Cain His Brother

Chapter 2

Monk spent a restless night and was up early the next morning to resume his search for Angus Stonefield, although he realized grimly that he had already assumed Genevieve was right in her fears, and what he was truly seeking was proof of his death. But whatever he found, it was unlikely to bring her any happiness. If Angus had absconded with money. or another woman, that would not only rob her of the future but, in a sense, of the past as well, of all that was good and she had believed to be true. The hansom set him down on the Waterloo Road.

The rain had stopped and it was a brisk, chilly day with fast scudding clouds. A cutting east wind came up from the river with a smell of salt from the incoming tide, and the soot and smoke of countless chimneys. He stepped smartly out of the way of a carriage and leaped for the footpath.

He pulled his coat collar a little higher and strode out towards Angus Stonefield's place of business. The domestic servants yesterday evening had told him nothing of use. No one had noticed any behavior out of the very ordinary routine of rising at seven and taking breakfast with his wife while his children ate in the nursery. After reading the newspaper, and any post that may have been delivered, he left in sufficient time to arrive at his office by half past eight. He did not keep a carriage but traveled by hansom cab.

The day of his disappearance he had followed exactly that pattern. The morning's post had contained a couple of small household bills, an invitation, and a polite letter from an acquaintance. No one had called at the house other than the usual tradesmen and a woman friend of Genevieve's who came for afternoon tea.

Monk arrived at Stonefield's offices too early, and was obliged to wait a quarter of an hour before Mr. Arbuthnot appeared walking along the pavement from the north, carrying an umbrella in his hand and looking hurried and unhappy. He was a small man with thick gray hair and a gray, immaculately trimmed mustache.

Monk introduced himself.

“Ali!” Arbuthnot said anxiously. “Yes. I suppose it was inevitable.” He took out a key from the pocket of his coat and inserted it into the outer door. He turned it with some effort.

“You believe so?” Monk said with some surprise. “You foresaw such a thing?”

Arbuthnot pushed the door open.

“Well, something has to be done,” he said sadly. “We can't go on like this.

Do come in. Allow me to close this wretched door.”

“It needs oiling,” Monk observed, realizing Arbuthnot was referring to his own inquiries as inevitable, not his employer's disappearance.

“Yes, yes,” Arbuthnot agreed. “I keep telling Jenkins to do it, but he doesn't listen.” He led the way into the main office, empty still, and dark before the lamps were lit, the gray light through the windows being inadequate to work by.

Monk followed him through the glass-paned doors and into his own more comfortably furnished room. With a murmur of apology Arbuthnot bent and put a match to the fire, already carefully laid in the hearth, then let out a sigh of satisfaction as the flames took hold. He lit the lamps also, then took off his coat and invited Monk to do the same.

“What can I tell you that may be of service?” he said, knitting his brows together unhappily. “I have no idea what has happened, or I should already have told the authorities, and we should not now be in this terrible position.”

Monk sat in the rather uncomfortable upright chair opposite him. “I presume you have checked the accounts, Mr. Arbuthnot, and any monies which may be kept here?' — ffis is really very unpleasant, sir,” Arbuthnot said in a tight, quiet voice. “But yes, I felt obliged to do that, even though I was quite certain I should find them in perfect order.”

“And did you?” Monk pressed.

“Indeed, sir, to the farthing. Everything is accounted for and as it should be.” He did not hesitate, nor did his eyes waver. Perhaps it was his perfect steadiness which made Monk believe there was something else to add, some qualification.

“What time did Mr. Stonefield arrive that morning?” he asked. “Perhaps you would tell me everything you recall of that day, in the order it happened.”

“Yes… er, of course.” Arbuthnot shivered a little and turned aside to pick up the poker from the hearth and prod at the fire. He continued with his back to Monk. “He arrived at quarter to nine, as usual. The first delivery of post was already here. He took it into his office and read it-“

“Do you know what was in it?” Monk interrupted.

Arbuthnot finished his administrations to the fire and laid the poker back on its rest. “Orders, delivery notices, advice of shipments, an application for a position as clerk.” He sighed. “A very promising young man, but if Mr. Stonefield does not return, I doubt we should be able to keep those we have, much less employ additional staff.”

“And that was all? Are you quite sure?” Monk avoided the subject of Stonefield's return and the dismissing of staff. There was nothing helpful he could say.

“Yes, I am,” Arbuthnot said firmly. “I asked young Barton about it, and he remembered precisely. You can ask him yourself if you wish, but there was nothing in the post to occasion Mr. Stonefield's departure, of that I am quite certain.”

“Visitors?” Monk asked, watching Arbuthnot's face.

“Ali…” He hesitated. “Yes.”

Monk looked at him steadily. Arbuthnot was distinctly uncomfortable, but Monk had no way of knowing whether it was embarrassment, guilt, or just the general distress of talking about someone he had liked and respected and who was in all probability now dead. And, of course, if the business had to be sold or closed down, he too would lose his livelihood.

“Who?” Monk prompted him.

Arbuthnot gazed at the floor between them.

“Mr. Niven. He's in a similar line of trade himself. At least… he.

.. he was.”

“And now?”

Arbuthnot took a deep breath. “I fear he is on hard times.”

“Why did he come here? I understood from your clerk when I was here yesterday that it was largely Mr. Stonefield's superior skill which was responsible for his misfortune.”

Arbuthnot looked up quickly, his long face full of reproach. “If you think Mr. Stonefield did him out of business on purpose, sir, you are quite wrong, quite wrong indeed! It was never his intention at all. It's just that you have to do the best you can if you want to survive yourself. And Mr. Stonefield was quicker in his judgment, and more accurate. Never exactly took chances”-he shook his head-”if you understand me? But he was very diligent in his studies of trends, and well liked in the business.

People trusted him when they might not someone else.” There was a furrow of concern between his brows and he searched Monk's face to be certain he took his meaning exactly.

Was his scrupulous honesty a safeguarding of his position in case Stonefield should return after all, or a protection for Niven for any of a dozen reasons, including some nature of collusion?

“Why did Mr. Niven come?” Monk repeated. “How was he dressed? What was his demeanor?” As Arbuthnot hesitated again, he became impatient. “If you wish me to have any chance whatever of finding Mr. Stonefield, you must tell me the exact truth!”

Arbuthnot caught the hard edge of Monk's voice, and his prevarication dropped like a mask to reveal acute pity and discomfort.

“He came to see if we could put any work his way, sir. I'm afraid things are most difficult for him. He knew Mr. Stonefield would help him if he could, but I'm afraid there was nothing at present. He did give him a letter of commendation for his honesty and diligence, though, in case that might be of use to him.” He swallowed with an effort.

“And his demeanor?” Monk insisted.

“Distressed,” Arbuthnot said quietly. “At the end of his strength, poor man.” His eyes flicked up at Monk's again. “But a complete gentleman, sir.

Never for a moment did he indulge in self-pity or anger against Mr.

Stonefield. The simple truth is he made an error of judgment in trade which Mr. Stonefield avoided, and at a juncture in the ebb and flow of business when it cost him very dear. He understood that, I believe, and took it like a man.”

Monk was inclined to believe him, but he would still see Titus Niven for himself.

“Was he the only visitor?” he asked.

Arbuthnot colored painfully and took several moments to compose his answer.

His hands were clenched together in front of him, and he looked anywhere but at Monk's eyes.

“No, sir. There was also a lady… at least, a female person. I don't know how to describe her…”

“Honestly!” Monk said tersely.

Arbuthnot drew in his breath, then let it out again.

Monk waited.

Arbuthnot took him very literally, as if it were an escape from expressing a more personal judgment.

“Ordinary sort of height, a trifle thin maybe, but that's a matter of opinion I suppose. Quite well built, really, considering where she came from-”

“Where did she come from?” Monk interrupted. The man was rambling. “Oh, Limehouse way, I should think, from her speech.” Unconsciously Arbuthnot was widening his nostrils and tightening his lips, as though he smelled something distasteful. But then if he were correct and she had come from the slums of the East End dockside, he may well have. The damp overcrowded rooms, the open middens, and the sewage from the river made any alternative impossible.

“Handsome,” Arbuthnot said sadly. “At least nature gave her that, even if she did her best to hide it with paint and garish clothes. Very immodest.”

“A prostitute?” Monk said bluntly.

Arbuthnot winced. “I have no idea. She said nothing to indicate so.”

“What did she say? For heaven's sake, man, don't make me draw answers from you like teeth! Who was she and what did she want? Not to buy or sell corn futures!”

“Of course not!” Arbuthnot blushed furiously. “She asked for Mr.

Stonefield, and when I informed him of her presence, he saw her immediately.” He took another deep breath. “She had been here before.

Twice, that I am aware of. She gave her name as Selina, just that, no surname.”

“Thank you. What did Mr. Stonefield say about her? Did he explain her presence?”

Arbuthnot's eyes widened. “No, sir. It was not our business to inquire into who she was.”

“And he felt no wish to tell you?” Monk let his surprise show. “Who did you suppose her to be? Don't say you did not think of it.”

“Well, yes,” Arbuthnot admitted. “Naturally we did won- der who she was. I assumed it was something to do with his brother, since as you observe, it could not be business.”

The first flush of fire settled down now that the kindling was burned, and Arbuthnot put more coal on.

“What was Mr. Stonefield's manner after she left?” Monk pursued.

“Disturbed. He was somewhat agitated,” Arbuthnot answered unhappily. “He withdrew what money there was in the safe-five pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence. He signed a receipt for it, and then he left.”

“How long after Selina was this?”

“As near as I can remember, about ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Did he say where he was going, or when he expected to return?” lie watched Arbuthnot closely.

“No, sir.” Arbuthnot shook his head slowly, his eyes sad and anxious. “He said some urgent matter needed his attention, and I should see Mr. Hurley in his stead. Mr. Hurley was a broker who was expected that afternoon. I assumed he thought he might be out all day, but I fully expected him the following morning. He gave no instructions for the next day, and there were most important matters to attend to. He would not have forgotten.” Suddenly his face filled with grief and an agonizing fear and bewilderment, and Monk realized with a jolt how Arbuthnot's own world had been damaged by Stonefield's disappearance. One day everything had been safe and assured, predictable, if a little pedestrian. The next it was overturned, filled with mystery. Even his livelihood and perhaps his home were jeopardized.

There was uncertainty in every direction. It was he who would have to tell Genevieve that they could no longer continue, and then he would have to dismiss all the rest of the staff and try to wind up the company and salvage what was left, pay the debts and leave a name of honor behind, if little else.

Monk searched his mind for something comforting or helpful to say, and found nothing.

“What time did he leave, as closely as you can recall?” he asked. The question was dry and literal, reflecting nothing of what he felt.

“About half past ten,” Arbuthnot said bleakly, his mild eyes reflecting a dislike Monk understood only too easily.

“Do you know how?”

Arbuthnot stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you know how?” Monk repeated. “If I am to trace him, it would be helpful to know if he went on foot or took a hansom, what he was wearing, if he turned left or right upon leaving…

“I see, yes, I see.” Arbuthnot looked relieved. “Of course. I beg your pardon. I misunderstood you. He was wearing an overcoat and carrying an umbrella. It was a most inclement day. He always wore a hat, naturally, a black high hat. He took a hansom, down towards the Waterloo Bridge.” He searched Monk's face. “Do you think you have some chance of finding him?”

A lie sprang to Monk's mind. It would have been easier. He would have liked to leave him with hope, but habit was too strong.

“Not a great deal. But I may learn what became of him, which will be of practical use to Mrs. Stonefield, though of little comfort. I am sorry.”

A succession of emotions played across Arbuthnot's face-pain, resignation, pity, ending in a kind of grudging respect.

“Thank you for your candor, sir. If there is anything else I can do to be of assistance, you have but to inform me.” He rose to his feet. “Now there is a great deal I must attend to.” He gulped and coughed. “Just in case Mr.

Stonefield should return, things must be kept going…”

Monk nodded and said nothing. He stood up and put on his coat. Arbuthnot showed him out through the office, now filled with clerks busy with letters, ledgers, and messages. The room was brightly lit, every lamp burning, neat heads bent over quills, ink and paper. There was no sound but the scratching of nibs and the gentle hissing of the gas. No one looked up as he passed, but he knew there would be whispers and the exchanging of glances the moment he was gone.

Monk assumed Stonefield had gone to the East End in answer to some message either directly from Caleb or at least concerning him. There was no other explanation suggested. It did cross his mind as he went down the steps into the windy street, fastening his coat again, that the woman, Selina, might have some relationship with Stonefield which had nothing to do with Caleb.

Some eminently respectable men with faultless domestic lives still had a taste for the rougher charms of street women, and kept a second estab- lishment quite separate from, and unknown to, the first. He discounted it because he did not believe Stonefield would have been rash enough to allow such a woman, if she existed, to know of his business address. It would be absurdly dangerous and completely unnecessary. Such arrangements survived only if total secrecy were observed.

He walked briskly down as far as the bridge. Perhaps it was unprofessional, but he believed Genevieve that Angus Stonefield had gone to see his brother and that this time the quarrel between them had ended in violence which had either injured Angus so seriously he had been unable to return home, or even to send a message, or else he was dead, and the best Monk could do would be to find proof of it adequate to entitle his widow to his estate.

He must begin by finding the cabby who had picked Angus up on the morning he disappeared. It would most probably be one from the nearest stables; if not, he would move outward from there.

Actually it took him five cold and exhausting hours, and more than one false trail, before he was certain he had the man. He caught up with him at mid-afternoon, in Stamford Street, near the river. lie was standing over a brazier, thawing out his fingers and shifting from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. Behind him, his horse was snorting breath into the cold air, waiting impatiently, head down, for the next fare and the chance of movement.

“Goin' somewhere, guv?” the cabby asked hopefully.

“Depends,” Monk replied, stopping beside him. “Did you pick up a fare on the Waterloo Road, about half past ten in the morning, last Tuesday, and take him probably east? Tall, dark gentleman with an overcoat, high hat and an umbrella.” He showed him Lady Ravensbrook's drawing.

“Wot's it to yer if I did?” the cabby asked guardedly.

“Hot cup of tea laced with something stronger, and a fare to wherever you set him off,” Monk replied. “And a great deal of unpleasantness if you he to me.”

The cabby swiveled around from the brazier and eyed Monk narrowly. “Well now, if it in't Inspector Monk,” he said with surprise. “Left the rozzers, 'ave we? 'Eard about that.” Neither his voice nor his face gave any indication as to his feelings on the subject.

It was a sore one to Monk. His departure from the police force had been forced upon him by that final quarrel with Runcorn. The fact that he had been proved right and Runcorn wrong had helped nothing. With no livelihood anymore, he had been obliged to take up private inquiries, since detection was the only marketable skill he possessed. But he no longer had either the authority of the police force nor the facilities of its vast network and specialist abilities, as the cabby had so pertinently reminded him. “Well, why d'yer want the poor geezer as I took, then? Wot's 'e done? Took the funds with 'im, did 'e?” the cabby asked. “An' if 'e did, why do you care?”

“No, he didn't,” Monk said truthfully. “He's missing. His wife is afraid some harm may have befallen him.”

“Likely gorn off with some tart or other, stupid sod,” the cabby said dismissively. “Gorn private then, 'ave yer? Chasin' runaway 'usbands for women as 'ave lorst 'em.”

He grinned, showing gapped teeth. “Bit of a comedown for yer, in't it Hinspector Monk?”

“Warmer than driving a cab!” Monk snapped, then remembered he needed the man's goodwill. The words choked in his throat to be civil. “Sometimes,” he added between clenched jaws.

“Well now, Mr. Monk.” The cabby sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, looking at Monk maliciously. “If yer asks me, polite like, I might tell yer were I took 'im. Mind I want me cup of char as well, an' me drop o' brandy in it. Don't want no cheap gin. An' I can tell the diff'rence, so don't go fobbin' me orff.”

“How shall I know if you're telling me the truth?” Monk asked bluntly.

“Yer won't,” the cabby said with satisfaction. “'Ceptin' I don't suppose as yer've changed all that. Don't want yer on my tail fer ever more. Right narsty yer can be if'n yer crorssed, an' no mistake. Best suits me if yer pays me fair an I tells yer fair.”

“Good.” Monk fished in his pocket and brought out a sixpence. “Take me to where you let him off, and I'll get your tea and brandy at the nearest pub.”

The cabby took the sixpence as earnest of his intent, bit on it automatically to test its genuineness, then slipped it into his pocket.

“Come on then,” he said cheerfully, walking towards his horse and untying the reins as he mounted the box.

Monk stepped up into the cab and took his seat. They set off at a fast walk, then a trot.

They crossed the Blackfriars Bridge, then moved steadily eastwards through the City, then Whitechapel and into Limehouse. The streets became narrower and grimier, the brick darker, the windows smaller, and the smell of midden and pigsty more pervasive. Drains overflowed into gutters, and there had obviously been no crossing sweepers or dung carts near for weeks. In Bridge Road cattle had passed on the way to the abattoir. The smell brought back sharp memories to Monk's mind, but of emotions, not faces or events. He remembered overwhelming anger and urgency, but not the reasons for them. He could recall his heart pounding and the smell sticking in his throat. It could have been three years ago or twenty. Past time had no meaning, nothing to relate to.

“'Ere y' are!” the cabby said loudly, pulling his horse to a halt and tapping on the hatch.

Monk returned his mind to the present and climbed out. They were in a narrow, dirty street running parallel to the river in an area known as Limehouse Reach. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the fare, adding it to the sixpence he had already given.

“An' me drink,” the cabby reminded him.

Monk added another sixpence.

“Ta,” the cabby said cheerfully. “Anyfink else as I can do for yer?”

“Ever picked up the same man before?” Monk asked.

“Couple o' times. Why?”

“Where did you take him?”

“Once 'ere, once up west. Oh, an' once ter someplace orff the Edgware Road, to an 'ouse. Reckon as maybe 'e lived there. Rum, innit? I mean, why do a proper sort o' gent like that wanna come 'ere? In't nuffin' 'ere as any- body'd want. Even got the typhus less than 'alf a mile away.” He gestured with his mittened thumb eastwards. “An' someone told me as they'd got the cholera in Whitechapel too, or mebbe it were Mile End. Or Blackwall, or summink.”

“I don't know,” Monk replied. “It wants explaining. I don't suppose you saw which way he went?”

The cabby grinned. “Wondered if yer' d think o' that. Yeah, 'e went that way.” He jerked his thumb again. “'Long there (wards the Isle o' Dogs.”

“Thank you.” Monk closed the conversation and set out along the road the cabby had indicated.

“If 'e went in there yer won't never find 'im!” the cabby called out. “Poor sod,” he added under his breath.

Monk feared he was right, but he did not turn or alter his stride. It was going to be difficult to trace Angus, except that dressed as he was he would have stood out from the regular inhabitants, just as Monk did now.

But he was unlikely to have stopped to purchase anything in the various shops that were spaced sporadically along the street. There were no newspaper vendors. People in Limehouse Reach had no spare money for such luxuries, even supposing they could read. They learned of such events that interested them by word of mouth, or from the running patterers, men whose trade was to put into endless doggerel whatever bulletin or gossip they heard and relay it in a kind of one-man musical sideshow from place to place, collecting a few coppers from appreciative listeners. Here and there billboards were posted for the few who were literate, but no one stood about selling. Even peddlers went farther west, where custom was more likely.

He went into a grocer's shop selling tea, dried beans, flour, molasses and candles. It was dark and smelled of dust, tallow and camphor. He produced the drawing of Angus and received a blank stare of incomprehension. He also tried an apothecary, a pawnbroker, a rag and bone merchant and an ironmonger, all with similar results. They stared at Monk's expensive clothes, his warm, well-cut overcoat and polished boots which kept out the wet, and knew he was alien. Children in layers of rags, some of them barefoot, faces gap-toothed and dirty, followed him, begging for money, alternately whistling and catcalling. He gave what pennies he had, but when he asked after Caleb Stonefield, they fell silent and ran away.

On Union Road, which sloped down towards the river with pavement so narrow he could hardly stand on it, its cobbles chipped and uneven, simply because he knew nothing else to do, he tried a cobbler who made new shoes from old.

“Have you ever seen this man, dressed in a good coat and high hat, maybe carrying an umbrella?” he asked flatly.

The cobbler, a narrow-chested little man with a wheeze, took the paper in one hand and squinted at it.

“Looks a bit like Caleb Stone ter me. And I only seen 'im a couple o' times, an' that were a couple too many. But it in't a face as yer'd forget.

'Cept this gent looks sane enough, and real tidy. Dressed like a toff, yer said?”

Monk felt a leap of excitement in spite of all common sense telling him otherwise.

“Yes,” he said quickly. “That's only a drawing. Forget Caleb Stonefield-”

“Stone,” the cobbler corrected.

“Sorry, Stone.” Monk brushed it aside. “This man is related to him, so there will be a resemblance. Have you ever seen him? Specifically, did you see him four days ago? He probably passed this way.”

“Dressed like a toff, an' with an 'at an' all?” Yes.”

“Didn't 'ave no 'at as I recall, but yeah, I reckon as I saw 'im.” Monk sighed with relief. He must not overpraise the man or he might be tempted to embroider the truth.

“Thank you,” he said as gravely as he could, squashing the elation rising inside him. “I'm obliged to you.” He fished in his pocket and brought out threepence, the price of a pint of ale. “Remember me at the pub,” he offered.

The cobbler hesitated only a second. “I'll do that, guv,” he agreed, and shot out a strong, misshapen and callused hand before Monk could change his mind.

“Which way did he go?” Monk asked the final question.

“West,” the cobbler replied instantly. “T'ward the South Dock.”

Monk had already turned the handle of the door to leave when another question occurred to him, perhaps the most obvious of all.

“Where does Caleb Stone live?” The cobbler turned pale under the layer of grime on his face.

“I dunno, mister, an' I'm real 'appy ter keep it that way. An' if yer'd any sense yer'd not ask neither. Were some folks is concerned, iggerance is a blessin'.”

“I see. Thank you anyway.” Monk smiled at him briefly, then turned and went out into the cold street and the stench of salt tide, raw sewage and overloaded drains.

He tried for the rest of the day, but by five o'clock it was dark, bitterly cold with a rime of ice forming on the slimy cobbles of the footpaths, and he had achieved nothing further. It was not safe to remain here alone and unarmed. He walked rapidly, head down and collar up, back towards the West India Dock Road and regular street lamps and a hansom back home again. He was stupid to have come here in good clothes. He'd never get the smell out of them. Another hole in his memory! He should have thought of that before he set out! It was not only the gaping voids in his life-an entire childhood, youth and early manhood which were a mystery to him, his triumphs and failures, his loves, if there had been any which were of lasting value-it was the stupid little pieces of practical knowledge he had forgotten, the mistakes which were like splinters under the skin every day.

The cabby had been almost correct in his information about the fever in Limehouse. It was not the respiratory disease of typhus, but the intestinal typhoid, which raged through the tenements and rookeries, carried from one inadequate and overflowing midden to the next.

Hester Latterly had been a nurse serving with Florence Nightingale in the Scutari hospital in the Crimea and on the battlefield. She was more than used to disease, cold, filth and the sight of suffering. She could not count the deaths she had seen from injury or fever. But still the plight of the poor and the sick in Limehouse touched her, until the only way she could bear it and shut out the nightmares was to work with her close friend and Monk's patroness, Lady Callandra Daviot, and Dr. Kristian Beck to do all she could, both to relieve the distress in whatever small way was possible and to fight for some alleviation of the conditions which made these diseases endemic.

On the day that Monk was searching the streets for someone who had seen Angus Stonefield, Hester was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor of a warehouse which Enid Ravensbrook, another woman of wealth and compassion, had obtained, at least temporarily, so that it might be used as a fever hospital after the order of the military hospital in Scutari. Hester had a feeling that the water she was using was as full of infection as any of the patients, but she had added plenty of vinegar and hoped it might serve the purpose. Dr. Beck had also obtained half a dozen open braziers in which they were going to burn tobacco leaves, a practice much followed in the navy to fumigate between decks and help to fight against yellow fever.

Callandra had purchased several bottles of gin, which were firmly locked in the medicine cabinet and which could be used to clean pans, cups and any instruments. Since they had no others who were nurses by trade, there was a diminished chance of it being drunk.

Hester had just finished the last yard of floor and stood up, easing her back from its stiffness by bending back and forth a few times, when Callandra came in. She was a broad-hipped woman well into middle-age. Her hair was habitually untidy, but today it had exceeded even its usual wildness. It poked and looped in every direction, several of its pins threatening to fall out completely. Even in her youth she could not have been thought beautiful, but there was such intelligence and humor in her face it had a unique charm.

“Finished?” she asked cheerfully. “Excellent. I'm afraid we're going to need every foot of space we can find. And, of course, blankets.” She surveyed the room for a moment, then proceeded to pace the floor out carefully, measuring precisely how many people might lie on it without touching each other. “I would like to get pallets,” she went on, her back to Hester. “And pans or buckets of some type. Typhoid is such a beastly disease. So much waste to dispose of, and heaven only knows how we are going to do that.” She was now at the far end of the space and almost inaudible to Hester. She turned and started to pace the width. “There isn't a midden or a cesspit within miles of here that isn't overflowing already.”

“Has Dr. Beck spoken to the local council of authority yet?” Hester asked, picking up her bucket and going over to the window to tip it out. There were no drains, and the water was full of vinegar anyway, so it would be more likely to improve the gutters than harm them.

Callandra reached the far side and lost count. She had loved Kristian Beck since before the wretched business at the Royal Free Hospital the previous summer. Hester was aware of it, but it was something they never discussed.

It was too delicate, and too painful. The depth of Kristian's feeling in return only added to the poignancy of the situation. Callandra was a widow, but Kristian's wife was still alive. She had long ceased to care for him, if indeed she ever had in the manner he longed for, but she clung to her rights and all the status and the comfort they afforded. To Callandra he could give nothing but an intense friendship, humor, warmth, admiration, and shared passions for causes in which they both believed with ardor and dedication.

Even the mention of his name could still jar her concentration, so vulnerable was she even now. She turned and began to pace back, beginning to count the width again.

Hester looked out of the window to make sure no one was passing beneath, then emptied the bucket.

“I think we could get about ninety people in here,” Callandra announced.

Then her face pinched. “I wish to God I could think that was all we should need. We have forty-seven cases already, not counting seventeen dead and another thirteen too ill to move. I'll be surprised if they live the night.” Her voice rose. “I feel so helpless! It's like fighting the incoming tide with a mop and bucket!”

The door opened behind Hester and a striking-looking woman came in, a bottle of gin under one arm and another in each hand. It was Enid Ravensbrook.

“I suppose it's better than nothing,” she said with a tight smile. “I've sent Mary out to get some clean straw. She can try the ostler at the end of the lane. His mother's one of the victims. He'll do what he can.” She set the gin down on the floor. “I don't know what to do about the well. I've pumped the water, but it smells like next-door's pigsty.”

“Probably with good reason,” Hester said, tightening her lips. “There's a well in Phoebe Street that smells all right, but it'll be an awful nuisance to carry water over. And we're desperately short of buckets.”

“We'll have to borrow them,” Enid said resolutely. “If every family spared us one, we'd quickly have sufficient for all purposes.”

“They haven't got them,” Hester pointed out, setting her bucket, scrubbing brush and cloth away tidily. “Most families around here have only one pan between them anyway.”

“One pan for what?” Enid pressed. “Perhaps they can use their night bucket for scrubbing the floor as well?”

“One pan for everything,” Hester explained. “The same one for scrubbing the floor, for bathing the baby, for waste at night, and for cooking in.” “Oh God!” Enid stood still, then blushed, robbed of speech for an instant. She took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. I suppose I'm still very ignorant. I'll go out and buy some.” She turned on her heel and was about to leave when she almost bumped into Kristian Beck coming in. His face was set in anger, his cheeks burned with color which had nothing to do with the cold outside, and his beautiful mouth was set in a tight line. There was no need to ask if he had met with success or failure with the local authority.

Callandra was the first to speak. “Nothing?” she said softly, no criticism in her voice.

“Nothing,” he conceded. Even in the single word there was a trace of some European accent, very slight, only an extra preciseness which marked English as not his mother tongue. His voice was rich and very deep, and at the moment expressive of his utter contempt. “They have a hundred prevarications, but they all amount to the same thing. They don't care enough!”

“What excuses?” Enid demanded. “What could there possibly be? People are dying, scores of people, and it could be hundreds before it's over. It's monstrous!”

Hester had spent nearly two years as an army nurse. She was used to the workings of the institutional mind. No local authority could be worse than military command, or in her opinion more stubborn or totally fossilized in its thinking. Callandra's late husband had been an army surgeon; she too was familiar with ritual and the almost insuperable force of precedent.

“Money,” Kristian said with disgust. He looked up and down at the length of the now-scrubbed warehouse with satisfaction. It was cold and bare, but it was clean. “To build proper drains would add at least a penny to the rates, and none of them want that,” he added.

“But don't they understand…” Enid began.

“Only a penny…” Callandra snorted.

“At least half of the members are shopkeepers,” Kristian explained with weary patience. “A penny on the rates will hurt their business.”

“Half shopkeepers?” Hester screwed up her face. “That's ridiculous! Why so many of one occupation? Where are the builders, the cobblers or bakers, or ordinary people?”

“Working,” Kristian said simply. “You cannot sit on the council unless you have money, and time to spare. Ordinary men are at their jobs; they cannot afford not to be.”

Hester drew in breath to argue.

Kristian preempted her. “You cannot even vote for council members unless you own property worth over one thousand pounds,” he pointed out. “Or rental of over one hundred a year.

That excludes the vast majority of the men, and naturally all the women.”

“So only those with a vested interest can be elected anyway!” Hester said, her voice rising in fury.

“That's right,” Kristian agreed. “But it helps no one to waste your energy on what you cannot change. Rage is an emotional luxury for which we have no time to spare.”

“Then we must change it!” Callandra almost choked on the words, her frustration was so consuming. She swung around to stare at the empty barn of a place, tears of impotence in her eyes. “We should never have to fill something like this with people we can't save because some damnable little shopkeepers won't pay an extra penny on the rates for us to get the sewage out of the streets!”

Kristian looked at her with an affection so naked that Hester, standing between them, felt an intruder.

“My dear,” he said patiently. “It is very much more complicated than that.

To begin with, what should we do with it? Some people argue for a water-carried system, but then it has to empty somewhere, and what of the river? It would become one vast cesspool. And there are problems with water. If it rains heavily may it not back up, and people's houses would become awash with everyone's waste?”

She stared at him, as much of her emotion drinking in his face, his eyes, his mouth, as thinking of the bitter problem. “But in the summer the dry middens blow all over the place,” she said. ““The very air is filled with the dust of manure and worse.”

“I know,” he replied.

There was a noise on the staircase. Mary returned with an undersized little man in a shiny hat and a jacket several sizes too large for his narrow shoulders.

“This is Mr. Stabb,” she introduced him. “And he will rent us two dozen pots and pans at a penny a day.”

“Each, o' course,” Mr. Stabb put in quickly. “I got a family to feed. But me ma died o' the cholera back in forty-eight, an' I wouldn't want as not ter do me bit, like.”

Hester drew in her breath to bargain with him.

“Thank you,” Callandra said quickly, cutting her off. “We'll have them immediately. And if you know of any other tradesman who would be prepared to assist, please send him to us.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Stabb agreed thoughtfully, his face failing to mask a few rapid calculations.

Further deliberations were prevented by the arrival of several bales of straw and canvas sheets, old sails and sacking, anything that might be used to form acceptable beds, and blankets to cover them.

Hester left to set about procuring fuel for the two potbellied black stoves, which must be kept alight as much of the time as possible, not only for warmth but in order to boil water and cook gruel, or whatever other food was obtainable for anyone who might he well enough to take nourish- ment. Typhoid being a disease of the intestines, that might not be many, but if any survived the worst of it, they would need strengthening after the crisis. And fluid of any sort was of the utmost importance. Frequently it was what made the difference between life and death.

Meat, milk and fruit were unobtainable, as were green vegetables. They might be fortunate with potatoes, although it was a difficult season for them. They would probably have to make do with bread, dried peas and tea, like everyone else in the area. They might find a little bacon, although one had to be very careful. Frequently meat of any sort came from animals which had died of disease, but even then it was extremely scarce. In most families it was only the working man who had such luxuries. It was necessary for everyone's survival that he maintain as much of his strength as he could.

Patients were brought in over the next hours, and indeed all through the night, sometimes one at a time, sometimes several. There was little even Kristian could do for them, except try to keep them as clean and as comfortable as possible with such limited facilities, to wash them with cool water and vinegar to keep the fever down. Several quite quickly lapsed into delirium.

All night, Hester, Callandra and Enid Ravensbrook walked between the makeshift pallets carrying bowls of water and cloths. Kristian had returned to the hospital where he practiced. Mary and another woman went back and forth emptying the ironmonger's buckets into the cesspool and returning. At about half past one there was some easing and Hester took the opportunity to prepare a hot gruel and use half of one of the bottles of gin to clean some dishes and utensils.

There was a noise in the doorway and she looked up to see Mary come limping in carrying two pails of water she had drawn from the well in the next street. In the candlelight she looked like a grotesque milkmaid, her shoulders bent, her hair blowing over her face from the wind and rain outside. Her plain stuff dress was wet across the top and her skirts trailed in the mud. She lived locally and had come to help because her sister was one of those afflicted. She set the pails down with an involuntary grunt of relief, then smiled at Hester.

“There y'are, miss. Bit o' rain in 'em, but I s'pose that don't 'urt none.

Yer want them 'ot?”

“Yes, I'll add them to this,” Hester accepted, indicating the cauldron she was stirring on top of one of the potbellied stoves.

“Were it like this in the Crimea?” Mary asked in a husky whisper, just in case some poor creature should be sleeping rather than insensible. “Yes, a bit,” Hester replied. “Except, of course, we had gunshot wounds as well, and amputations, and gangrene. But we had lots of fever too.” “Think I'd like to 'ave bin there,” Mary said, stretching and bending her back after the weight of the water. “Gotta be better than 'ere. Nearly married a sol'jer once.” She smiled fleetingly at the memory of romance. “Then I went and married Ernie instead. Just a brickie, 'e were, but sort o' gentle.” She sniffed. “ 'E'd a' never made the army. 'Is legs was bad. Rickets Wen 'e were a kid. Does that to yer, rickets does.” She stretched again and moved closer to the stove, her wet skirts slapping against her legs, her boots squelching. “Died o' consumption, 'e did. 'E could read, could Ernie. Captain o' the Men o' Death, 'e called it. Consumption, I mean. Read that somewhere, 'e did.” She eyed the gruel and lifted one of the pails to pour in a gallon of water to thin it.

“Thank you,” Hester acknowledged. “He sounds special.”

“'E were,” Mary said stoically. “Miss 'im I do, poor bleeder. Me sister Dora wanted to get out of 'ere. Never thought it'd be in a coffin, leastways not yet. Not that there's many as gets out ter anythink much different. There were Ginny Motson. Pretty, she were, an' smart as yer like. Dunno wot 'appened to 'er, nor were she went, but up west somewhere.

Real bettered 'erself, she did. Learned ter talk proper, an' Wave like a lady, or least summink like.”

Hester refrained from speculating that it was probably into a brothel. The dream of freedom was too precious to destroy.

“Reckon as she got married,” Mary went on. “'Ope so. Liked 'er I did. D'yer want more water, miss?”

“Not yet, thank you.”

“Oh-there's someone sick, poor devil.” Mary darted forward to pick up a pan and go to assist. Enid came out of the shadows on the far side, her face white, her thick and naturally wavy hair piled a little crooked, and a long splash of candle tallow on the bosom of her dress.

“The little boy at the end is very weak,” she said huskily. “I don't think he'll last the night. I almost wish he'd go quickly, to ease his suffering, and yet when he does, I'll wish he hadn't.” She sniffed and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Isn't it ridiculous? I first saw him only a few hours ago, and yet I care so much it twists inside me. I've never even heard him speak.”

“Time has nothing to do with it,” Hester replied in a whisper, adding salt and sugar liberally to the gruel. It was necessary to replenish what the body lost. Her own memories crowded her mind, soldiers she had seen for perhaps only an hour or two, and yet their agonized faces remained in her memory, the courage with which some of them bore their wounds and the breaking of their own bodies. One was sharp before her vision even now. She could see his blood-smeared features superimposed in the cauldron of gruel she was stirring, the smile he forced on his lips, his fair mustache and the mangled mass where his right shoulder had been. He had bled to death, and there had been nothing she could do to help him.

“I suppose not.” Enid picked up the dishes, wrinkled her nose at the lingering odor of the gin, and began to ladle out a little gruel into about six of them. “I don't know who can eat, but we'd better try.” She regarded it unhappily. “It's very thin. Haven't we any more oatmeal?”

“It's better thin,” Hester answered. “They can't take much nourishment; it's just the liquid that's of value.”

Enid drew in her breath, then perhaps realized why they did not simply use water. She would have gagged to drink it herself, more especially knowing where it came from. In silence she took the dishes and spoons and began the slow, distressing task of helping one person after another to swallow a mouthful and try to keep it.

The night wore on slowly. The smells and sounds of illness filled the huge room. Shadows passed to and fro in the flickering candlelight as the tallow burned down. About three in the morning Kristian returned. Callandra came over to Hester. There were dark smudges of weariness under her eyes and her skirts were soiled where she had been helping someone in extreme distress.

“Go and take a few hours' sleep,” she said quietly. “Kristian and I can manage.” She said it so naturally, and yet Hester knew what it meant to her to be able to speak their names together in such a way. “We'll call you towards morning.”

“A couple of hours,” Hester insisted. “Call me about five. What about Enid?”

“I've persuaded her.” Callandra smiled faintly. “Now go on. You can't stay up indefinitely. If you don't rest you'll be no use. You've told me that often enough.”

Hester gave a rueful little shrug. There was no honesty or purpose in denial.

“Watch the boy over there on the left.” She gestured towards a figure lying crumpled, half on one side, about twenty feet away. “He's got a dislocated shoulder. I've put it back, but it slips out if he leans on it when he sits up to retch.”

“Poor little creature.” Callandra sighed. “He looks no more than ten or twelve, but it's hard to tell.”

“He said he was sixteen,” Hester replied. “But I don't suppose he can count.”

“Did it happen recently? The shoulder, I mean?”

“I asked him. He said he got across Caleb Stone and got beaten for his cheek.”

Callandra winced. “There's a woman on the far end with a knife scar on her face. She said that was Caleb Stone too. She didn't say why. He seems to be a very violent man. She sounded still afraid of him.”

“Well, I don't suppose we'll see him in here,” Hester said dryly. “Unless he gets typhoid. Nobody comes to pesthouses to collect debts, however large-or to exact revenge either.” She glanced down the dark cavern of the warehouse. “No revenge could be worse than this,” she said softly. “Go and rest,” Callandra ordered. “Or you won't be fit to work when I sleep.”

Hester obeyed gratefully. She had not dared to think how tired she was, or she could not have continued. Now at last she was free to go into the small outer room, where there was a pile of extra straw, and let herself sink into it in the darkness, away from duty, the sounds of distress and the constant awareness of other people's suffering. For a moment she could forget it all and let exhaustion and oblivion overtake her.

But the straw prickled. It had been a long time since Scutari, and she had forgotten the feeling of overwhelming helplessness in the face of such enormity of pain, and she could not so easily blank it from her mind. Her ears still strained for the sounds and her body tensed, as if in spite of everything Callandra could say, she really ought to go and do what she could to help.

That would be futile. She would become too worn out to take her turn when Callandra and Kristian needed to sleep. She must fill her mind with something else deliberately, force herself to think of some subject which would overtake even this.

It came unbidden to her mind, in spite of all her intentions to the contrary. Perhaps it was the fact that she was lying awkwardly in a small, strange room, close to the end of her strength, both physically and emotionally, but thoughts of Monk filled her, almost as if she could feel the warmth of his body beside her, smell his skin, and for once in their lives, know that there was no quarrel, no gulf, no barrier between them.

She flushed hot to remember how utterly she had given herself to him in that one consuming kiss. All her heart and mind and will had been in it, all the things she could never ever have said to him. She had not seen him since the end of the Farraline case. They had continued in the heat of that desperate conclusion, so involved in it that there had been no time to feel more than a glancing moment of awkwardness.

Now if they met again it would be different. There would be memories neither of them could ever discard or forget. Whatever he might say, whatever his manner now, she knew that for that moment when they had faced death in the closed room, he had left behind all pretense, all his precious and careful self-protection, and had admitted in touch of aching and desperate tenderness that he too knew what it was to love.

Not that she deluded herself the barriers would not return. Of course they would. Rescue, and a taking up of life again, had brought back all the differences, the shadows which kept them apart. She was not the kind of woman who excited him. She was too quarrelsome, too independent, too direct. She did not even know how to flirt or to charm, to make him feel gallant and protective, let alone romantic.

And he was too often ill-tempered. He was certainly ruthless, highly critical, and his past was full of darkness and fears and ties which even he did not know, perhaps of violence he only half thought in nightmare, of cruelties he imagined but for which he had no proof-except what others told him, not in words but in the way they reacted to him, the flicker of old pain, humiliations from his keener, faster mind and his sharper tongue. She knew all the arguments, just like the prickling straw ends poking into her arms now, scratching her cheek and spearing through the thin stuff of her dress. And yet just like the sweet oblivion closing around her, the memory of his touch obliterated it all until she was so tired she could sleep.