Anne Perry - Death Of A Stranger

He lifted his head and very gently pushed back the hair that had fallen across her brow. “Unlikely… but I suppose it’s possible. We believe what we need to… at least for as long as we can.”

She rested her head against his chin. “I know. But I can’t excuse persecuting a lot of women who are wretched enough anyway, or the pimps who will only take it out on them. It won’t change anything.”

“Someone killed him,” he said reasonably. “They can’t ignore that.”

“I know!” She took a deep breath. “I know.”

Hester had foreseen that the area around Coldbath Square would suffer an added diligence from police harrying women who were either prostitutes or who could not prove their legitimate occupations, but when it happened she was still taken aback by the reality. The very next evening in the house she saw immediate evidence of it. Margaret was not in; she was mixing with her more natural society, endeavoring to elicit further donations of money toward the rent of the house and the cost of bandages and medicines necessary to treat those who came to it. There were also other expenses to be met, such as fuel for the stove, and carbolic and vinegar for cleaning, and, of course, food.

The first woman to come to the house was not injured but ill. She had an intermittent fever which Hester judged to be a symptom of venereal disease, but there was little she could do for her beyond offering comfort and an infusion of herbs to lower her temperature and give her some sense of relief.

“Are you hungry?” Hester asked, passing her the steaming mug. “I have bread and a little cheese, if you like.”

The woman shook her head. “No, ta. I’ll just ’ave the medicine.”

Hester looked at her wan face and hunched shoulders. She was probably not more than twenty-five or twenty-six, but she was weary, and sleeplessness, poor food, and disease had robbed her of all energy.

“Would you like to stay here for the night?” Hester offered. It was not really what the house was for, but in the absence of those in greater need, why should this woman not use one of the beds?

A spark flared for a moment in the woman’s eyes. “Wot’ll it cost?” she said suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

“Can I go in the morning, then?”

“You can go any time you wish, but morning would be good.”

“Yeah, ta. That’d be fine.” She still did not quite believe it. Her mouth pulled tight. “In’t no point out there,” she said grimly. “No trade. Rozzers all over the bleedin’ place-like flies on a dead rat, they are. In’t nothin’ fer no one, even them wot’s still clean.” She meant free from disease, not like herself.

There was nothing for Hester to say. The truth would be a condescension this woman did not need. It would not give hope, only separate her from any sense of being understood.

“It’s that bleedin’ toff wot was snuffed last night,” the woman went on miserably. “Stupid cow! W’y anyone’d want ter go an’ do a thing like that fer, I dunno!” She took a sip of the herbs and twisted her mouth at the bitter taste.

“Sugar’ll probably make it worse,” Hester said. “But you can have some if you’d like.”

“Nah, ta.” She shook her head. “I’ll get used ter it.”

“Maybe they’ll find out who it was, and things will get back to normal,” Hester suggested. “What are you called?” It was not quite the same thing as asking her name. A name was a matter of identity; this was merely something to use in making her personal.

“Betty,” was the reply, after a longer draft of the herbal infusion.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a piece of bread and cheese? Or toast?”

“Yeah… toast’d be good. Ta.”

Hester made two pieces and put them on a plate with cheese. Betty waited while Hester took one piece herself, then she took the other. Her hand closed around it with satisfaction, almost urgency.

“Reckon ’is family’s real put out,” she went on after a moment or two. “ ’Em rozzers is buzzin’ around like the devil’s arter ’em. Poor bastards. They in’t bad, most o’ the time. Knows we gotter make a livin’, an’ the men wot comes ’ere does it ’cos they wanter. In’t nobody else’s business, really.” She ate over half the toast before speaking again. “S’pose they come arter summink wot their wives don’ give ’em. Never could work that out, but thank God fer it, I say.”

Hester stood up and made more toast, skewering the bread on a fork and holding it to the open door of the stove till the heat of the coals scorched it crisp and brown. She returned with another good slice of cheese and gave it to Betty, who took it in wordless gratitude.

Hester was half curious. She had been involved in too many cases with Monk not to try reasoning as second nature, but she was also concerned for the disruption to the neighborhood. “Why would any woman kill a client?” she asked. “Surely she would realize it had to end like this?”

Betty shrugged. “ ’Oo knows? Even soused out of ’er mind, yer’d think she’d ’ave’ad more sense, wouldn’t yer?” She bit into the toast and cheese and spoke with her mouth full. “Bring the wrath o’ God down on all of us, stupid bitch.” But there was more resignation in her voice than anger, and she turned her full attention to the food and said no more.

Hester did not raise the subject again until close to morning. She had slept in one of the beds herself, and was roused by Constable Hart knocking on the door.

She got up and let him in. He looked mithered and unhappy. He glanced around the room and saw only the one bed occupied.

“Quiet?” he said without surprise. Perhaps involuntarily his eyes went to the stove and the kettle.

“I’m going to have a cup of tea,” Hester remarked. “Would you like one?”

He smiled at her tact, and accepted.

When the tea and toast were made and they were sitting at either side of the table, he began to talk. It was light in the street outside but there was hardly any traffic yet. The huge mass of the Coldbath prison stood silent and forbidding to the north, the sun softening its walls only slightly, the cobbles of the road still damp in the crevices. Light glinted on a pile of refuse in the gutter.

“So I don’t suppose you’ve ’eard anything?” he said hopefully.

“Only that there are police all over the streets, and none of the women are doing much trade,” she replied, sipping her tea. “I imagine that’ll go for a lot of other occupations as well.”

He laughed without humor. “Oh, yeah! Burglaries are down-and robberies! It’s so bleedin’ safe to walk around now you could wear a gold Albert in your waistcoat an’ go from Coldbath to Pentonville, an’ still find it there! The reg’lars like us almost as much as a dose o’ the pox.”

“Then maybe they’ll help,” she suggested. “Get things back to normal. Do you know who he was yet?”

He looked up at her, his eyes solemn and troubled. “Yeah. ’Is son got worried ’cos ’e were supposed to be at a big business meeting, an’ ’e never come ’ome that night. Seems ’e weren’t the kind o’ man to miss something like that, so everyone got upset. Asked the local station about accidents an’ so on.” He spread black currant jam liberally on his toast. “He lived up Royal Square, opposite St. Peter’s Church, but the station put the word about, an’ we was askin’ around too, knowin’ as ’e wasn’t from our patch. Son came over and looked at’im in the morgue last evening.” He bit into the toast. “Knew’im, right enough,” he said with his mouth full. “ ’Ell of a stink ’e kicked up. Streets not safe for decent men, what’s the world coming to, and all that. ’E’ll write to his Member of Parliament, ’e said.” He shook his head wonderingly.