by Anne Perry
The boy squealed, his eyes bulging with the savagery of the grip around his collar.
Squeaky dropped him on the ground, and he howled.
“Answer me, or yer'll be sorry,” Squeaky whispered, bending down till his face was close to the boy's. “She's a friend o’ mine, an’ I don't want nothin’ bad to ‘appen to ‘er, got it?”
The boy whispered out a reply. Squeaky thanked him and walked away, leaving him to scramble to his feet and make for the nearest alley.
Squeaky set out in the direction suggested, feeling guilty and a little self-conscious. What on earth was happening to him? He used to behave like that all the time. He had not actually hurt the child at all. In the past he might well have cuffed him round the ear until his head had buzzed. Was this what working for Hester Monk had done for him, made him soft? He would not be able to go back to the streets even if he wanted to. He was ruined!
That wasn't the worst of it. He loped along the narrow footpath at alarming speed, always deeper into the warren of alleys, dead ends, and tunnels bending back on themselves towards the river again. But worse than actually becoming respectable was the secret knowledge he would admit to no one: he rather liked it.
He asked more people: peddlers, shopkeepers, pawnbrokers, beggars. Some he threatened, some he bribed—which was really very painful indeed, because it was his own money.
He traced her as far as the tobacconist and bookseller, where she had apparently collapsed and knocked into a man buying postcards, sending them all on to the floor. What on earth was the stupid woman playing at? But through his anger, which was really fear, he knew exactly what she was doing.
With a little more threat, bribing, and invention he heard about her sudden hysterical flight, but no one knew where she had gone after two or three twists. Mad woman, they said. Who could explain anything she did? Drunk, most like. He wanted to knock them over for that. Claudine would never be drunk! Might be happier if she were, now and then.
It was getting dark, and the clammy air of the day was cooling off Where the devil in hell was the woman? Anything could have happened to her in these miserable alleys. At the very least she would be frightened, possibly worse than that. Another night was coming on. He began to lose his temper with people more genuinely. Perhaps the old Squeaky wasn't so completely lost, just a little submerged under layers of newfound habits in politeness. That thought did not make him as happy as he had expected it to.
It took him another hour of questions, tracking down strangers, and several false hopes and misidentifications before finally, close to eleven o'clock, he found her sitting in a heap on the steps of a tenement off the Shadwell High Street. What on earth was she doing here? She looked utterly wretched. Had he not been looking for her specifically he would never have recognized her.
He stopped squarely in front of her, blocking her chance to get up and run away. He saw the fear in her face, but she was too tired to move, and she simply stared at him, defeated, not even knowing who he was.
The words of anger died on his lips. He was horrified at himself at how relieved he was to see her—if not well, at least alive and uninjured. He swallowed and drew in his breath.
“Well,” he said to her. Then he lost his temper. “Wot the bleedin’ ‘ell are yer doin’ ‘ere, yer daft cow?” he shouted. “Scared the bleedin’ daylights out of us, yer did! ‘Ere!” He thrust out his hand to help her up. “Well, come on then! Wot's the matter with yer? Broken yer bleedin’ legs?” He waved his hand, almost jabbing it at her. Now he was afraid that she really was hurt in some way. What on earth was he going to do if she was? He couldn't carry her; she was a substantial woman, built the way women were supposed to be.
Very cautiously she grasped his hand. He heaved to pull her up, overcome with relief when she stood. He was about to shout at her again when he saw the tears in her eyes, and the gratitude.
He sniffed and turned away, to avoid embarrassing her. “Well, come on then,” he said gruffly. “We better be gettin’ ‘ome. If we're lucky we might find some sort of a cab in the ‘Igh Street. Can yer walk in them great ugly boots?”
“Of course I can,” she said stiffly, and promptly stumbled. He had to catch hold of her and support her weight to stop her from falling. He made no remark about it, and tried hard to think of some other subject to talk about.
“Why din't yer go ‘ome then?” he demanded.
“Because I was lost,” she replied, not looking at him.
They walked in silence for another fifty yards.
“Find any pictures?” he asked. He was not sure if that was a good thing to say or not, but perhaps it was worse to take her failure for granted.
“Yes, I did,” she said immediately. She named the shop and the exact address. “I have no idea which boys they were.” She shuddered violently. “But it was the sort of thing that Phillips does, I imagine. I would prefer not to know any more about it.”
“Really?” Squeaky was surprised. He had not expected her to succeed at all. That must have been when she knocked the cards out of the man's hand. “So you din't really faint then?”
She stopped abruptly. “How do you know about that?”
“Well, ‘ow d'yer think I found yer?” he demanded. “I been askin’! D'yer think I just ‘appened ter be wanderin’ along ‘ere, fer summink ter do, then?”
She started to walk again, hobbling a bit because her feet were so sore. She said nothing for quite a long time. Eventually all the words she could find were “Thank you. I am grateful to you.”
He shrugged. “It's nothin’,” he replied. He did not mean that it was of no importance to him, he meant that she did not owe him any debt. He wondered if she understood that, but it was far too awkward to explain, and he did not know where it might lead.
“Mr. Robinson,” she said about a hundred yards later. They were in the Shadwell High Street, but there were no cabs in sight, only the usual traffic of carts and drays.
He looked at her to indicate his attention.
“I saw some customers go in and out of that shop,” she said a little hesitantly. “I recognized one of them,” she went on. “That was why I ran away.”
“Oh yeah? ‘Oo was it?” He was not sure if it would matter, and who could possibly recognize her, looking like this?
“Mr. Arthur Ballinger,” she replied.
He stopped abruptly, catching her arm and swinging her to a halt as well. “Wot? Ballinger, as Lady Rathbone were?” he said incredulously.
“Yes.” Her eyes did not waver. “He is her father.”
“Buyin’ pictures o’ little boys?” His disbelief sent his voice up almost an octave.
“Don't look at me like that, Mr. Robinson,” she said sharply, her voice catching in her throat. “I am acquainted with Mr. Ballinger. I ran because he looked at me very closely indeed, and I was afraid that he had also recognized me.”
“Where d'yer know ‘im from?” he asked, still dubious.
She shut her eyes, as if her patience were exhausted. Her voice was flat and tight when she answered. “It is part of my duty, and I suppose my privilege, as Mr. Burroughs's wife, to attend a great many social functions. I met him at several of those, along with Mrs. Ballinger, of course. Much of this time the ladies are separate from the gentlemen, but at dinner we will all sit where we are directed, according to rank, and I have had occasion to sit opposite Mr. Ballinger, and listen to him speak.”
It was an unknown world to him. “Listen ter ‘im speak?” he asked.
“It is not appropriate for ladies to speak too much at table,” she explained. “They should listen, respond appropriately, and ask after interests, welfare, and so on. If a gentleman wishes to talk, and usually they do, you listen as if fascinated, and never ask questions to which you suspect he does not know the answer. He will almost certainly not listen to you, but he will certainly look at you closely, if you are young and pretty.”
He caught a sadness in her voice, possibly even a shadow of real
pain, and felt an upsurge of anger that startled him.
“Ask opinions or advice,” she continued, lost in memory. “That is flattering. But it is unbecoming to offer either. One is not supposed to have them. But I am quite sure it was Ballinger. I have listened to him on several occasions. One has to listen, or one cannot ask appropriate questions. Sometimes it is even moderately interesting.” She stopped suddenly.
For a moment he was not sure if it was because she was still remembering something of the past that alarmed her, or if it was simply that her feet pained her too much to continue. Then he realized that they had reached an intersection of two fairly busy streets, and she was hoping at last to find a cab.
When he had hailed one and they were at last sitting side by side, necessarily rather close together, she spoke again.
“If Mr. Ballinger is involved in this business,” she said, looking towards him in the dark, her voice anxious, “it is going to be … very distressing.”
That was an understatement, he thought. It would be monumental. Lady Rathbone's father!
“It may even reflect upon Sir Oliver,” she added. “Since he was the one to defend Phillips. There will be many people who will not accept that he had no idea of the connection. He may be accused of participating in the profit, being … tainted by it. Mrs. Monk will be very unhappy.”
He said nothing. He was thinking of just how awful it would be. The few moments of conflict in Hester's office would be a summer's day compared with what might be to come.
“So I would be very grateful, Mr. Robinson, if you would say nothing about my seeing Mr. Ballinger, at least not yet. Please?”
It would be the honorable thing to do, the right thing. “No,” he agreed without hesitation. “No, I won't tell ‘er. Yer say when yer ready.”
“Thank you.”
They rode in silence for quite a while. He was not sure, but he thought she might even have gone to sleep. Poor creature, she must be so tired she would have slept on her feet, now that she knew she was safe. Guaranteed she was hungry too, and would like a clean, hot cup of tea more than anything in the world, except maybe a bath. Funny how women liked a bath.
When they arrived at Portpool Lane it was after midnight but Hester was still there. She had fallen asleep in one of the chairs in the big entrance hall where they first saw people as they arrived. She was curled up with her feet half underneath her, her boots on the floor. She woke as soon as she heard their footsteps, jerking her head up, blinking. She recognized Squeaky before she realized that it was Claudine with him. She scrambled to her feet and ran across to throw her arms around Claudine, then with flushed face and eyes shining with relief, she thanked Squeaky profoundly.
“That's all right,” he said a bit self-consciously. “Weren't nothin’. She were lost, that's all.” He made a casual gesture as if to dismiss it.
Hester decided to allow it to pass. Just at the moment she was dizzy with relief that Claudine was safe. She realized only now how deeply afraid she had been that some harm had come to her. If she had gone around asking about Phillips, he was quite capable of killing her, and they would probably never even know. She would appear to be just one more beggar woman dead of cold or hunger, or some unspecified disease. Even a knife attack or a strangling would not occasion a great deal of remark.
She thanked Squeaky again, told Ruby that Claudine was safe, and decided to allow Wallace Burroughs the privilege of having a good night's sleep, or not. She would send him a letter in the morning, unless Claudine wished to go home and tell him herself. If she did not, then that was up to her.
Another message she would definitely send would be to Rathbone, to tell him that Claudine was safe. It would be polite to address it to Margaret as well.
Over breakfast in the large kitchen she asked Squeaky what Claudine had discovered, if anything, but he told her he had no idea. He looked slightly surprised when he said it, and it was several moments before she realized that it was not Claudine's lack of discovery that startled him, but his own reply to Hester. That must be because it was a lie, to defend Claudine.
She looked at him more closely, and he returned her look with a straight, slightly belligerent gaze. She found herself smiling. Squeaky was definitely defending Claudine.
When she had eaten her toast and drunk her own tea, she made more, set it on a tray, and took it up to the bedroom Claudine was using. She found her just beginning to wake up, ravenously hungry and longing for a cup of tea.
Hester sat on the bed while Claudine ate and drank. She addressed the subject.
“What did you discover?” she asked.
Claudine stared at her over the top of her cup.
“I asked Squeaky, but he won't tell me,” Hester explained. “He said he doesn't know, but he's lying. So that makes me think it's important.”
Claudine finished her tea slowly, giving herself time to think. Finally she put the cup down on the bedside table and took a deep breath. “I found a shop selling pornographic photographs of young boys. I saw a couple. They were terrible. I don't want to talk about them. I wish I didn't have them in my mind. I didn't realize how hard it is to get something out of your memory once you've seen it. It's like a stain no amount of soap or water can remove.”
“It dulls with time,” Hester said gently. “As you get more and more things in there, there's less room for the horrors. Push it out every time it comes back, and eventually the details will fade.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Not those. But I've seen other things, on the battlefield, and heard them. Sometimes when we have someone in here with a knife wound, the smell of blood brings it all back.”
Claudine's face was gentle, full of pity.
“Why wouldn't Squeaky tell me that?” Hester asked her. “That doesn't make sense.”
“That wasn't what he wouldn't tell you,” Claudine replied. “It was who I saw on the pavement just outside the shop, with cards in his hand. He bought some matches from me and stared at me very closely. I was scared he'd recognized me.”
Hester frowned, her imagination struggling. “Who did you see?”
Claudine bit her lip. “Mr. Ballinger, Lady Rathbone's father.”
Hester was stunned. It seemed preposterous. And yet if it was true, it explained Rathbone's predicament exactly. “Are you certain?” she said aloud.
“Yes. I've met him several times, at dinners and balls. My husband is acquainted with him. He stood no more than two feet from me.”
Hester nodded. It was hideous. How on earth could Margaret bear that, if she believed it? If it became known? Had Rathbone had any idea? How would he see it: disgust, pity, loyalty, protection for Margaret and her mother? She could not believe that he knew already. And yet he would have to one day. Perhaps he could in some way prepare?
“Your husband was worried about you,” she said to Claudine. “Would you like me to send a letter? I could say you were kept in some kind of emergency, but we had better offer the same explanation.”
A shadow crossed Claudine's face. “I don't think he is going to forgive me, whatever it is,” she replied. “I am not quite sure what I am going to do. I shall have to give it a great deal of thought. If … if he puts me out, may I live here?” She looked frightened, and embarrassed.
“Of course,” Hester said instantly. “If you wish to, for whatever reason.” She nearly added that Rathbone would give her legal help, then she thought that was a little premature. Surely Wallace Burroughs would calm himself and behave a little more reasonably. Although his behaving reasonably was a very long way indeed from giving Claudine any kind of happiness. “I shall write to him that you were helping someone in an accident.” There was a note of gentleness in her voice. “He will never know differently,” she went on. “You had better say the same. You know enough details to give them to him if he should ask you.”
“He won't. He is never interested in such things,” Claudine told her. “But thank you.”
Hester ver
y briefly told Squeaky that she was going to the Wapping police station to find Monk, then she left immediately, dreading the chance of running into Margaret on the way out.
She caught a cab on Farringdon Road, and half an hour later was in Wapping. She had a further hour to wait before Monk returned from the water, but she was prepared to wait far longer, had it been necessary.
He closed the door of his office and stood waiting for her to speak.
Briefly, leaving out everything that was irrelevant to the issue, she told him of Claudine's adventure, and that she was certain beyond any doubt that it had been Arthur Ballinger she had seen.
“She must be wrong,” he said. “She was tired, frightened, upset after seeing the cards …”
“No she wasn't, William,” Hester said levelly “She knows Ballinger.”
“How would she know him? He's not her solicitor, surely?”
“No. They move in the same circles in Society,” she explained. “Claudine may scrub kitchens and cook for the sick in Portpool Lane, but in her own home she's a lady. She probably knows most people in Society, more or less. Now she is terrified because he looked so closely at her she was afraid he had recognized her too.”
He did not fight any longer; the grief in his eyes showed his acceptance.
“We have to be prepared,” she continued more gently. “I don't imagine Oliver knows, but perhaps he does. It may even be the reason he took Phillips's case in the first place. But I'll wager Margaret doesn't. Or her mother.” She winced. “I can't imagine what that will be like for them, if they are forced to know.”
Monk breathed out slowly. “God! What a mess!”
There was a sharp rap on the door and before Monk could answer, it opened and Orme stood there, ashen-faced, eyes hollow. Hester saw him before Monk did.
“What is it?” she demanded, fear gripping her like a tightening noose.
Monk swung around to Orme.
Orme handed him a sheet of paper, folded over once.
Monk took it and read, his hand shaking, the color draining from his cheeks.