The Shifting Tide

TEN

On the day that Monk was visited by Sutton, Margaret was in her bedroom preparing to return to the clinic. She meant to give Hester at least one night’s uninterrupted sleep. She was sitting at her dressing table when her mother knocked very briefly, and without waiting, came in.

“Margaret, my dear,” she said, closing the door behind her. “You must not give up hope, you know. You have a difficult nature, and you certainly have an unfortunate tongue, but you are not unpleasing to look at, and at the moment your reputation is unmarked.” Her tone altered very slightly. “You are from an acceptable family whose reputation is unblemished. Just a little care, a great deal more discretion about your opinion, a degree of becoming meekness, and you could be very happy. Your intelligence does not need to be your undoing, although I admit I am worried. You seem to have unusually little sense as to when you should display it, and concerning what!”

Margaret would have liked to pretend that she had no idea what her mother was talking about, but since it seemed Lady Hordern had carried out her threat, she could not hope to be believed. She could not think of any answer that her mother would like, so she said nothing, just continued to pin up her hair, a trifle crookedly and too tightly at the back. She could feel the pins digging into her head. She would end up having to take them out again, which was a waste of time.

Her mother’s voice became sharper. “I assume from the fact that you are wearing that shabby blue dress again that you are thinking of going to that miserable institution in the slums! Good works are very worthy, Margaret, but they are no substitute for a social life. I would greatly prefer that you did something connected with the church. They have lots of suitable endeavors where you could work with people, well-bred people whose backgrounds and interests are like your own.”

We are not discussing it, Margaret thought. You are telling me your views, as usual. But she did not say so. “We may have backgrounds in common, Mama, but no interests. And I am more concerned with where I am going than where I have come from.”

“So am I,” Mrs. Ballinger said tartly, meeting her daughter’s eyes in the mirror. “And where you are going, young lady, is onto the shelf, if you do not look to your behavior and bring Sir Oliver to the question very soon. He is eminently suitable—most of the time. You will not do better, and obviously he is very taken with you, but it is fast becoming time he declared his intentions and spoke to your father. All it requires is for you to spend less time at that wretched clinic and more paying attention to him. Now, take off that unbecoming dress, put on something of a nice color and a proper cut for this season—your father provides you with sufficient means—and go to some social event where you may be seen.” She drew in her breath. “Nothing concentrates a man’s mind so much as the realization that he is not the only one to appreciate your qualities.”

Margaret turned around, stung to an anger almost beyond her ability to bite her words back. “Mama . . .”

“Oh! And there is a most reprehensible-looking person to see you,” Mrs. Ballinger went on. “I have had him wait in Mrs. Timpson’s sitting room.” She was referring to the housekeeper. “Please ask him not to call again. I would not have permitted him to remain this time, but he insisted he had some kind of message for you from Mrs. Monk. I think you should restrict your association with that woman. She is not entirely respectable. Your father agrees with me. Mr. . . . whatever his name is . . . is waiting for you. Don’t detain him. I am sure he has drains to clean, or something . . .”

Margaret was too aware of acute unease to take the time to respond to that last remark. Why would Hester send anyone with a message unless there were something seriously wrong?

“Thank you,” she said curtly, and went out almost at a run, leaving her mother standing in the middle of the bedroom. She went through the upstairs door to the servants’ quarters and down the staircase to the housekeeper’s sitting room. She expected to see Squeaky Robinson there, and was startled when the man standing on the mat in front of the fire was not he. And yet he was someone she had seen before, she simply could not remember when. He was lean, with squarish shoulders and a very weary face which at this moment looked marked by a deep and irrevocable sadness.

“Evenin’, miss,” he said as she closed the door behind her. “I got a message as I gotter tell yer, an’ it’s fer you an’ nob’dy else, no matter wot. I admit as I’d a told yer just wot I ’as ter, but Miss ’Ester said as I gotter tell yer the truth, an’ swear yer in Gawd’s name as yer’ll tell no one else.”

Margaret felt a flicker of fear tighten in her throat. “What is it?” Now she remembered who he was: Sutton, the rat catcher. “What’s happened? Is Hester all right?”

“In a manner o’ speakin’, yes she is,” he answered. “But in another manner, nobody in’t all right. I gotter tell yer, miss, an’ yer gotter tell no one else, or yer could kill ’em all.” His eyes were intent on hers, and there was a fear in him which now gripped her also, so hard she could scarcely draw in her breath.

“What is it? I swear—I swear anything you like, just tell me!”

“Ruth Clark died, miss, but it weren’t pneumonia like yer all thought. It were the plague.”

“The plague?” Margaret said incredulously. “You mean like London in 1665, before the great fire?”

“No, miss, I mean like in 1348, the Black Death wot killed near ’alf o’ the world.”

She thought for a hysterical instant that he was making some stupid joke, then she saw the truth in his eyes and knew that he meant it. The room swam around her. Before she realized it the chair caught her awkwardly as she fell into it and gripped the arms to keep herself from fainting completely.

“I’m sorry, miss,” Sutton apologized. “I only told yer ’cos I ’ave ter. Yer can’t go back there, an’ Miss ’Ester can’t come out.”

She lifted up her head and the room steadied. “Don’t be absurd. I’ve got to go back in. I can’t leave Hester to cope with that on her own!”

“There in’t no copin’, miss,” he said very quietly. “In’t much we can do ’ceptin’ see as they ’as food an’ water, coal, potash, an’ a spot o’ brandy. An’ that nob’dy else goes in nor guesses why. That’s about the biggest thing, ’cos if they does, sure as night an’ day, someone’ll stir ’em up ter go an’ mob the place an’ set a light ter it. Fire’s ’bout the only thing ter make sure o’ the plague, an’ they knows that. Was the great fire o’ London ’as killed the pneumonic in 1666, but yer can’t set fire ter the ’ole o’ England.”

She stared at him, wanting to disbelieve, trying to—and failing.

“Yer more use to ’er outside,” he said with sudden gentleness. “She’s gonna need all the ’elp out ’ere as she can find. An’ there in’t nob’dy but you. Mr. Monk’s got all ’is work cut out ter find where the plague come from in the first place.”

“Louvain!” she said quickly. “Clement Louvain brought her in.”

“Yeah, ’e knows. But ’e’s gotter do all ’e can ter find it an’ stop the others wot got it. I’m goin’ back in ter ’elp wi’ things inside.”

“You aren’t a nurse!” she protested.

His face tightened. “In’t much I can do fer that, but there’ll be bodies ter get out an’ find burial fer, wi’out nob’dy seein’ wot they died of. An’ we gotter keep ’em wot’s there from leavin’ . . .”

“How can you do that if they insist? You can’t keep them at gunpoint!”

“No, miss, men wi’ dogs is much better. Sleep wi’ one eye open; ’em dogs ’ear a footstep softer’n a snowflake landin’. Give ’em the word an’ they’ll tear yer ter bits. Rip yer throat out, ’em pit bulls will, if they ’ave ter.”

“Who? What men?”

“Friends o’ mine,” he said more gently. “They won’t ’urt nob’dy if they don’t ’ave ter. But we can’t let ’em out.”

“I know . . . I know. But if they say even . . .”

“They dunno it’s plague. They think it’s cholera.”

She leaned forward and put her head in her hands. It was too big, too hideous. She had read about the great plague in school, but it had been something unreal, just a date to memorize, like 1066 and the Battle of Hastings, or 1815 and Waterloo. It had shaped her country, but it had no reality today.

Now, suddenly, it had. She must have courage. She must be as brave as Hester was, and she must do it without leaning on anyone else, not even Rathbone. She lifted her head and looked at Sutton. “Of course. I shall start raising more money immediately—tonight. Tell Hester I shall do everything I can. Will you be back?”

“No,” he said simply. “When yer get money, buy wot yer reckon we’ll need an’ bring it ter the back. Tell the men ’oo yer are, an’ they’ll take it ter the back door an’ leave it. If there’s any message left for yer, they’ll bring it back, so wait for ’em.”

“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Sutton.” She stood up, surprised to find her head clear.

There was admiration in his eyes. “Yer welcome, miss.”

“Would you like a cup of tea before you leave? And something to eat?” she offered.

“Yeah, but it in’t fittin’, an’ I in’t got time. But it was a right gracious thing ter ask. Good night, miss.” And he went to the door and out of it with a weary, silent tread, and a moment later he was gone.

Margaret went back upstairs slowly, holding on to the banister to keep her balance and stopping on the landing as if she were out of breath. She was barely aware of her hands and feet, and the familiar space with its Chinese screen and jardiniere with flowers seemed blurred and far away. Plague! One word with so vast a meaning the whole world was changed. Was it really the right thing to stay outside as he had told her, or should she be there to do the real work, above all to support Hester so she did not face this horror alone?

No. There was no time for personal need or indulgence. They were troops facing an enemy without feeling or discrimination, one that could kill every human being in Europe—or anywhere, for that matter. The wants or hungers, the pain of one individual could not matter. She must stay outside and raise money, take them supplies, keep them from being cut off from all help. And she should start now. It would be even harder than before because she must watch her tongue all the time. She could not even tell Rathbone the truth, and that silence would cost her dearly, but she knew why Sutton had asked it.

She straightened her shoulders and went back to her own room. Her sister had invited her to go to a betrothal party this evening. The motive behind it was the same one as always; everybody’s mind would be on marriage, an odd, twisting irony that if Rathbone did not love her enough to propose to her, accepting her dedication to the clinic as well, then she would remain single and make her own way in the best manner she could. She would not give up other friendships or freedom of conscience in order to have social status or financial security.

And she would swallow humble pie this evening and change her mind about the invitation. She went downstairs at a run to request her mother to send the footman, posthaste, with a message to beg Marielle to wait for her. She would be there as soon as she could dress appropriately and have the carriage convey her.

Her mother was too delighted with victory to question it, and obliged with alacrity.

Margaret had dressed with more flair and high fashion than she normally wished to; it was not really to her taste. This gown in warm pinks with a touch of plum was her mother’s choice, and it was more dramatic than she cared to be, but it would draw attention to her, and tonight that was what she needed. She acknowledged Marielle’s rather fulsome compliments as graciously as she could, and entered the party with her head high and her teeth gritted.

She was immediately welcomed by her hostess, a large lady full of bustling goodwill. She had a charming smile and a gown up to the minute in fashion.

“How delightful to see you, Miss Ballinger,” she said, after having welcomed Marielle and her husband. “It has been far too long.” Her wide eyes and the lift of curiosity in her voice made it a question. Some explanation of her absence was required.

“Yes, it has,” Margaret agreed, forcing herself to smile. “I’m afraid I have been involved with work for a charity which has consumed my interest so much I have lost track of time.”

“Oh, good works are most admirable, I’m sure,” her hostess said quickly. “But you must not rob us of your company altogether. And of course your own welfare must also be considered.”

Margaret knew exactly what she meant. It was a young woman’s duty to find a husband for herself, and not remain dependent upon her parents. “I am sure you are right,” she replied, trying to look sweet and agreeable, and finding it required more of an effort than she had anticipated. “And this is such a happy occasion, we shall all feel uplifted by it.”

“Oh, yes!” And her hostess proceeded to sing the praises of her future son-in-law without wishing for any response except perhaps a little envy.

As soon as she had exhibited all the wished-for signs, Margaret excused herself and, with Marielle, moved to the next compatible group of people. Marielle introduced her, with the greatest of ease allowing them to understand that she was unmarried.

Margaret cringed inside. Knowing she needed Marielle’s help, she bore it with grace, but great difficulty. Once or twice it threatened to become unendurable as her mind was filled with a picture of Hester with her sleeves rolled up, her hair falling out of its pins. She could see her face exhausted with days and nights of snatched sleep, unable either to save the sick or to run away from the horror and the death, even had she wanted to. She was trapped, perhaps until she too succumbed to the most terrible of diseases. She might never leave that place, never see Monk again, or anyone whom she loved. What on earth was a little embarrassment to put up with?

“I am sure we have not met before, Miss Ballinger,” a young man was saying to her. He had been introduced as the Honorable Barker Soames. He had floppy brown hair and a mildly superior air of good humor. His tone invited explanation as to why not. His friend Sir Robert Stark was paying only half attention; the rest was on a young lady with auburn hair who was pretending not to look at him while adjusting her fan.

Margaret forced herself to pay attention. She wanted to dismiss him with a cool remark, but her purpose overrode everything else, and she bit her tongue. “We have not,” she replied with a charming smile. “I should have recalled it. I am always aware of those I have spoken to on serious matters, and I cannot imagine you are interested in trivia.”

He was startled. It was certainly not the answer he had expected, and it took him several seconds to adjust his thoughts. “Why no, of course not. I . . . I am concerned with all manner of . . . of subjects of gravity.” Gravity was the greatest of virtues, and he was as aware of it as she. The very mention of it conjured up a picture of the late and still deeply mourned Prince Albert.

“To be of worth, it is absolutely necessary, don’t you agree?” she pursued. Then, before he could answer and divert the course of the conversation to something easier, she hurried on. “I have been much involved in raising money to fund medicine for the poor and otherwise disadvantaged. We are so incredibly fortunate! We have homes, food, warmth, and we have the means to keep ourselves from falling into the spiral of despair.”

He frowned, unprepared for the degree of gravity she was touching. He had intended theory; she was speaking of reality. It made him uncomfortable.

She saw it in his shift of position, the way his weight moved backwards a little. She could not afford to be sensitive, either for him or for herself. She gazed very briefly around the room with its bright, chattering company, the plump arms of the women, the pink cheeks, and the freshly barbered faces of the men. Then for an instant she saw it in her mind as it would be if they failed; the wasted flesh, the fever, the despair, the sick no one dared go near to nurse, the dead no one buried. In weeks these people could be so many corpses, their laughter silent.

She forced the image away.

“I admire generosity enormously,” she went on. “Don’t you? I see it as a great part of Christian duty.” Now was no time to be squeamish about coercion. She added the final twist. “Of course, within the bounds of what we can afford! The last thing I should wish is for anyone to feel they have to give what is beyond their means. That would be quite cruel. Debt must be such a misery.”

The Honorable Barker Soames looked urgently at his friend, hoping for rescue. However, his friend was now giving Margaret his full attention, and tasting a certain enjoyment in the situation.

“For the sick, you say, Miss Ballinger? What particular charity would that be? One of the African ones, I daresay?” he asked.

“No, it is one here at home,” Margaret answered, now far more careful. She was perfectly happy to bend the truth a little—the need was desperate—but she did not wish to be caught out. “For young women and children in the Farringdon Road area. It is a clinic that treats injuries, and at the moment is trying to give food and shelter to many struck down with pneumonia. It is most kind of you to care sufficiently to take an interest.” She put a warmth into her voice as if he had already offered a gift.

Sir Robert smiled. “Where may we donate, Miss Ballinger? Would you be able to see that it reached the right people if we gave it to you?”

“Thank you, Sir Robert,” she said with relief and a gratitude so deep it lit her face. For a moment she was truly beautiful. “I shall buy the food and coal myself, but of course I am more than happy to send you receipts, so you know what we have done.”

“Then please accept five pounds,” he replied. “And I’m sure Soames can at least match that, can’t you?” He turned to Soames, who was looking distinctly cornered.

Margaret did not care in the slightest. “That is very kind of you,” she said quickly. “It will do a great deal of good.”

With intense reluctance Soames obeyed. In a wave of triumph Margaret moved on. The next encounter did not go as fortunately, but by the end of the evening she had elicited promises of a reasonably large sum.

The following morning she took the money she had gained, went to the coal merchant, and bought an entire wagonload. She went with the delivery man to Portpool Lane, instructing him as he tipped it all down the chute from the street into the cellar.

She stood in the sharp wind and stared at the walls of the house. It was damp and bitterly cold, and the air smelled of soot and the sour odor of drains, but it was not infected. She breathed it in with a sense of guilt. Hester was only a few yards away behind the blank bricks, but it could have been another world. She looked up at the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone, but there was only blurred movement, no more than light and shadow.

The wind stung her cheeks. She wanted to shout, just to let someone know how much she cared, but it would be worse than pointless; it could be dangerous. Slowly she turned away and walked back towards the coalman. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I’ll let you know when they need more.”

Next she purchased oatmeal, salt, two jars of honey, a sack of potatoes, and several strings of onions, and carried them back to give them to one of the men standing discreetly under the eaves in the yard at Portpool Lane. She also went to the butcher and bought as many large bones as he had, and carried them back. Again she gave them to one of the men with the dogs, broad-chested, wide-jawed creatures with sturdy legs and unblinking eyes.

In the evening she accepted, at ungraciously short notice, an invitation to a recital. She accompanied a young woman who was more of an acquaintance than a friend, along with her parents and brother. It was an awkward party, but she was only too aware that last night’s success might not be repeated for many days, and while ten pounds was a great deal of money, it had already been used.

The music was not the kind she particularly cared for, and her mind was solely on gaining more support, possibly even recruiting someone else to help in the effort. She found herself in a series of brief and unsatisfactory conversations and was losing heart for the evening when during the second interval she saw Oliver Rathbone. He was standing at the edge of a group of people in earnest discussion, and apparently in the company of a gentleman of portly dimensions with fluffy gray hair, but he was looking at Margaret.

She felt a surge of pleasure just seeing his face and knowing that he was as aware of her as she was of him. Suddenly the lights seemed brighter, the room warmer, and she looked away, smiling to herself, and quite deliberately setting about working her way closer to where he was.

It was another ten minutes before he managed to introduce her to his guest, a Mr. Huntley, who was both a client and a social acquaintance. It was several moments further before Mr. Huntley could be directed to converse with someone else, and Margaret found herself alone with Rathbone.

He regarded her gown, which was cut with ostentatious flattery. She saw in his face that he was uncertain whether he cared for it. It was uncharacteristic of her, and the change disconcerted him.

“You look very well,” he observed, watching her eyes for the meaning behind whatever words she should use to respond.

She longed to be able to tell him the thoughts and the fears that drove her, but she had promised Sutton not to. Rathbone of all people would care about Hester. It was a sort of lying not to tell him, but she was bound.

“I am well,” she replied, meeting his gaze, but without inner honesty. She had to go on. It was not possible to tell how long they would have in which to talk. The music would begin again soon, Huntley might return, or any of a dozen other people could interrupt them. “But I am very exercised at trying to raise sufficient money for the clinic.”

He frowned very slightly. “Does it really need so . . . so much of your time?” He said the word time, but she knew he was thinking of the change in her, the single-mindedness that absorbed her now so much that she wore clothes to please society and to be noticed. She was at a function she did not care for, and he knew she did not. The familiar in her was slipping away from him, and he was unhappy. She ached to be able to tell him why it mattered more than anything else, or anyone’s personal happiness.

“Just at the moment, it does,” she answered.

“Why? What is different from a few days ago?” he asked.

How could she answer? She had expected the question, but she was still unprepared. Whatever she said, it could only be a lie. Even if she explained to him afterwards, would he understand, or would he feel that she ought to have trusted him? He had been part of everything to do with the clinic, even turning the tables on Squeaky Robinson in order to get the building. He was proud of the clinic and what it did. He had earned the right to be trusted. But she had promised the rat catcher, so in effect she had promised Hester.

He was waiting, the unease in him growing.

“We are just short of money,” she answered. “There are big bills and we have to pay.” It was an evasion. She saw in his face instantly that he knew it. She was not good at lying, and she had never done it before to him. Her candor was one of the qualities he loved in her most, and she knew it more sharply just as she felt him slip from her. He was hurt. Would she lose him over this?

She turned away, her throat tight and tears prickling her eyes. This was ridiculous. There was no time for such personal self-pity.

He started to say something, and then changed his mind also.

She looked back at him, waiting.

There was a sudden hush in the room.

Huntley came back. “I say, Sir Oliver, they’re about to start again. Do you think we might excuse ourselves before it . . . Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss—er—I didn’t mean to . . .” He trailed off, not knowing how to extricate himself.

She could at least help him. “Not at all,” she said. She wanted to smile at him, but her throat was too tight. “It’s a bit tedious, isn’t it? I really think the flute by itself has limited appeal.”

His face flooded with relief. He was completely unaware of any other tension. “Thank you so much. You are most understanding.” He turned to Rathbone.

Rathbone hesitated.

“Please.” Margaret gestured towards the exit so obviously in Huntley’s thoughts. “I must return to my hostess or she will begin to realize my lack of enthusiasm.”

Rathbone had no choice but to go with Huntley, leaving Margaret hurting as if she had been physically burned.

Rathbone spent a miserable evening and went home as soon as he could excuse himself. Something had changed in Margaret and it disturbed him profoundly. He woke up several times during the night, puzzled and increasingly unhappy. Had he been mistaken in her all the time? Was she not the startlingly honest person he had thought her—more than that, he had felt he knew! Certainly the clinic would have bills, but suddenly so many, and so large?

Even if that were true, it was not at the core of it. She was lying. He did not know why, or exactly about what, but the honesty between them was compromised. Her manner of dress was different, bolder, more like everyone else’s, as if she cared what society thought of her and without any explanation she had needed to conform.

For that matter, why had she gone to the recital at all? She disliked that type of function as much as he did. He was there only because Huntley had invited him and it was a politic move that he accept.

The morning was little better, and brought no ease to his mind. He went to his office as usual, and put aside personal matters with the discipline of concentration he had developed over the years. But all the strength of will at his disposal, intense as it was, could not rid him of his sense of confusion, and even of loss.

It was quite late in the afternoon, with the light already fading as rain set in, when his clerk came to inform him that Mr. William Monk had called to see him. It was on a matter he regarded as so urgent that he refused to be put off by the fact that Sir Oliver had other commitments for the rest of the day. He simply would not leave; in fact, he would not even be seated.

Rathbone glanced at his watch. “You had better ask Mr. Styles to wait a moment or two. Apologize to him and say that an emergency has arisen, and send Monk in. Warn him that I have only ten minutes, at the most.”

“Yes, Sir Oliver,” the clerk said obediently, his lips pursed. He did not approve of alteration to arrangements, particularly those made with clients who paid, which he knew that Monk did not. But he also loved order, and obedience was the first rule of his life, so he did as he was told.

The moment Monk came in Rathbone knew that whatever had brought him was extremely serious. He was barely recognizable. His usual elegance had vanished; he looked more like a man of substance fallen on hard times, perhaps sunk to the edges of the criminal world. His trousers were shapeless, his boots built for endurance rather than grace, his jacket such as a laborer might wear, and it was definitely soiled, and with a tear in the sleeve.

But all that Rathbone noticed at a glance. It was Monk’s face that shocked him and held his attention. His skin had no color at all beneath the dark stubble of his beard, and his eyes were hollow, the shadows around them almost like bruises.

Monk closed the door behind himself, having already sent the clerk away. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Rathbone felt a flicker of alarm. Surely if something had happened to Hester, Margaret would have told him? He had seen her only yesterday evening, and she had said nothing.

“What is it?” he asked a little abruptly.

Monk took a deep breath, but he did not sit down, as if he would find the slightest bodily comfort impossible. “I had taken a job on the river,” he began, speaking swiftly, as if the whole outline of what he was going to say had been rehearsed. “On October twenty-one, to be precise. It was to find some ivory that had been stolen from the Maude Idris while she was moored on the river waiting for a wharf at which to unload.”

Rathbone was puzzled; it was not Monk’s usual type of work. It must be a favor he owed, or more likely a financial pressure had driven him to accept it.

“Why weren’t the River Police involved?” he asked. “They’re good, and as long as you stay clear of the Revenue men, for the most part they’re honest. Get the odd bad one, but they’re few and far between.”

A shadow crossed Monk’s eyes. “The issue that matters is that when the theft was discovered, so was the body of the night watchman from the crew, with his head beaten in—”

“Just a minute,” Rathbone interrupted. He could feel the tension in Monk so powerful it was like a live thing in the air, but looking for stolen goods rather than reporting and pursuing murder was so unlike Monk he needed to be certain he had grasped the facts truly. “Are you saying the man was killed by the thieves, or not? Was the shipowner trying to conceal it? Who is he, anyway?”

“I’m telling you the facts!” Monk snapped back. “Just listen!” His voice all but choked on the emotion within him. A flicker of self-consciousness appeared and vanished. He did not apologize, but it was implicit. “Clement Louvain. He showed me the body of the man, named Hodge. His skull was stoven in at the back. I saw the ledge inside the hold where he was found, and there was very little blood. I wasn’t certain if that was because he had actually been killed on deck and then carried down there, but I couldn’t find any blood on deck either. I was told he had a woollen hat on, and that might have absorbed a lot of it.” Monk took a deep breath. “Hodge was buried properly, as an accident. But the morgue attendant made a record of his injuries, and Louvain gave me his word, in writing, which I have, that once the ivory was recovered he would see that Hodge’s murderer was caught and tried. He just needed to get his money first, or he could lose everything.”

Rathbone found that impossible to believe. “Why—” he started.

Monk interrupted his question. “If his rival buys the clipper coming up for sale, then he will be first home in every voyage. First home gets the prize; second gets the leavings, if any.”

“I see.” Rathbone was beginning to understand more. “Now he has gone back on it, and you want me to pursue it in law?”

The ghost of a smile crossed Monk’s face, but so grim it was worse than nothing at all. “No. The alleged murderer is in custody. He took me to the ivory, and he admits he was the only one to go on board and below deck. The other man stayed above and couldn’t have killed Hodge, didn’t even know he was there. But Gould swears he found Hodge senseless but unharmed. He thought he was just dead drunk. I believe him. And I promised I would get him the best defense I could.”

Rathbone was now deeply troubled. Monk was the least gullible of men, and this story was absurd, on the face of it. There had to be something else of crucial importance that Monk was not telling him. Why not? Rathbone leaned back against his desk. It was uncomfortable, but while Monk was standing he did not feel able to sit. “Why do you believe him?” he asked.

Monk hesitated.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know the truth!” Rathbone said with an edge that surprised himself. Something of the darkness inside Monk was disturbing him, although he had heard nothing yet except the story of a very ordinary robbery, and a concealed murder. That was it—why would Monk, of all men, hide a murder in this way? “The rest of it!” he demanded. “For heaven’s sake, Monk, haven’t you learned to trust me yet?”

Monk flinched. “You don’t know what you’re asking.” Now his voice was low. His eyes were hollow, only horror left.

Rathbone was truly afraid. “I’m asking for the truth.” He felt his throat so tight the words were forced out. “Why do you think this man is innocent? Nothing you’ve said so far makes sense of it. If he didn’t kill Hodge, who did and why? Are you saying it was one of the crew, or Louvain himself?” He jerked his hands, slicing the air. “Why would he? Why would a shipowner give a damn about one of his crewmen? What is it? Blackmail, mutiny, something personal? What would a shipowner have personal with a seaman? I’m no use to you half blind, Monk!”

Monk stood perfectly still, a momentous struggle raging inside him so clearly that Rathbone could only stand and watch, helpless and with a cold hand tightening inside him.

The clerk knocked on the door.

“Not yet!” Rathbone said tensely.

Monk focused his eyes; his face was even whiter than before. “You must listen . . .” he said hoarsely, his voice a whisper.

Rathbone felt himself go cold. He brushed past Monk to the door, opened it and called for the clerk. The man appeared almost instantly.

“Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day,” Rathbone told him. “An emergency has arisen. Apologize and tell them I will see them at their earliest convenience.” He saw the man’s face crease in bewilderment and dismay. “Do it, Coleridge,” he ordered. “Tell them I am very sorry, but the circumstances are beyond my control. And do not interrupt me or come to the door for any reason until I send for you.”

“Are you all right, Sir Oliver?” Coleridge asked with deep concern.

“Yes, I am. Just deliver my message, thank you.” And without waiting he went back into his office and closed the door. “Now . . .” he said to Monk. “Tell me the truth.”

Monk seemed to have ceased struggling with his decision. He was even sitting down, as if exhaustion had finally taken him over. He looked so ashen Rathbone was afraid he was ill. “Brandy?” Rathbone offered.

“Not yet,” Monk declined.

This time it was Rathbone who could not sit down.

Monk began, looking not at Rathbone but somewhere in the distance. “Shortly after engaging me, Louvain took a woman to the clinic in Portpool Lane. I don’t know whether he knew of Hester from me, or if he knew of the clinic before, and possibly that was why he hired me rather than someone else. Don’t interrupt me! He said the woman was the cast-off mistress of a friend, which may or may not be true.” He ran his hand over his face. “Three days ago, in the evening, a rat catcher called Sutton came to me at home with a message from Hester.” At last he looked up at Rathbone and the pain in his eyes was frightening. “The woman, Ruth Clark, had died, and in dressing her for the undertaker, Hester discovered buboes in her armpits and groin.”

Rathbone had no idea what he was talking about. “Buboes?” he said.

“Black swellings,” Monk answered, his voice cracking. “They’re called buboes—that’s where we get the word bubonic.” He stopped abruptly.

The silence was as dense as fog while very slowly the meaning of what he had said sank into Rathbone and filled him with indescribable horror.

Monk was staring at him.

“Bubonic?” Rathbone whispered. “You don’t . . . mean . . .” He could not say it.

Monk nodded almost imperceptibly.

“But . . . but that’s . . . medieval . . . it’s . . .” Rathbone stopped again, refusing to believe it. He could not get his breath; his heart was hammering and the room was swaying around him, the edges of his vision blurred. He reached out his hands to grasp the desk as he overbalanced sideways and sat down hard and awkwardly, oblivious of bruising himself. “You can’t have that . . . now! This is 1863! What do we do? How do they treat it? Who do we tell?”

“No one!” Monk said violently. He was between Rathbone and the door, and he looked as if he would physically prevent him from leaving, with force if necessary. “For God’s sake, Rathbone; Hester’s in there! If anyone got even an idea of it they’d mob the place and set fire to it! They’d be burned alive!”

“But we have to tell someone!” Rathbone protested. “The authorities. Doctors. We can’t treat it if no one knows!”

Monk leaned forward; his voice was shaking. “There is no treatment. Either they survive it or they don’t. All we can do is raise money to buy food, coal, and medicines for them. We have to contain it, at any cost at all. If we don’t, if even one person gets out carrying it, it will spread throughout London, throughout England, then the world. In the Middle Ages, before the Indian Empire or the opening up of America, it killed twenty-five million people in Europe alone. Imagine what it would do now! Do you see why we must tell no one?”

It was impossible, too hideous for the mind to grasp.

“No one!” Monk repeated. “They have men with pit bulls patrolling day and night, and anyone attempting to leave will be torn to pieces. Now do you see why I have to find out if the disease came in on the Maude Idris, and if Hodge died of the plague, and his head was beaten in so no one would think to look for any other cause of death? He was buried straightaway. I don’t know whether Louvain knew about him or the Clark woman or not. I have to find the source. I can’t let Gould be hanged for something he didn’t do, but not ever, even to save his life, can I tell what I know. Do you see?”

Rathbone found it almost impossible to move or speak. The room seemed to be far away from him, as if he were dreaming rather than seeing it. Monk’s face was the only steady thing in his sight, at once familiar and dreadful. Seconds ticked by in which he expected at any instant to wake up in a sweat and a tangle of bedclothes.

It did not happen. He heard hooves in the street outside, and the hiss of carriage wheels in the rain. Someone shouted. It was all real. There was no rescue, no escape.

“Do you see?” Monk repeated.

“Yes,” Rathbone replied at last. He was beginning to. There was no one to help; no one could. He frowned. “Nothing they can do? Doctors? Even now?”

“No.”

“What do you want from me?” He refused to visualize it; the reality was more than he could endure. He needed to be busy. It would excuse him from knowing anything else; he would be doing what he could. “Did you say the man’s name was Gould—the thief, I mean?”

“Yes. He’s held at Wapping. The man in charge is called Durban. He knows the truth.”

Rathbone was jolted. “The truth? You mean he knows whether Gould killed Hodge or not?”

“No! He knows how Ruth Clark died!” Monk said sharply. “He knows we have to find the rest of the crew from the Maude Idris. He and I have been looking, and we haven’t found any trace of them yet.”

“God Almighty! Aren’t they on the ship?” Rathbone exclaimed.

“No. The crew now is only skeleton, just four men, including Hodge. They were supposedly enough to guard it until it can come in for unloading,” Monk replied.

Rathbone gulped, his heart pounding in his chest. “Then they could be anywhere! Carrying . . .” He could not even say it.

“That’s why I haven’t time to search for the truth to clear Gould,” Monk answered, still looking at Rathbone steadily.

Rathbone started to ask what one man mattered when the whole continent was threatened with extinction, and in a manner more hideous than the worst nightmare imaginable. Then he knew that in its own way, it was the shred of sanity they had to cling to. It was one thing that perhaps was within their power, and in that they could hold on to reason, and hope. When he spoke his voice was rough-edged, as if his throat pained him. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll go and see him. If I can’t find out who did kill Hodge, at least I may be able to raise reasonable doubt. But isn’t there something else I can do? Anything . . .”

Monk blinked. There was not even the ghost of his usual humor in his face. “If you believe in any kind of God, I mean really believe, not as a Sunday conformity, you could try praying. Other than that, probably nothing. If you ask your friends for money for Portpool Lane, and you haven’t before, they’ll become suspicious, and we can’t afford that.”

Rathbone froze. Margaret might go to the clinic. He felt the blood draining from his body. “Margaret . . .” he whispered.

“She knows,” Monk said very quietly. “She won’t go in.”

Rathbone began to see the full horror of it. Hester was in Portpool Lane, imprisoned beyond all human help. Monk knew it, even as he tried to reassure Rathbone about Margaret, while he himself could do nothing but try to find the rest of the crew. Rathbone could only try to save one thief from hanging for a murder he probably had not committed. And Margaret could do no more than struggle to raise, from a blind society which could never be told the truth, enough money to provide food and heat as long as there were survivors, and do it without telling anyone the truth—not even him.

“I understand,” he said quietly, overwhelmed with gratitude—and shame. “I’ll give her money myself, but I’ll ask no one else. Speak to me when you can, and if there is anything else I can do, tell me.” He stopped abruptly, not knowing how to offer Monk money without offending him. And yet it was absurd to let a fear of asking stand between them now.

“What is it?” Monk asked.

Rathbone put his hand in his pocket and pulled out six gold sovereigns and small change in silver. He passed over the sovereigns. “In case you need it for transport, or anything else. I don’t imagine Louvain is still paying you.”

Monk did not argue. “Thank you,” he said, picking up the coins and putting them in the inside pocket of his coat. “I’ll tell you what I find, if I do. If you want me for anything, leave a message at the River Police station at Wapping. I’ll call in there, or Durban will.” He stood up slowly, as if he were stiff and it hurt to move. He smiled very slightly, to rob his words of offense. “Nobody’s going to pay you for defending Hodge.”

Rathbone shrugged and did not bother to reply.

As soon as Monk left, Rathbone poured himself a full glass of brandy, then looked at it for a moment, seeing the light burn through its golden depths like a topaz in a crystal balloon. Then he thought of Monk going out alone to the dark river and the backstreets where he must look for a ship’s crew carrying death, leaving Hester in a place which must surely be as close to hell on earth as was possible, and he poured the brandy back into the decanter, his shaking hand spilling a little of it.

He barely spoke to Coleridge on the way out, only sufficient to be civil to the anxious enquiry for his well-being. Outside on the footpath he hailed the first hansom that passed, running out into the street to clamber into it and giving Margaret Ballinger’s address.

He sat down as the cab started forward. At last he understood her extraordinary behavior yesterday. She had honor! She must have been desperate to raise money for Hester, and of course she could not possibly tell anyone why! How farcical, like some insane, satanic joke—she was trying to save them all, and she could not tell them.

But why had she not told him? If she had sent him some message he would have come immediately, and she could have told him somewhere in private. . . . His brain was racing, skidding off the rails like a high-speed train with a drunken driver, no control. When had Margaret heard? The same day as Monk, or not? Perhaps she had had no time to tell Rathbone? Perhaps she had not trusted him? Or was she protecting him from having to know about it?

Why would she do that? Did she know the horror of disease that rose like a tide inside him, drowning reason, courage, even sense? He had never been a moral coward in his life, nor a physical one. He had faced danger—not willingly, but certainly without ever quailing or even imagining running away.

But disease was different. The terror, the nausea, the delirium, the inescapable certainty of death, helpless and without dignity.

Why was the hansom taking so long? Rain was causing traffic congestion as drays, hansoms, and private carriages all fought for space in the narrow, wet streets, trying not to bump into each other and tangle, or mash wheels and break them in the dark.

What a relief it would be to see Margaret, tell her that he knew, savor the precious time together before . . . What? He went to try to defend Monk’s thief and she to—please God, not the clinic! No, she would not be able to! Monk had said no one would be let in or out. Thank heaven for that! His body broke out in a sweat of relief. He was ashamed of it, but it was impossible to deny.

But Hester was in Portpool Lane alone. She had only the street women and Bessie to help her, and Squeaky Robinson, for whatever that was worth—probably nothing. He would be the first to run away. And she would have to set the dogs on him. Rathbone refused to imagine that. But she could. She would do it. She would know what it would mean if he escaped and carried the plague to the rest of London. She would have the courage, the strength of mind.

He had never realized what that meant until now. He remembered some of their early conversations with a stab of self-disgust. He had condescended to her, as if she were a woman finding a second-best kind of career to fill in the space where her emotional fulfillment ought to have been. And she was stronger and better than any other human being he knew.

If she died in Portpool Lane she would leave an emptiness in his life that nothing else would ever fill.

The hansom stopped and he realized with a jolt that he was at Margaret’s home. He got out, standing in the rain to pay the driver, then ran across the footpath and up the stairs to pull the bell at the door.

The footman answered, but regretted to tell him that Miss Ballinger was out and he could not say when she would return.

Rathbone was bereft. What if she had ignored instruction and gone to the clinic after all? Then she would be in as much danger as Hester. She would suffer horribly. He would never see her again, never marry her. Whatever happened to the rest of London, or England, his own personal future was suddenly cold and dark. How could anyone else compare with her? That was a stupid thought. There were no comparisons. However virtuous, gentle, funny, or clever anyone else might be, it was Margaret he loved.

The footman was waiting patiently.

Rathbone thanked him and left, back out into the teeming rain and the darkness. The hansom had already gone. It hardly mattered. He would walk home. If it took an hour and he was soaked to the skin, he would not notice it.

Rathbone could not sleep, and in the morning he had his manservant draw him a hot bath, but he could not enjoy it. By half past eight he was breakfasted and had sent a note to his office to say he would be late. Then he looked for a hansom to take him back to Margaret’s house. He could not even contemplate what he was going to do if she was still not there. He could not think of going to the clinic to find her, nor could he think of not going. He would give her money, and then he had to go and find this wretched thief of Monk’s and see what could be done to serve justice. At least if anyone had the skill for that, it was he.

The traffic was heavy again. It was the time of day when people were going into the city, tradesmen were beginning their rounds, everybody seemed to be jamming the roads.

At the first traffic congestion everything came to a standstill. Two coachmen were arguing over whose fault it was that a horse had tried to bolt and broken his harness. Rathbone waited a short while, then finally paid his own driver and got out to walk. It was no more than three quarters of a mile farther, and the effort it would take was better than waiting cooped up and sitting.

This time he was more fortunate. The footman informed him that Miss Ballinger was taking breakfast, and he would enquire if she would receive him. Rathbone paced back and forth in the morning room until the man returned and invited him through.

Rathbone tried to compose himself, so as not to embarrass Margaret in front of her parents, should they be there. He followed the footman across the hall and into the long, very formal dining room, where he was drenched with relief to find her alone. She was dressed smartly in a dark suit a little like a riding habit. It was fashionable and extremely becoming, but she looked alarmingly pale.

“Good morning, Sir Oliver,” she said with some reserve. Obviously she had not forgotten his coolness of the other evening. “Would you care for a cup of tea? Or perhaps more? Toast?” she invited him.

“No, thank you.” He sat down, praying she would give the footman leave to go. “I have a legal matter I wish to discuss with you, of a most confidential nature.” He could not wait upon good luck.

“Really?” She raised her eyebrows slightly. She thanked the footman and asked him to leave. She looked guarded, withdrawn, as if she was afraid he was going to hurt her. He found himself ashamed at the thought.

“I know,” he said simply. “Monk came to see me yesterday afternoon. He told me of the situation at Portpool Lane.”

Her eyes widened, dark and incredulous. “He . . . told you?” She reached out instinctively and grasped his wrist. “You must say nothing! I was sworn to secrecy, absolute! No exceptions at all! It—”

“I understand,” he cut across her. “Monk told me because he needs me to defend a thief. He believes him to be innocent of murdering a watchman. It is not much—one small act of justice, and to a confessed thief at that—but it’s all I can do.” He felt ashamed saying it. “That, and help with funds. But he warned me not even to ask friends in case my urgency should cause speculation.”

Her face was filled with a relief that set his heart surging, the blood pounding in his veins. There was a wild, almost hysterical gratitude in him that Margaret was not in the clinic, and could not go. Anyway, she was needed to raise funds, to purchase what they needed, and take it to them.

“I know,” she said gently. “I am having to be so much more discreet than I want to be.” She met his eyes, her own brimming with tears. “I think of Hester in there, alone, and how she must feel, and I want to go to help her. I want to tell these people the truth and force them to give all they can, every last penny, but I know it would only drive them into hysterics—at least some of them.” She was shivering, her voice husky. “Fear does terrible things to people. Anyway I promised Sutton, which really means Hester, that I would tell no one. I couldn’t even tell you!”

“I understand!” he said quickly, closing his hand over hers where it lay on his wrist. “Be careful. And . . . and when you take food to them, leave it. Don’t be . . . don’t be tempted to . . .”

He saw an instant of pity in her eyes, not for Hester, or for the sick, but for him, because she recognized his horror of disease. It chilled him like ice at the heart. Suddenly he saw that he could lose her not to death but to contempt, that awakening of disgust that is the end of love between a woman and a man, and becomes the pity that a strong woman has for the weak, for children, and for the defenseless, but never for a lover.

He looked away.

“I will do what I have to,” she said quietly. “I do not intend to go inside the clinic; I am more use to them out here. But if Hester sends for me, perhaps because she is dying, then I will go. I might lose my life too, but if I didn’t, I could lose everything that would make life precious. I am sure you know that.” There was no certainty in her voice or her face. She was full of question. She needed his answer.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and he meant it with all the force of his nature. “I know you must. It was a moment’s complete selfishness because I love you.”

She smiled, and lowered her eyes as the tears slid down her cheeks. “You must go and defend this thief, if that is what Monk requires. Now I am going to raise some more money. We need vegetables, and tea, and beef, if possible.”

He took ten pounds out of his pocket and put it on the table. He was giving money away like water.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Now please go while I can still keep some measure of composure. We both have things to do.”

He obeyed, his emotions storming inside him, his own composure in shreds. He was glad to say good-bye and go as rapidly as he could outside into the anonymous street, where the sharp wind would sting his face and the rain would hide his tears.