by Anne Perry
For once Winchester was genuinely startled. “My lord,” he began, “that … that is an unjust conclusion regarding Miss Benson’s reluctance—”
“Whether it is doubt, remorse, or fear that some punishment will be visited on her for lying,” Rathbone responded, now suddenly sure that Winchester was hiding something, “that is surely irrelevant. She is not here to tell us about the cravat, or to suggest that it ever left Rupert Cardew’s possession!”
Now Winchester was pale, the tension in him palpable. “Hattie Benson is not here to testify because her dead body was carried out of the Thames at Chiswick, three days before Mr. Ballinger was arrested,” he said hoarsely. “Strangled exactly the same way as Mickey Parfitt!”
A woman in the gallery screamed. Someone else muffled a cry, and a man let out a gasp.
One of the jurors lurched forward as if to rise to his feet.
The judge banged his gavel and demanded order, and was ignored.
Rathbone felt himself go cold, as if there were ice water in the pit of his stomach. His mind was numb, darkness at the edges of his vision. How in God’s name had that happened? No wonder Monk looked like a ghost. He must have known.
Suddenly Rathbone was overwhelmed with pity—and a profound and terrible fear.
CHAPTER
11
“I’M SORRY,” MONK SAID quietly as he and Hester sat in the parlor. “I wanted to have a better answer before I told you. I hoped I could find out enough to say that there was never anything you could have done.”
Hester sat perfectly still, as though she were frozen. Tears prickled in her eyes, and she was furious with herself because they could be out of guilt and an sense of overwhelming failure as much as out of grief for Hattie. Was she too used to the death of street women, even young ones, long before their bloom was gone and they were riddled with disease? They came in injured, and she knew that patching them up was often only temporary.
But Hattie had trusted her. Monk himself had trusted her to keep Hattie safe.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have been able to protect her. I suppose it ruins the case too, and Ballinger will get off. Without Hattie’s testimony, there has to be reasonable doubt, and Rupert’s name will be shadowed again too. Oh, damn! Damn! Damn!” She wanted to cry properly, to let the sobs come, and to swear as she had heard soldiers do, words Monk had never heard, and she would rather he never knew that she had heard them, let alone remembered them.
But there was no time for that now, and there were far more urgent uses for her energy. One of the worst things she would have to do was tell Scuff, because he had been with her when they’d first met Hattie. It was after nine in the evening now, but there would be little time in the morning. She would have to stay with him tonight, judge very carefully how much comfort to offer. She had no idea how he would take it. He had grown up on the dockside and must have seen death many times before, possibly the deaths of people he knew. How she reacted would mark him, perhaps for all his life. She must not show fear, but neither must she ever let him think she did not care.
Monk was saying something. She looked up and saw the anxiety in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said very gently. “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Do you want me to tell Scuff? He’ll have to know.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You have enough to do. You need to sleep. I’ll tell him, and stay with him. Besides, if he needs to cry, we can do it together.” She smiled, and the tears slid down her cheeks. “He’ll expect it of me, and it’ll be all right.” She stood up and turned to go.
“Hester!”
She looked back. “Yes?” She thought he was going to thank her, and she did not want to be thanked. It wasn’t as if she’d given him a gift.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
She drew in a shaky breath, using all her strength not to go back and cling to him and let the tears come. “I know. If I didn’t, do you think I could do any of this?” Then, without waiting for him to answer, she went up to waken Scuff and tell him Hattie was dead.
She knocked on the door because she always did. He must have a place where no one else entered without his permission. As she had expected, there was no answer. She turned the handle and went in. The night-light was still burning. He had to have enough to see by if he woke up. He must never have that first moment of terror not knowing where he was, of imagining the bilges of Jericho Phillips’s boat, even for an instant.
“Scuff,” she said quietly.
He did not move. She could see his head on the pillow, hair ruffled, still damp from his bath.
“Scuff,” she repeated, more loudly.
He stirred, and when she spoke a third time, he opened his eyes and sat up, holding his nightshirt around himself with one hand.
She came and sat on the end of the bed, where he could see her face in the light.
“Wos wrong?” he asked, noticing the tears. “Wos ’appened?” His perception of her grief was instant, and it filled him with fear. She realized with a sharp stab how much of his world was bound up in her.
“Hattie’s dead,” she replied, so he would not be afraid that it was something to do with Monk. “She was killed—not an accident, though. William just told me. He wanted to wait until he could find out exactly how it happened, but it came out in court today.”
He blinked. “Somebody killed ’er?” He gulped, then reached forward and put his small, thin hand over hers, so lightly, she saw it rather than felt it. “Don’t cry for ’er,” he whispered. “She were always gonna finish bad. This way it won’t ’urt so much. Quick. Like yer should pull a tooth out, if yer’ve gotter, like.”
She wanted to hug him, but it would be an intrusion too far. Not everyone liked to be hugged.
“You are quite right,” she agreed, angry with herself because her voice trembled. “But I still feel that I need to know how she left the clinic, and who helped her. You understand?”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers, still full of fear. If she wavered even slightly, all his doubts would storm back, drowning his courage.
“D’yer reckon as someone took ’er?” he asked.
“No, I think they more likely tricked her, told her she’d be safe, or told her a lie of some sort. I want to know who, because I mustn’t ever trust that person again.” Did that sound too extreme? As if she never forgave a mistake? Would she make him fear that if he made a mistake he would forfeit love forever? “If they did it on purpose, I mean,” she added.
“ ’Ow’d they kill ’er?” he whispered. “Like Mickey Parfitt?”
“Yes, exactly like that. I expect she didn’t even know what happened.”
“Were it the same person wot done ’im?”
“Yes, I expect it was. She was found in the water, as he was, and pretty close to the same place.”
“In’t Mr. Ballinger in jail?” He pulled the bedclothes a little tighter round his body.
“He is now, but he wasn’t when she was killed. But neither was Rupert Cardew.”
His eyes opened wider. “Yer think as ’e done ’er?”
“No, I don’t. But they might try to make it look that way, to get Mr. Ballinger off.”
“Yer like Mr. Cardew, don’t yer?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t have anything to do with it. At least, it shouldn’t.”
He looked puzzled. “You wouldn’t like ’im anymore if ’e done it?”
His hand was still lying on top of hers, as if he had forgotten it. She was careful not to move. “I might still like him. You don’t stop liking people, or even loving them, because they’ve done something horrible. I suppose first you try to understand why. And it makes a difference if they’re sorry—really sorry. But it doesn’t mean they don’t have to pay for it, or put as much of it right as they can. You have to have right and wrong the same for everybody, or it isn’t fair.”
He nodded. “So wot are we gonna do?”
“Find out what happened.”
“Termorrer?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I woke you up to tell you, but there might not be time in the morning … and …”
He waited, eyes shadowed.
“I just wanted to tell you now.”
His mouth tightened. “You thought I were gonna cry.” He was on the very edge of it, and angry with himself.
“No,” she told him. “I thought I was. I still might!”
He smiled at her widely, as if it were funny, and two large tears spilled over and rolled down his cheeks.
This time she did put her arms around him and hug him. At first he merely let her, then quite suddenly he hugged her back, hard, hanging on to her and burying his face in her shoulder, where the hair that had slipped out of its pins was loose.
IN THE MORNING MONK went back to the court, and Hester and Scuff went to the clinic.
“You don’t have to be here,” Squeaky said as soon as she was through the door and into the room where he was working at a table spread with receipts. “Nor you neither,” he added to Scuff.
“Yes, I do,” Hester responded. “And Scuff can help me.” There was no allowance for argument in her voice, and no prevarication. “I want to find out exactly what happened to Hattie Benson, why she left here and who said something to her that prompted her to go.”
Squeaky regarded her dismally. “Won’t do no good. Maybe she lied to you. Have you thought of that?”
“Yes, and I don’t believe it. It came out in court yesterday, Squeaky. She was murdered, exactly the same way as Mickey Parfitt—strangled and put in the river, up at Chiswick.”
“Gawd Almighty, woman!” Squeaky exploded. “What d’you want to go and say that for, in front of the boy? Sometimes you’re a cold-hearted mare, and that’s the truth!”
Scuff charged forward, fists clenched, glaring at Squeaky across the table. “Don’t yer dare talk to ’er like that, yer bleedin’ worm! Yer in’t fit ter clean ’er boots …”
Hester thought of pulling him back, and then decided not to. She could not rob him of the right to defend them both, but she had to bite her lip to hide a weak smile.
Squeaky backed off a little, only a matter of leaning away while still in his chair.
“Y’in’t fit ter …” Scuff went on. Then he drew in his breath and regarded Squeaky with disgust. “D’yer think I’m some kind o’ baby, then, that you can’t tell me the truth? Yer gotta pretend, as if yer think I can ’ear yer?”
Squeaky considered for a moment. “I grant that, pound for pound, you’re worse than a wild cat,” he opined. “Never mind defending you, I should be looking after myself from the pair of you.” He turned to Hester, his eyes bright with a strange, almost embarrassed amusement, as if he were pleased but did not want them to know. “And how are you going to find out who took poor Hattie to the door and pushed her out, then?”
“I’m going to ask,” Hester replied. “We will begin with a full account of who was here, when they arrived, and what they did, exactly.”
“Like the bleeding police,” Squeaky said with disgust.
Hester caught Scuff just as he was about to launch forward at Squeaky again, his fists clenched.
“Yes,” she agreed. “What did you expect? That I would first ask everyone nicely if they’d set Hattie up to be murdered?”
“I s’pose you want me to write it all down?” he said accusingly. “Don’t blame me if they all walk out in a huff.”
Hester thought of several retorts, and bit them all off before she said them. She needed his help.
“Who was in that day?”
“You think I can remember?” he countered.
“I think you will know exactly who was here, what they did that was useful, and how much they ate,” she replied. “I shall be disappointed in my judgment of your skills if you don’t.”
He considered that a moment or two, weighing up her precise meaning. Then he decided to take it as a compliment, and dug his books out of the desk drawer, finding the appropriate pages for the day of Hattie’s disappearance.
Scuff watched him, fascinated.
“Does ’e ’ave it all there, in them little squiggles o’ writing?” Scuff whispered to her.
“Yes. Marvelous, isn’t it?” she replied.
Scuff gave her a sideways look. She had not yet persuaded him of the necessity of learning to read. He could count. He considered that to be enough.
Squeaky read out who was resident and who had arrived that morning and at what time. He also listed what duties they had performed, and if, in his opinion, they had been requisitely appreciated for their efforts.
Hester made a couple of notes on a piece of paper, borrowing his pencil for the task, then set out to question each person in turn.
To begin with the people were defensive, imagining their work was under attack, and frightened of losing the safety of food and a place to sleep.
Scuff followed Hester most of the time, as if he were protecting her, although he had no idea from what.
“She’s lyin’,” he said casually as they left one young woman in the laundry, her sleeves rolled up, her hands red from hot water and the caustic soap necessary to clean sheets that had been soiled by body waste from the sick and injured.
“We’ll check with Claudine,” Hester replied. “Mrs. Burroughs to you. She’ll know if Kitty was there or not.”
“She weren’t,” Scuff told her. “I’ll bet she were at the back door, doin’ summink as she shouldn’t. Are yer gonna throw ’er out?”
“No,” Hester said immediately. “Not unless she did something to Hattie.”
“Oh.”
She glanced at him and saw the smile on his face.
She questioned two more women—patients not well enough to leave yet but able to be of assistance in cooking and cleaning. Their accounts contradicted Kitty’s, and one of the other women’s.
They found Claudine in the pantry checking rations. There seemed to be plenty of the staples such as flour and beans of several sorts, barley, oatmeal, and salt. Other things such as prunes and brown sugar were in considerably shorter supply.
Claudine smiled when she saw Hester’s eye on the half-empty pot of plum jam, and then Scuff’s, wide with amazement at what to him was a lifetime’s supply of luxury.
“I’ll give you a slice of toast and jam later, if you’re good,” she told him.
Hester nudged him.
“Thank yer,” he said quickly.
“Unless you would rather have a piece of cake?” Claudine added. Her eyes were bright, as if she were laughing inside.
“Yes,” he said instantly. Then he glanced at Hester. “Yes, I would—please.”
Hester told Claudine of the discrepancy between the accounts of who was working where on the morning Hattie disappeared.
Claudine had already judged that it was important.
“That can’t be right,” she agreed. She turned to Scuff. “If you go to the kitchen, you’ll find Bessie there. Tell her that I said you could have a piece of the plum cake in the third jar along. Don’t forget, the third jar. Then she’ll know that you are telling the truth. No one else knows it is there.”
Scuff drew in his breath, and then let it out again. “I’ll ’ave it later,” he replied, taking a step closer to Hester. “Ye’re gonna tell ’er who opened the door an’ let ’Attie out ter get killed. I gotta be ’ere. Thank yer.”
Claudine looked at him, then at Hester. “Is he right?”
Hester nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so. She had strict instructions not to go out for any reason at all, not even to go into the main rooms where other people come and go. She knew she was in danger, and she was scared stiff that they would kill her.”
Claudine’s face filled with misery. “And did they?”
“Yes. Claudine, I have to know who persuaded her to go out.”
“What good will it do now?” Claudine asked. “The poor girl is beyond help.”
“It se
ems it was just a piece of stupid behavior. But if she was lured out on purpose, then I need to tie it together. The trial is going badly. It looks as if nothing will be proved, and Ballinger will get off on reasonable doubt. We will be back where we started.” She did not add that the trade in pornography would begin again exactly as before, as soon as the man behind it had replaced Mickey Parfitt. Although, she feared that leaving this unsaid would not deceive Scuff for long.
Claudine looked at her, and her eyes were suddenly tired and bitterly unhappy. “Then you had better ask Lady Rathbone. She was here that morning, working in the laundry and the medicine room, just checking on supplies. She will know who is lying.”
Hester was stunned. “Margaret was here?”
Claudine’s face was unreadable. “Yes.”
“How long?”
“About an hour, that I know of.” Claudine watched her steadily.
“In the laundry?”
“Yes. Hester … I don’t believe any of the women here would lie to you. In addition to their gratitude, and perhaps fear for their future chances of treatment, why would they? They’d lie to anyone else to protect you, as easily as breathing, but not this. They all knew you wanted Hattie protected.”
Hester knew that was true. It was Margaret who’d had every reason to fear Hattie’s testimony. It had just never occurred to Hester that she would do this. In fact, for Hattie to have gone back to Chiswick and ended in the river, Margaret must have done far more than simply getting Hattie to leave.
“She done it?” Scuff asked, looking from Hester to Claudine and back again.
“Not killed her,” Hester said quickly. “But, yes, it does look as if she took her away from here.”
“Then, who killed ’er?” he said, his eyes full of disbelief.
“I don’t know. I don’t know exactly what she did, or what she meant to happen. But I’m going to find out.” She turned to Claudine. “Thank you. I think it’s best if you don’t say anything more to people here, even if they ask you. Please?”
“Of course I won’t.”
Claudine seemed about to add something more, then changed her mind. Hester guessed that it was some kind of warning, and from the troubled gentleness of her face, a sympathy. She smiled back, not needing words.