiled at her bleakly, but there was something in it which was not warmth-he was too angry for that-but even deeper. It was total trust, the certainty that she understood and, without explanation, shared his feeling. "He didn't advertise and he didn't tout for business. Somewhere there is a man or woman who did that for him. He will not have accepted women without money, so that means society-old or new-"

"Probably old," she interrupted wryly. "Trade, which is new society, comes from the genteel upper working classes with social ambitions-like Runcorn. Their morals are usually very strict. It's the older money, which is sure of itself, which flouts convention and is more likely to need abortions-or to feel unable to cope with above a certain number of children."

"Poor women are even less able to manage," Monk said with a frown.

"Of course," she agreed. "But can you see them affording Sir Herbert's prices? They'll go to the women in the back streets, or try to do it themselves."

A look of irritation crossed his face-at his own stupidity, not hers. He stood by the mantel shelf, his foot on the fender.

"So how would a society lady find herself an abortionist?" he demanded.

"Word of mouth, I suppose," she said thoughtfully. "But who would she dare ask?"

He remained silent, watching her and waiting.

She continued, thinking aloud. "Someone her husband would not know-or her father, if she is unmarried-or possibly her mother also. Where does she go alone without causing comment?" She sat down in the high chair and rested her chin on her hands. "Her dressmaker-her milliner," she answered herself. "She might trust a friend, but unlikely. It is the sort of thing you don't want your friends to know-it is their opinion you are guarding against"

"Then those are the people we must try," he said swiftly. "But what can I do? I'm not standing here waiting for you!"

"You are trying the milliners and dressmakers," she replied with decision, rising to her feet. "I am going to try the hospital. Someone there must know. He was assisted, even if it was by a different nurse each time. If I read Prudence's letters again for dates and names"-she straightened her skirts-"I may be able to trace it back to particular people. She left initials. One of them may be prepared to testify as to the middle man… or woman."

"You can't do that-it's too dangerous," he said instantly. "Besides, they won't tell you anything."

She looked at him with disgust. "I'm not going to ask them outright, for Heaven's sake. And we haven't got time to be squeamish. Oliver will be able to protract the trial not more than another day or two at the very best."

Protests rose to his lips and died unspoken.

"What time do milliners open?" he asked. "And what in God's name am I going to go into a milliner's for?"

"Hats," she said bluntly, clasping her reticule, ready to leave.

He glared at her.

"For your sister, your mother, your aunt Anybody you like."

"And what am I going to do with two dozen women's hats? And if you give me an impertinent answer…"

"You don't have to buy any! Just say you will consider it and then…" She stopped.

"Ask if they can guide me to a good abortionist," he finished.

She raised her chin sharply.

"Something like that."

He gave her a filthy look, then opened the door for her to leave. It was now quarter to seven. On the step she turned to meet his eyes in a long, steady gaze, then smiled a little, just turning up the corners of her mouth. It was a gesture of courage rather than humor or hope.

He watched her leave without the sense of despair he ought to have felt, considering how totally absurd their venture was.

His first attempt was ghastly. The establishment opened for business at ten o'clock, although the flowermakers, stitchers, ribboners, and pressers had been there since seven. A middle-aged woman with a hard, watchful face welcomed him in and inquired if she might be of service.

He asked to see a hat suitable for his sister, avoiding looking at the displays of any manner of hats in straw, felt, linen, feather, flowers, ribbons, and lace stacked in several corners of the room and along shelves to the sides.

With a supercilious air she asked him to describe his sister and the type of occasion for which the hat was required.

He made an attempt to tell her of Beth's features and general aspect.

"Her coloring, sir," she said with ill-concealed weariness. "Is she dark like yourself, or fair? Does she have large eyes? Is she tall or small?"

He seized on something definite, cursing Hester for having sent him on this idiot's venture.

"Light brown hair, large blue eyes," he replied hastily. "About your height."

"And the occasion, sir?"

"Church."

"I see. Would that be a London church, sir, or somewhere in the country?"

"Country." Did his Northumbrian heritage show so transparently? Even after his years of careful diction to eradicate it? Why had he not said London: it would have been so much easier, and it did not matter. He was not going to buy a hat anyway.

"I see. Perhaps you would care to look at a few of these?" She led him to several very plain shapes in straw and fabric. "We can, of course trim them as you please," she added, seeing the look on his face.

The color rose up his cheeks. He felt like a complete fool. Again he cursed Hester. Nothing except his rage against Sir Herbert would have kept him here. "What about something in blue?"

"If you like," she said with disapproval. "Rather obvious, don't you think? What about green and white?" She picked up a bunch of artificial daisies and held them against a pale green straw bonnet with a green ribbon, and suddenly the effect was so fresh and dainty it took him back with a jolt of memory to childhood days in the summer fields with Beth as a little girl.

"That's lovely," he said involuntarily.

"I'll have it delivered," she said immediately. "It will be ready by tomorrow evening. Miss Liversedge will see to the details. You may settle the account with her."

And five minutes later Monk found himself in the street, having purchased a bonnet for Beth and wondering how on earth he would post it to Northumberland for her. He swore profoundly. The bonnet would have suited Hester, but he certainly was not going to give it to her-of all people.

The next shop was less expensive, busier, and his by now blazing temper saw him through the difficulty of actually expressing approval of any particular bonnet.

He could not waste all day looking at hats. He must broach the subject of his call, however difficult.

"Actually the lady in question is with child," he said abruptly.

"So she will shortly be remaining at home for some time," the assistant observed, thinking of the practicalities. 'The hat will be worn only for a few months, or even weeks?"

He pulled a face.

"Unless she is able to…" He stopped, shrugged slightly.

The woman was most perceptive. "She already has a large family?" she suggested.

"Indeed."

"Unfortunate. I assume, sir, that she is not-happy-with the event?"

"Not happy at all," he agreed. "In fact, it may well jeopardize her health. There is a limit…" He looked away and spoke very quietly. "I believe if she knew how to-take steps…"

"Could she afford… assistance?" the woman inquired, also very quietly.

He turned to face her. "Oh yes… if it were anything within reason."

The woman disappeared and returned several moments later with a piece of paper folded over to conceal the writing on it.

"Give her this," she offered.

"Thank you. I will." He hesitated.

She smiled. "Have her tell them who gave you the address. That will be sufficient."

"I see. Thank you."

Before he went to the address she had given him, which was in one of the back streets off the WMtechapel Road, he walked some distance in that general direction, thinking long and carefully about the story he would present. It crossed his mind with some humor that he should take Hester and say that she was the lady in need of help. But dearly as he would have liked to do that-the poetic justice of it would have been sweet-she was too importantly occupied as she was at the hospital.

He could no longer pretend to be going for a sister. The abortionist would expect the woman herself; it was not something which could be done at one removed. The only case where she might accept a man making the inquiries would be if the woman were too young to come in person until the last moment-or too important to risk being seen unnecessarily. Yes-that was an excellent idea! He would say he was inquiring for a lady-someone who would not commit herself until she knew it was safe.

He hailed a cab, gave the driver directions to the White-chapel Road, and sat back, rehearsing what he would say.

It was a long journey. The horse was tired and the cabby sullen. They seemed to stop every few yards and the air was loud with the shouts of other frustrated drivers. Peddlers and costers called their wares, the driver of a dray misjudged a corner and knocked over a stall, and (here was a brief and vicious fight, ending with bloody noses and a lot of blasphemous language. A drunken coachman ran straight over a junction at something close to a gallop, and several other horses either shied or bolted. Monk's own hansom had gone a full block before the driver managed to bring it under control again.

Monk alighted onto the Whitechapel Road, paid the driver, who by now was in an unspeakable temper, then began walking toward the address he had been given at the milliner's shop.

At first he thought he had made a mistake. It was a butcher's. There were pies and strings of sausages in the window. If he were right, someone had a macabre sense of humor-or none at all.

Three thin children in dirty clothes stood on the pavement watching him. They were all white-faced. One, about ten or eleven years old, had broken front teeth. A dog with mange in its fur crept around the corner and went in the doorway.

After a moment's hesitation Monk went in after it.

Inside was hot and dim, little light getting through the grimy windows-the smoke of countless factory chimneys and domestic fires had grayed them over the months, and the summer thunderstorms had done nothing to help. The air was heavy and smelled stale and rancid. A large fly buzzed lazily and settled on the counter. The young woman apparently awaiting customers picked up an old newspaper and slammed it down, killing the fly instantly.

"Gotcher!" she said with satisfaction. "What can I do for yer?" she asked Monk cheerfully. "We got fresh mutton, rabbit pie, pigs' trotters, calves'-foot jellies, brawn, best in the East End, and tripes, sheeps' brains, pigs' liver, and sausages o' course! What yer want then?"

"Sausages look good," he lied. "But what I really want is to see Mrs. Anderson. Is this the right address?"

"That depends," she said guardedly. "There are lots of Mrs. Andersons. What did yer want 'er for?"

"She was recommended to me by a lady who sells hats…"

"Was she now." She looked him up and down. "I can't think what for."

"For a lady of my acquaintance who would rather not be seen in this neighborhood until it is absolutely necessary."

"So she sent you, did she?" She smiled with a mixture of satisfaction, amusement, and contempt. "Well, maybe Mrs. Anderson'll see you an' maybe not. I'll ask 'er." And she turned and walked slowly toward the back of the room and through a paint-peeled door.

Monk waited. Another fly came in and buzzed lazily around, settling on the blood-spotted counter.

The woman came back and wordlessly held the door open. Monk accepted the invitation and went through. The room beyond was a large kitchen opening onto a yard with coal scuttles, bins overflowing with rubbish, several broken boxes, and a cracked sink full of rainwater. A tomcat slunk across the yard, his body low like a leopard's, a dead rat in his mouth.

Inside the kitchen was chaotic. Bloodstained linen filled one of the two stone sinks by the wall to the right, and the thick, warm smell of blood hung in the air. To the left was a wooden dresser with plates, bowls, knives, scissors, and skewers heaped haphazardly on it. Several bottles of gin lay around, some open, some still sealed.

In the center of the room was a wooden table, dark with repeated soaking of blood. Dried blood made black lines in the cracks and there were splashes of it on the floor. A girl with an ashen face sat in a rocking chair, hugging herself and weeping.

Two dogs lay by the dead ashes of the fire. One scratched itself, grunting with each movement of its leg.

Mrs. Anderson was a large woman with sleeves rolled up to show immense forearms. Her fingernails were chipped and dark with immovable dirt.

" 'Allo," she said cheerfully, pushing her fair gold hair out of her eyes. She cannot have been more than thirty-five at the most. "Need a spot of 'elp do yer, dearie? Well there ain't nothin' I can do for yer, now is there? She'll 'ave to come in 'ere 'erself, sooner or later. 'Ow far gorn is she?"

Monk felt a wave of anger so violent it actually nauseated him. He was forced to breathe deeply for several seconds to regain his composure. With a flood of memory so vivid the sounds and smells returned to him, the thick sweetness of blood, the sounds of a girl whimpering in pain and terror, rats' feet scuttering across a stained floor. He had been in back-street abortionists like this before, God knew how many times, or whether in connection with some woman bled to death, poisoned by septicemia, or simply the knowledge of the crime and the extortionate money.

And yet he also knew of the white-faced women, exhausted by bearing child after child, unable to feed them, selling them as babies for a few shillings to pay for food for the rest.

He wanted to smash something, hurl it to pieces and hear the splintering and cracking as it shattered, but after the instant satisfaction everything else would be the same. If he could weep perhaps he could ease the weight which was choking inside him.

"Well?" the woman said wearily. "Are yer gonna tell me or not? I can't do nothing for 'er if yer just stand there like an idiot! 'Ow far gorn is she? Or doncher know?"

"Four months," Monk blurted.

The woman shook her head. "Left it a bit, ain't yer? Still… I spec' I can do summink. Gets dangerous, but I s'pose 'avin it'd be worse."

The girl in the chair whimpered softly, bright blood seeping into the blanket around her and dripping through its thin folds onto the floor. Monk pulled his wits together. He was here for a purpose. Indulgence in his own emotions would solve nothing and not help convict Herbert Stanhope.

"Here?" he asked, although he knew the answer.

"No-out in the street," she said sarcastically. "Of course 'ere, yer fool! Where d'yer think? I don't go to people's houses. Tf yer want summink fancy yer'll 'ave to see if yer can bribe some surgeon-although I dunno where yer'll find one. It's an 'anging crime, or it used ter be. Now it's just jail-and ruin."

"You don't seem worried," he retorted.

"I'm safe enough," she said with dry humor. "Them as comes ter me is desperate, or they wouldn't be 'ere. And I don't charge too much. The fact they're 'ere makes 'em as guilty as me. Anyway, it's a public service as I give-'oo 'round here is gonna turn me in?" She gestured to indicate the whole street and its environs. "Even the rozzers don't bother me if I keep discreet, like. An' I do. So you mind 'ow yer go. I wouldn't wancher ter 'ave an accident…" Her face was still smiling, but her eyes were hard, and the threat was unmistakable.

"How do I find one of these surgeons that do abortions?" he asked, watching her intently. "The lady I'm asking for can afford to pay."

"Not sure as I'd tell yer if I knew-which I don't. Ladies as can pay that sort 'ave their own ways o' findin' 'em."

"I see." He believed her. He had no reason except instinct, but for once, even with thought, he had confidence in his own judgment. This sickening rage was familiar, and the helplessness. He could see in his mind confused and bitter widowers, frightened at being faced suddenly with looking after a dozen children by themselves, not knowing, not understanding what had happened or why. Their wives had faced the growing burden of incessant childbeanng without speaking of it. They had gone to the abortionist secretly and alone. They had bled to death without even sharing the reason; it was private, shameful, women's business. The husband had never stretched his imagination beyond his own physical pleasures. Children were a natural thing- and what women were made for. Now he was bereaved, frightened, angry, and totally bemused.

And Monk could see just as clearly young girls, not yet sixteen, ashen-faced, sick with fear of the abortionist and her instruments, her gin bottle, and the shame of it, just like the girl in the chair now; and yet knowing even this was still better than the ruin of becoming a fallen woman. And what waited for a bastard child of a destitute mother? Death was better-death before birth, in some filthy back kitchen with a woman who smiled at you, was gentle according to her abilities, took all the money you could scrape together, and kept her mouth shut He wished so fiercely it hurt him that he could do something for this child here now, weeping quietly and bleeding. But what was there?

"I'll try to find a surgeon," Monk said with ironic honesty.

"Please yerself," the woman answered, apparently without rancor. "But yer lady friend won't thank yer if yer spread it all over the city among 'er fine friends. Keepin' it quiet is wot it's all for, in'it?"

"I'll be discreet," Monk answered, suddenly longing to be outside this place. It seemed to him as if the very walls were as soaked with pain as the linens and the table were with blood. Even the Whitechapel Road with its grime and poverty would be better than this. It choked him and felt thick in his nostrils and he could taste it at the back of his throat. "Thank you." It was a ridiculous thing to say to her; it was merely a way of closing the encounter. He turned on his heel and flung the door open, strode through the butcher's shop and outside into the street, taking in long gasps of air. Leaden with the smells of smoke and drains as it was, it was still infinitely better than that abominable kitchen.

He would go on looking, but first he must get out of Whitechapel altogether. There was no point in looking to" the back-street abortionists, thank God. Stanhope would never have trusted his business to them: they would betray him as quickly as thought-he took some of their best paying customers. He would be a fool to lay his Me in their hands. The opportunities to blackmail for half his profit were too rich to pass up-half or more! He would have to look higher in society, if he could think of a way.

There was no time for subtlety. Maybe there was only a day, two at the most.

Callandra! She might know something, and there was no better person to ask. It would mean telling her that Sir Herbert was guilty, and how they knew, but there was no time or opportunity to ask Rathbone's permission. He had told Monk because Monk was his employee in this case, and bound by the same rules of confidentiality. Callandra was not. But that was a nicety Monk did not give a damn about. Sir Herbert could complain from the gallows steps!

It was late when Monk delivered his news, after six in the evening.

Callandra was horrified when the full impact struck her of what he had said. He had left with what little advice she could give, his face pale and set in an expression which frightened her. Now she was alone in her comfortable room lit by the fading sun, with a dark weight of knowledge. A week ago it would have made her heart sing, simply with the sheer certainty that Kristian was not guilty of Prudence's death. Now all she could think of was that Sir Herbert would almost certainly walk free-and more oppressive yet, of the pain that hung over Lady Stanhope, a new grief which she must face. Whether she would ever know that Sir Herbert was guilty of murder, Callandra could only guess, probably not. But she must be told that her eldest son had been the father of Victoria's aborted child. The act of incest was not often a sole event. Her other daughters stood in danger of the same crippling trag-edy.

There was no way to ease the telling, nothing Callandra could think of or imagine which would make it bearable. And there was no point in sitting here in her soft chair amid the bowls of flowers and the books and cushions, the cats asleep in the sun and the dog looking at her hopefully with one eye, in case she should decide to walk.

She rose and went to the hall, calling for the butler and the footman. She would take the carriage to Lady Stanhope's house now. It was an uncivil time for calling, and it was unlikely Lady Stanhope was receiving visitors in the circumstances anyway, but she was prepared to force the issue if that was necessary. She was wearing a very simple afternoon dress, fashionable two years ago, and it did not occur to her to change.

She rode in the carriage deep in thought, and was startled to be told she had arrived. She instructed the coachman to wait, alighted without assistance, and went straight to the front door. It was handsome, discreet, speaking of a great deal of money. She noted it absently, aware with bitterness that Sir Herbert would keep all this, probably even with his reputation little damaged. It gave her no satisfaction that his personal life would be scarred forever. All her thoughts were filled with the pain she was about to inflict upon his wife.

She rang the bell, and it was answered by a footman. Perhaps in these anguished times the women were being kept in the rear of the house. It might be deemed better for a man to deal with the curious and tasteless who might call.

"Yes ma'am?" he said guardedly.

"Lady Callandra Daviot," Callandra said briskly, passing him her card. "I have a matter of extreme urgency to discuss with Lady Stanhope, and I regret it cannot, wait until a more fortunate time. Will you inform her that I am here." It was an order, not a question.

"Certainly ma'am," he replied stiffly, taking the card without reading it. "But Lady Stanhope is not receiving at present."

'This is not a social call," Callandra replied. "It is a matter of medical emergency."

"Is-is Sir Herbert ill?" The man's face paled.

"Not so far as I am aware."

He hesitated, in spite of experience, uncertain what best to do. Then he met her eyes; something in him recognized power and authority and a strength of will which would not be overridden or gainsaid.

"Yes, ma'am. If you would be good enough to wait in the morning room." He opened the door wider to allow her in, and then showed her to a very formal room, at present devoid of flowers and bleak in its sense of being unused. It was like a house in mourning.

Philomena Stanhope came after only a few moments, looking pinched and anxious. She regarded Callandra without apparent recognition. Society had never meant anything to her, and the hospital was only a place where her husband worked. Callandra was touched by pity for the ruinous disillusion she was about to inflict on her. Her comfortable family and home were about to be ripped apart.

"Lady Callandra?" Philomena said questioningly. "My footman says you have some news for me."

"I am afraid I have. I profoundly regret it, but further tragedy may occur if I do not."

Philomena remained standing, her face even paler.

"What is it?" She was so shaken already that the rules of etiquette were totally ignored. This was in a way worse than death. Death was expected, and there were procedures to follow; whatever the grief, one knew what to do. And death visited all households; there was no shame or peculiarity about it. "What has happened?"

"It is not a simple thing to tell," Callandra replied. "I should prefer to do so seated." She was about to add that it would be easier, but the words were absurd. Nothing could make this easier.

Philomena remained where she was. "Please tell me what has happened, Lady Callandra."

"Nothing new has happened. It is simply knowledge of old sins and sadness which must be known in order to prevent them happening again."

'To whom?"

Callandra took a breath. This was every bit as painful as she had foreseen-perhaps even worse.

'To your children, Lady Stanhope."

"My children?" There was no real alarm in her, only disbelief. "What have my children to do with this-this ordeal? And what can you possibly know about it?"

"I am one of the governors of the Royal Free Hospital," Callandra replied, sitting down, whether Philomena chose to or not "Your daughter Victoria consulted a surgeon there some time ago, when she first knew she was with child."

Philomena was very pale, but she kept her composure and she did not sit down.

"Indeed? I did not know that, but it does not seem to me to be of importance now. Unless-unless you are saying that it was he who marred her?"

"No-it was not." Thank God she could say that. "Her pregnancy was too far advanced. He refused to operate."

"Then I cannot see how raising the matter now can serve any purpose whatsoever, except to open old wounds."

"Lady Stanhope…" Callandra hated this. She could feel her stomach clenching so hard her whole body hurt. "Lady Stanhope-do you know who was the father of Victoria's child?"

Philomena's voice was strangled. "That is hardly your concern, Lady Callandra."

"You do know!"

"I do not. Nothing I could say would persuade her to tell me. The very fact that I pressed her seemed to drive her to such terror and despair I feared she would take her own life if I continued."

"Please sit down."

Philomena obeyed, not because Callandra asked her but because her legs threatened to give way if she did not. She stared at Callandra as at a snake about to strike.

"She did tell the surgeon," Callandra went on, hearing her own voice in the still room with its dead atmosphere and loathing it. "Because it was one of the circumstances in which he might have considered the operation, had he been consulted sooner."

"I don't understand-Victoria was in excellent health- then…"

"But the child was a result of incest. The father was her brother Arthur."

Philomena tried to speak. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She was so pale Callandra was afraid she was going to faint, even sitting as she was.

"I wish I could have spared you," she said quietly. "But you have other daughters. For their sakes I had to inform you. I wish it were not so."

Still Philomena seemed paralyzed.

Callandra leaned forward and took one of her hands. It was cold to the touch, and stiff. Then she rose and pulled flie bell sharply and stood facing the door.

As soon as a maid appeared she sent her for brandy and then a hot, sweet tisane.

The maid hesitated.

"Don't stand there, girl," Callandra said sharply. 'Tell the butler to bring the brandy and then fetch the tisane. Hurry yourself!"

"Arthur," Philomena said suddenly in a harsh voice thick with anguish. "Dear God! If only I'd known! If she'd told me!" Slowly she bent forward, her body shuddering with terrible dry sobs and long cries, straining for breath.

Callandra did not even look to see if the maid had gone or not. She knelt and put her arms around the agonized woman and held her close while she shook with a storm of weeping.

The butler brought the brandy, stood helpless and anguished with uncertainty and embarrassment, then put the tray down and left.

Eventually Philomena's strength was spent and she clung to Callandra in motionless exhaustion.

Gently Callandra eased her back into the chair and fetched the brandy, holding it to her lips.

Philomena sipped it, choked, then drank the rest.

"You don't understand," she said at last, her eyes red-rimmed, her face smeared with the signs of weeping. "I could have saved her. I knew where to find a woman who could have got her a proper abortion, a woman who knows where to find a real surgeon who would do it-for sufficient money. If she had felt she could trust me, I would have taken her to that man in time. When she got there herself-it was too late."

"You-" Callandra could hardly believe it. "You knew how to find such a woman?"

Philomena misunderstood her emotion. She colored deeply. "I-I have seven children. I…"

Callandra grasped her hand and held it. "I understand," she said immediately.

"I didn't go." Philomena's eyes opened wide. "She would not refer me. She-she herself-gave me…" She faltered to a stop, unable to say the words.

"But she knew how to find him?" Callandra pressed, the irony bitter inside her.

"Yes." Philomena sobbed again. "God forgive me-I could have helped Victoria. Why didn't she trust me? Why? I loved her so much! I didn't condemn her-what did I fail to do that she…" Again the tears filled her eyes and she looked at Callandra desperately, as if she could find some answer that somehow, anyhow, would take away the appalling pain that overwhelmed her.

Callandra said the only thing that came into her mind.

"Perhaps she was ashamed because it was Arthur. And you don't know what he said to her. She may have felt she must defend him from anyone's knowing, even you-or perhaps you most of all because of the distress it would cause you. One thing I am sure of! she would not wish you to bear the burden of guilt for it now. Has she ever reproached you?"

"No."

"Then be assured she does not hold you responsible."

Philomena's face filled with self-disgust "Whether she does or not, I am to blame. I am her mother. I should have prevented it in the first place-and when it did happen, I should have helped her."

"Who would you have gone to?" She made it sound casual, almost unimportant, but her breath rasped in her throat as she waited for the answer.

"Berenice Ross Gilbert," Philomena replied. "She knows how to obtain safe abortions. She knows of a surgeon who will do it."

"Berenice Ross Gilbert. I see." Callandra tried to hide her amazement and almost succeeded; there was only a lift at the end of her words, a half squeak.

"It makes no difference now," Philomena said immediately. "It is all done. Victoria is ruined-far worse than if she had had the child!"

"Perhaps." Callandra could not deny it. "You must send Arthur away to university, or military college, or anything to keep him from the house. Your other daughters must be protected. And you had better make sure none of them is- well, if they are, I will find you a surgeon who will perform the operation without charge, and immediately."

Philomena stared at her. There was nothing else to say. She was numb, wretched, weak with pain and bewilderment.

There was a knock on the door and it opened a crack. The maid put her head around, eyes wide and filled with alarm.

"Bring in the tisane," Callandra ordered. "Put it down mere and then leave Lady Stanhope for a while. There are to be no callers admitted."

"Yes ma'am. No ma'am." She obeyed and withdrew.

Callandra remained with Philomena Stanhope for a further half hour, until she was sure she was capable of retaining her composure and beginning to face the dreadful task ahead of her, then she excused herself and left, going outside into the warm dusk to where her carriage still awaited her. She gave me coachman instructions to take her to Fitzroy Street, and Monk's lodgings.

Hester began immediately upon the same task of finding the link between Sir Herbert and his patients that Monk had done. For her it was far easier. She could deduce from Prudence's notes which nurses had assisted him, and even though the notes went back to shortly after Prudence's arrival at the hospital, most of the nurses were still here and not difficult to encounter.

She met one rolling bandages, a second sweeping the floor, a third preparing poultices. The fourth she found carrying two heavy pails of slops.

"Let me help you," she offered uncharacteristically.

"Why?" the woman said with suspicion. It was not a job people took up voluntarily.

"Because I'd rather carry one for you than have to mop up behind you if you spill it," Hester said with something less than the truth. The task would not have been hers.

The woman was not going to argue herself out of help with a distasteful job. She passed over the heavier of the two pails immediately.

By now Hester had worked out a plan of action. It was not likely to make her popular, and would almost certainly make working in the Royal Free Hospital impossible once the nurses spoke to each other and realized what she was doing, but she would worry about that after Sir Herbert was convicted. For now her anger overrode all such practical considerations.

"Do you think he did it?" she said casually.

"What?"

"Do you think he did it?" she repeated, walking side by side down the corridor with the pails.

" 'Oo did wot?" the woman said irritably. "Are you talking about the treasurer groping after Mary Higgins again? 'Oo knows? And 'oo cares? She asked for it anyway- stupid cow!"

"Actually I meant Sir Herbert," Hester explained. "Do you think he killed Barrymore? The papers say the trial will end soon, then I suppose he'll be back here. I wonder if he'll have changed?"

"Not 'im. Snooty sod. It'll still be 'Fetch this'-'Gimme that'-'Stand 'ere'-'Stand there'-'Empty this'-'Roll up the bandages and pass me the knife.' "

"You worked with him, didn't you?"

"Me? Gori I just empty slops and sweep floors!" she said with disgust.

"Yes, you did! You assisted him with an operation! I heard you did it very well! July last year-woman with a tumor in her stomach."

"Oh… yeah! An' in October-but never again after that. Not good enough-me!" She hawked and spat viciously.

"So who is good enough, then?" Hester said, investing her voice with a suitable contempt. "Doesn't sound like anything very special to me."

"Dora Parsons," the woman replied grudgingly. "Used 'er 'alf the time, 'e did. An' yer right-it weren't nothin' special. Just 'anding 'im knives an' towels an' such. Any fool could've done it. Dunno why 'e picked Dora special. She didn't know nothin'. No better than I am!"

"And no prettier either," Hester said with a smile.

The woman stared at her, then suddenly burst into a loud, cackling laugh.

"Yer a caution, you are! Never know what yer'll say next! Don't you never say that to ol' Cod Face, or she'll 'ave yer up before Lady Almighty for immorality. Although God knows if 'e fancied Dora Parsons 'e'd not be safe wi' the pigs." And she laughed even louder and longer, till the tears ran down her roughened cheeks. Hester emptied the pail and left her still chuckling to herself.

Dora Parsons. That was what Hester had wanted, although she wished it had been anyone else. So Sir Herbert had still lied to Rathbone-he had used one nurse more than the others. Why? And why Dora? For more complicated operations, or ones performed later in the pregnancy, when it was more likely the nurse would know what the operation was? More important patients-perhaps ladies of good family, or maybe women who were terrified for their reputations? It looked as if he trusted Dora-and that raised more questions.

The only way to answer them was to find Dora herself.

That she accomplished after dark when she was so weary all she longed for was to sit down and relieve the ache in her back and her legs. She was carrying blood-soaked bandages down to the stove to burn them (they were beyond any laundress to reclaim), and she met Dora coming up the stairs, a pile of sheets on her arms. She carried the weight of them as if they were merely handkerchiefs.

Hester could not afford to wait for a better time or to get up her courage and prepare. She stopped in the middle of the stairs, under the lamp, blocking Dora's way, trying to look as if she had done it unintentionally.

"I have a friend who is attending the trial," she said, not as casually as she had wished.

"Wot?"

"Sir Herbert," she replied. "It's nearly over. They'll probably bring in the verdict in the next day or two."

Dora's face was guarded. "Oh yeah?"

"At the moment it looks as if they'll find him not guilty." Hester watched her minutely.

She was rewarded. An expression of relief lit Dora's eyes and something inside her relaxed. "Oh yeah?" she said again.

"The trouble is," Hester went on, still blocking the way. "Nobody knows who did kill Prudence. So the case will still be open."

"So what if it is? It weren't you an' it weren't me. An' looks as if it weren't Sir 'Erbert."

"Do you think it was?"

" 'Oo-me? No, I don't reckon as't was." There was a fierceness in her voice, as if she had suddenly forgotten to be so careful.

Hester frowned. "Not even if she knew about the abortions? Which she did. She could have made things pretty hard for him if she threatened to go to the law."

Dora was tense again, her huge body balanced carefully as if to make some sudden move, if she could only decide what. She stared at Hester, hovering between confidence in her and total enmity.

A prickle of sharp physical fear tightened Hester's body, making her gulp for breath. They were alone on the steps, the only light the small oases of the gas lamps at top and bottom and the one under which they stood. The dark well of the stairs yawned below and the shadows of the landing above.

She plunged on.

"I don't know what proof she had. I don't know if she was even there-"

"She weren't." Dora cut across her with finality.

"Wasn't she?"

"No-'cos I know 'oo were. 'E wouldn't be daft enough ter have 'er in. She knew too much." Her big face puckered. "Damn near as good as a doctor 'erself, she were. Knew more than any of them student doctors. She'd never 'ave believed they was operations for tumors and the like."

"But you knew! Did the other nurses?"

"No-wouldn't know stones from a broken leg, most of 'em." There was contempt in her tone as well as a mild tolerance.

Hester forced herself to smile, although she felt it was a sickly gesture, more a baring of the teeth. She tried to invest her voice with respect.

"Sir Herbert must have trusted you very deeply."

Pride lit Dora's eyes. "Yeah-'e does. An'e's right. I'd never betray 'im."

Hester stared at her. It was not only pride in her eyes, it was a burning idealism, a devotion and a passionate respect. It transformed her features from their habitual ugliness into something that had its own kind of beauty.

"He must know how much you respect him for it," Hester said chokingly. A flood of emotion shook her. She had wept more tears than she could remember over dead women who had not the strength left to fight disease and loss of blood because their bodies were exhausted with bearing child after child. She had seen the hopelessness in their eyes, the weariness, the fear for babies they knew they could not cherish. And she had seen the tiny, starving creatures come into the world ill before they started, sprung from an exhausted womb.

In the pool of light on the stairs Dora Parsons was waiting, watching her.

And neither could Hester forget Prudence Barrymore, her eagerness and her passion to heal, her burning vitality.

"You're right," she said aloud in the silence. "Some women need a far better help than the law lets us give them. You have to admire a man who risks his honor, and his freedom, to do something about it."

Dora relaxed, the ease washing through her visibly. Slowly she smiled.

Hester clenched her fists in the folds of her skirts.

"If only he did it for the poor, instead of rich women who have simply lost their virtue and didn't want to face the shame and ruin of an illegitimate child."

Dora's eyes were like black holes in her head.

Hester felt the stab of fear again. Had she gone too far?

" 'E didn't do that," Dora said slowly. " 'E did poor women, sick women… them as couldn't take no more."

"He did rich women," Hester repeated gravely, in little more than a whisper, her hand on the stair rail as if it were some kind of safety. "And he took a lot of money for it." She did not know if that was true or not-but she had known Prudence. Prudence would not have betrayed him for doing what Dora believed. And Sir Herbert had killed her…

" 'E didn't." Dora's voice was plaintive, her face beginning to crumple like a child's. " 'E didn't take no money at all." But already the doubt was there.

"Yes he did," Hester repeated. "That's why Prudence threatened him."

"Yer lyin'," Dora said simply and with total conviction. "I knew her too, an' she'd never 'ave forced 'im into marryin' 'er. That don't make no sense at all. She never loved 'im. She'd no time for men. She wanted to be a doctor, Gawd 'elp 'er! She'd no chance-no woman 'as, 'owever good she is. If you'd really knew 'er, you'd never 'ave said anything so daft."

"I know she didn't want to marry him," Hester agreed. "She wanted him to help her get admittance to a medical school!"

Slowly a terrible understanding filled Dora's face. The light, the element of beauty, left it and was replaced by an agony of disillusion-and then hatred, burning, implacable, corroding hatred.

" 'E used me," she said with total comprehension.

Hester nodded. "And Prudence," she added. "He used her too."

Dora's face puckered. "Yer said 'e's goin' t' get orf?" she asked in a low, grating voice.

"Looks like it at the moment."

"If 'e does, I'll kill 'im meself!"

Looking into her eyes, Hester believed her. The pain she felt would not let her forget. Her idealism had been betrayed, the only thing that had made her precious, given her dignity and belief, had been destroyed. He had mocked the very best in her. She was an ugly woman, coarse and unloved, and she knew it. She had had one value in her own eyes, and now it was gone. Perhaps to have robbed her of it was a sin like murder too.

"You can do better than that," Hester said without thinking, putting her hand on Dora's great arm, and with a shock feeling the power of the rocklike muscle. She swallowed her fear. "You can get him hanged," she urged. "That would be a much more exquisite death-and he would know it was you who did it. If you kill him, he will be a martyr. The world will think he was innocent, and you guilty. And you might hang! My way you'll be a heroine- and he'll be ruined!"

" 'Ow?" Dora said simply.

"Tell me all you know."

"They won't believe me. Not against "im!" Again the rage suffused her face. "Yer dreamin'. No-my way's better. It's sure. Yours ain't."

"It could be," Hester insisted. "You must know something of value."

"Like what? They in't goin' ter believe me. I'm nobody." There was a wealth of bitterness in her last words, as if all the abyss of worthlessness had conquered her and she saw the light fading out of her reach with utter certainty.

"What about all the patients?" Hester said desperately. "How did they know to come to him? It isn't something he would tell people."

" 'Course not! But I dunno 'oo got 'em fer 'im."

"Are you sure? Think hard! Maybe you saw something or heard something. How long has he been doing it?"

"Oh, years! Ever since 'e did it for Lady Ross Gilbert. She were the first." Her face lit with sudden, harsh amusement, as if she had not even heard Hester's sudden, indrawn breath. "What a thing that were. She were well on-five months or more, and in such a state-beside herself she were. She'd just come back in a boat from the Indies-that would be why she was so far gorn." She let out a low rumble of laughter, her face twisted in a sneer of contempt. "Black, it were-poor little sod! I saw it plain- like a real baby. Arms an' legs an' 'ead an' all." Tears filled her eyes and her face was soft and sad with memory. "Fan- made me sick to see it took away like that. But black as yer 'at it'd 'ave been. No wonder she din't want it! 'Er 'usband'd 'ave turned her out, and all London'd 'ave thrown up their 'ands in 'orror in public-and laughed theirselves sick be'ind their doors arterwards."

Hester too was amazed and sick and grieved for a helpless life, unwanted and disposed of before it began.

Without any explanation she knew Dora's contempt was not that the child was black but that Berenice had got rid of it for that reason, and it was mixed with her sense of loss for what was so plainly a human being on the brink of form and life. Anger was the only way she knew to defuse the horror and the pity. She had no children herself, and probably never would have. What emotions must have racked her to see the growing infant, so nearly complete, and dispose of it like a tumor into the rubbish. For a few moments she and Dora shared a feeling as totally as if their paths through life had been matched step for step.

"But I dunno 'oo sends women to 'im," Dora said angrily, breaking the mood. "Maybe if you can find some of them, they'll tell yer, but don't count on it! They in't goin' ter say anything." Now she was twisted with anger again. "You put 'em in court an' they'll lie their 'eads off before they'll admit they done such a thing. Poor women might not-but the rich ones will. Poor women's afraid o' 'avin more kids they can't feed. Rich ones is afraid 'o the shame."

Hester did not bother arguing that rich women could be just as physically exhausted by confinement after confinement. Every woman gives birth in the same way-all the money on earth cannot alter the work of the body, the pain or the dangers, the tearing, the bleeding, the risk of fever or blood poisoning. That surely is the one place where all women are equal. But this was not the time to say so.

"See what you can remember," she argued. "I will reread all Prudence's notes again, just in case there is anything else there."

"You won't get nowhere." There were hopelessness back in Dora's voice and in her face. " 'E'll get off-and I'll kill 'im, the same as 'e killed 'er. I might 'ang fer it-but I'll go gladly if I'm sure 'e's in 'Ell too." And with that she pushed her way past Hester, tears suddenly spilling over her eyes and coursing down her ugly face.

Monk was elated when Hester brought him her news. It was the solution. He knew precisely what to do. Without hesitation he went to Berenice Ross Gilbert's home and commanded the reluctant footman to let him in. He accepted no protests as to the hour, which was approaching midnight. This was an emergency. It mattered not a jot that Lady Ross Gilbert had retired for the night. She must be awakened. Perhaps it was something in his bearing, an innate ruthlessness, but after only a moment's hesitation the footman obeyed.

Monk waited in the withdrawing room, an elegant expensive room with French furniture, gilded wood, and brocade curtains. How much of it had been paid for by desperate women? He had no time even to look at it now. He stood in the center facing the double doors, waiting for her.

She threw them open and came in, smiling, dressed in a magnificent aquamarine robe which billowed around her.

She looked like a medieval queen: all she lacked was a circlet over her long, bright hair.

"How perfectly extraordinary, Mr. Monk," she said with complete composure. There was nothing but curiosity in her face. "What on earth can have happened that brings you here at this time of night? Do tell me!" She regarded him with undisguised interest, looking him up and down, her eyes at last resting on his face.

"The trial will probably finish tomorrow," he answered, his voice hard and clear, his diction exaggeratedly perfect. "Sir Herbert will be acquitted."

Her eyebrows rose even higher. "Don't say you have come here in the middle of the night to tell me that? I expected it-but regardless, when it happens will be quite soon enough." There was still amusement and question in her face. She did not entirely believe he was so absurd. She was waiting for his real reason for coming.

"He is guilty," he said harshly.

"Indeed?" She came farther in and closed the doors behind her. She was a remarkably handsome woman in a unique way. The whole room was filled with her presence, and he had a powerful feeling that she knew it. "That is only your own opinion, Mr. Monk. If you had proof you would be at Mr. Lovat-Smith's house, telling him, not here doing…" She hesitated. 'Whatever it is you are doing? You have not so far explained yourself…"

"I don't have proof," he answered. "But you do."

"I do?" Her voice rose in sheer amazement. "My dear man, you are talking the most arrant rubbish. I have nothing of the kind."

"Yes you do." He remained staring at her, meeting her eyes and holding them. Gradually she recognized the power in him, and the implacable intent. The amusement died out of her face.

"You are mistaken," she said softly. "I do not." She turned away and began fiddling idly with an ornament on the marble-topped table. "The whole idea of her wishing to marry him is utterly foolish. Mr. Rathbone has demonstrated that."

"Of course it is," he agreed, watching her long fingers caress the porcelain of the figurine. "She was using her knowledge to try to get him to help her gain admittance to a medical school."

"That is preposterous," she said, still not looking at him. "No school would take a woman. He must have told her that."

"I imagine he did, but not until after he had used her skills to the full, had her work long hours unrewarded, and given her hope. Then, when she became impatient and wanted a commitment, he killed her."

She put the ornament down and turned to face him. The humor was back in her eyes.

"All he had to do was tell her it was hopeless," she answered. "Why on earth would he kill her? You are being ridiculous, Mr. Monk."

"Because she threatened to tell the authorities he was performing abortions-for money," he replied, his voice tight with rage. "Unnecessary abortions to save rich women the embarrassment of children they did not want."

He saw the blood drain from her cheeks, but her expression did not alter.

"If you can prove that, what are you doing here telling me, Mr. Monk? It is a very serious charge-in fact, he would be imprisoned for it. But without proof, what you say is slander."

"You know it is true-because you procure his patients for him," he said.

"Do I?" Her eyes widened and there was a smile on her lips, but it was fixed, and already there was something dead in it. "That too is slanderous, Mr. Monk."

"You knew he performed abortions, and you could testify of it," he said very levelly. "Your word would not be slander, because you have all the facts, dates, names, details."

"Even if I had such knowledge"-she was gazing at him without a flicker, her eyes boring into his-"surely you would not expect me to condemn myself by saying so? Why on earth should I?"

He smiled too, a slow showing of the teeth.

"Because if you do not, I shall make it known to all the right people in society-a whisper, a laugh, a word hushed as you approach-that you were his first patient…"

Her face did not alter. She was not frightened.

"When you came back from the Indies," he went on relentlessly. "And that your child was negroid."

All the color fled from her skin and he heard the gasp of her indrawn breath and then a choking in her throat.

"Is that slanderous too, Lady Ross Gilbert?" he said between his teeth. "Take me to court and sue me! I know the nurse who put the child into the rubbish and threw it away."

She gave a harsh cry which was strangled in her throat before it was out.

"On the other hand," he went on, "should you testify against Sir Herbert, that you referred desperate women to him, whom you could name did not discretion prevent you, and upon whom he performed abortions, then I shall forget I ever knew of such a thing-and you will never hear from me, or from the nurse, again."

"Won't I?" she said with desperate, vicious disbelief. "And what is to stop you coming back again and again- for money, or whatever it is you want?"

"Madam," he said icily, "apart from your testimony, you have nothing I want."

She reached forward and slapped him as hard as she could.

He almost lost his balance from the force of it, and his cheek burned where her open hand had struck him, but he smiled very slowly.

"I am sorry if that disappoints you," he said softly. "Be in court tomorrow. Mr. Rathbone will call you-for the defense, of course. How you manage to impart your information is up to you." And with a very slight bow he walked past her to the door, through the hallway, and out into the street.

The trial was all but over. The jury was bored. They had already reached their verdict in their own minds and could not understand why Rathbone was calling more witnesses to testify to what everyone already believed. Sir Herbert was a paragon of professional virtue and a tediously correct man in his personal and domestic life. Lovat-Smith was openly irritated. The public was restless. For the first time since the trial began, there were even empty seats in the gallery.

Judge Hardie leaned forward, his face creased with impatience.

"Mr. Rathbone, the court is always inclined to give whatever leniency it can to an accused man, but you appear to be wasting our time. Your witnesses are all saying the same thing, and the prosecution has not contested it. Is it really necessary to continue?"

"No, my lord," Rathbone conceded with a smile. As soon as he spoke the quality of suppressed excitement in his voice caused a ripple of movement in the room, a shifting, a straightening as the tension sharpened again. "I have only one more witness, whom I trust will complete my case."

"Then call him, Mr. Rathbone, and proceed," Hardie said sharply.

"I beg leave to recall Lady Berenice Ross Gilbert," Rathbone said loudly.

Lovat-Smith frowned and leaned forward.

Sir Herbert was still smiling in the dock. Only the faintest shadow crossed his eyes.

"Lady Berenice Ross Gilbert!" the clerk called out, and the cry was taken up and echoed into the hallway.

She came in white-faced, her head held high, and she looked neither to right nor left as she crossed the floor to the witness stand, climbed the steps, and turned to face Rathbone. Just once she glanced across at the dock, but her expression was unreadable. If she had noticed Philomena Stanhope on the gallery public benches, she gave no indication.

She was reminded that she was still under oath.

"I am aware of that," she said. "I have no intention to tell other than the truth!"

"You are the last witness I am calling to testify to the character and qualities of the man the prosecution has accused." Rathbone walked into the center of the floor gracefully, elegantly, and stood for an instant smiling up at the dock. He met Sir Herbert's eyes, and Sir Herbert saw for an instant that there was triumph in him, that the anger was gone, and his own composure flickered for a second. Then the certainty returned, and he smiled back.

"Lady Ross Gilbert"-Rathbone looked back at her- "you have served excellently on the Board of Governors of the hospital for some time. Have you been acquainted with Sir Hertiert during all these years?"

"Naturally."

"Only professionally, or do you know him personally as well?"

"Slightly. He does not mix in society very much. I imagine he is too fully occupied with the practice of his art."

"So we have heard," Rathbone agreed. "I believe one of your duties as a governor is to make sure that the morals of the nurses employed there are above reproach."

Hardie sighed impatiently. One of the jurors had his eyes closed.

"That would be impossible," Berenice said with a curl of contempt. "All I can do is see that their behavior is acceptable while actually in the hospital premises."

There was a titter of amusement around the room. The juror opened his eyes again.

Judge Hardie leaned forward.

"Mr. Rathbone, you are covering ground which is already exceedingly well trodden. If you have a point, come to it!"

"Yes, my lord. I apologize. Lady Ross Gilbert, have you at any time in your dealings with the nurses had one of them make a complaint of any sort against Sir Herbert?"

"No. I think I said that before." She was frowning, beginning to look anxious.

'To your knowledge his relationships with women have always been strictly professional?"

"Yes."

"Morally without blemish?" he insisted.

"Well…" A flicker of surprise crossed her face, and then sudden perception.

Hardie frowned, looking at her.

In the dock Sir Herbert's certainly wavered.

"Have they, or have they not, Lady Ross Gilbert?" Rathbone demanded, an edge of keenness to his voice.

"That depends upon your interpretation of morality," she replied. Never once did she glance toward Monk on the public benches, or Hester beside him.

Everyone was listening now, straining not to miss a word or an inflection.

"In what category of morality do you find the question difficult to answer?" Hardie asked her, twisting sideways to face her. "Remember you are on oath, madam."

Rathbone made a last attempt to save his own reputation.

"Are you saying he had an affair with someone, Lady Ross Gilbert?" He invested the tone with surprise and disbelief.

Someone in the gallery coughed and was instantly hissed into silence.

"No," Berenice answered.

"Then what are you saying?" Hardie looked confused. "Please make yourself plain!"

Now there was total silence in the room. Every face was turned toward her. Rathbone did not dare to interrupt again in case she lost the opportunity. He might not be able to offer her another.

Still she hesitated.

Sir Herbert leaned over the edge of the dock railing, his face tight, the first flicker of real fear touching him.

"Have you some charge of immorality to bring against Sir Herbert?" Rathbone heard his voice rising with pretended outrage. "You had better make it, madam, or cease these insinuations!"

.-"I am on oath," she said very quietly, looking at no one. "I know that he performed abortions upon many women, at a price. I know it for a fact, because I was the person who referred them to him for help."

There was utter, prickling soundlessness. No one moved. There was not even a sigh of breath.

Rathbone did not dare look up at the dock. He pretended disbelief.

"What?"

"I was the person who referred them to him for help," she repeated slowly and very clearly. "I suppose you would have to say that is immoral. It might be questionable, done for charity-but for payment…" She let the words hang in the air.

Hardie was staring at Berenice.

"This is of the utmost seriousness, Lady Ross Gilbert. Do you have any conception of the meaning of what you have just said?"

"I believe so."

"And yet when you came in the witness stand before, you said nothing of this!"

"I did not need to. I was not asked."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you telling us, madam, that you are so naive that you had no idea of the importance of this evidence?"

"It did not seem to be relevant," she replied, her voice trembling a little. "The prosecution charged that Nurse Barrymore had tried to force Sir Herbert into marrying her. I know that was absurd. She would never have done anything of the sort. Nor would he have behaved in such a way. I knew it then, and I know it now."

In the dock Sir Herbert was ashen, looking desperately at Rathbone.

Hardie pursed his lips.

Lovat-Smith stared from Hardie to Berenice, then to Rathbone. He still was not totally sure what was happening.

Rathbone clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his flesh. It was slipping away again. He was guilty of murder. And he could not be tried for it twice.

He strode forward a couple of paces.

"Ah! Then you are not for an instant suggesting that Prudence Barrymore knew of this and was blackmailing Sir Herbert? You are not saying that-are you!" It was a challenge, hard and defiant.

Lovat-Smith rose very slightly to his feet, still confused.

"My lord, would you please instruct my learned friend to allow the witness to answer for herself and to not interpret for her what she has, or has not, said?"

Rathbone could hardly endure the tension. He dared not interrupt again. He must not be seen to condemn his own client. He turned to Berenice. Please God she would take her opportunity!

"Lady Ross Gilbert?" Hardie prompted.

"I-I don't recall the question," she said wretchedly.

Rathbone answered before Hardie could reword it and make it innocuous.

"You are not saying that Prudence Barrymore was blackmailing Sir Herbert, are you?" he demanded, his voice louder and sharper than he had intended.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, she was blackmailing him."

"But," Rathbone protested, as if horror-stricken, "but you said-why, for God's sake? You said yourself she had no wish whatever to marry him!"

Berenice stared at him with unmitigated hatred.

"She wanted him to help her gain medical training. I know that from deduction-not observation. You cannot charge me with concealing it."

"Ch-charge you?" Rathbone stammered.

"For God's sake!" She leaned over the witness stand railing, her face twisted with fury. "You know he killed her! You just have to go through this charade because you are supposed to defend him. Get on with it! Get it done!"

Rathbone turned to her very slightly, then away again to look up at Sir Herbert in the dock.

His face was gray, his mouth slack with disbelief, his eyes bright with sick panic.

There was only the faintest, thinnest flicker of hope. Very slowly he turned from Rathbone to the jury. He looked at one, then another, then another, right to the last. Then he knew it was defeat… final and absolute.

There was silence in the room. Not even a pencil moved.

Philomena Stanhope looked up at the dock steadily, and there was something in her face very close to pity.

Lovat-Smith held out his hand to Rathbone, his face burning with admiration.