Anne Perry - A Sudden, Fearful Death

"How do I find one of these surgeons that do abortions?" he asked, watching her intently. "The lady I'm asking for can afford to pay."

"Not sure as I'd tell yer if I knew-which I don't. Ladies as can pay that sort 'ave their own ways o' findin' 'em."

"I see." He believed her. He had no reason except instinct, but for once, even with thought, he had confidence in his own judgment. This sickening rage was familiar, and the helplessness. He could see in his mind confused and bitter widowers, frightened at being faced suddenly with looking after a dozen children by themselves, not knowing, not understanding what had happened or why. Their wives had faced the growing burden of incessant childbeanng without speaking of it. They had gone to the abortionist secretly and alone. They had bled to death without even sharing the reason; it was private, shameful, women's business. The husband had never stretched his imagination beyond his own physical pleasures. Children were a natural thing- and what women were made for. Now he was bereaved, frightened, angry, and totally bemused.

And Monk could see just as clearly young girls, not yet sixteen, ashen-faced, sick with fear of the abortionist and her instruments, her gin bottle, and the shame of it, just like the girl in the chair now; and yet knowing even this was still better than the ruin of becoming a fallen woman. And what waited for a bastard child of a destitute mother? Death was better-death before birth, in some filthy back kitchen with a woman who smiled at you, was gentle according to her abilities, took all the money you could scrape together, and kept her mouth shut He wished so fiercely it hurt him that he could do something for this child here now, weeping quietly and bleeding. But what was there?

"I'll try to find a surgeon," Monk said with ironic honesty.

"Please yerself," the woman answered, apparently without rancor. "But yer lady friend won't thank yer if yer spread it all over the city among 'er fine friends. Keepin' it quiet is wot it's all for, in'it?"

"I'll be discreet," Monk answered, suddenly longing to be outside this place. It seemed to him as if the very walls were as soaked with pain as the linens and the table were with blood. Even the Whitechapel Road with its grime and poverty would be better than this. It choked him and felt thick in his nostrils and he could taste it at the back of his throat. "Thank you." It was a ridiculous thing to say to her; it was merely a way of closing the encounter. He turned on his heel and flung the door open, strode through the butcher's shop and outside into the street, taking in long gasps of air. Leaden with the smells of smoke and drains as it was, it was still infinitely better than that abominable kitchen.

He would go on looking, but first he must get out of Whitechapel altogether. There was no point in looking to" the back-street abortionists, thank God. Stanhope would never have trusted his business to them: they would betray him as quickly as thought-he took some of their best paying customers. He would be a fool to lay his Me in their hands. The opportunities to blackmail for half his profit were too rich to pass up-half or more! He would have to look higher in society, if he could think of a way.

There was no time for subtlety. Maybe there was only a day, two at the most.

Callandra! She might know something, and there was no better person to ask. It would mean telling her that Sir Herbert was guilty, and how they knew, but there was no time or opportunity to ask Rathbone's permission. He had told Monk because Monk was his employee in this case, and bound by the same rules of confidentiality. Callandra was not. But that was a nicety Monk did not give a damn about. Sir Herbert could complain from the gallows steps!

It was late when Monk delivered his news, after six in the evening.

Callandra was horrified when the full impact struck her of what he had said. He had left with what little advice she could give, his face pale and set in an expression which frightened her. Now she was alone in her comfortable room lit by the fading sun, with a dark weight of knowledge. A week ago it would have made her heart sing, simply with the sheer certainty that Kristian was not guilty of Prudence's death. Now all she could think of was that Sir Herbert would almost certainly walk free-and more oppressive yet, of the pain that hung over Lady Stanhope, a new grief which she must face. Whether she would ever know that Sir Herbert was guilty of murder, Callandra could only guess, probably not. But she must be told that her eldest son had been the father of Victoria's aborted child. The act of incest was not often a sole event. Her other daughters stood in danger of the same crippling trag-edy.

There was no way to ease the telling, nothing Callandra could think of or imagine which would make it bearable. And there was no point in sitting here in her soft chair amid the bowls of flowers and the books and cushions, the cats asleep in the sun and the dog looking at her hopefully with one eye, in case she should decide to walk.

She rose and went to the hall, calling for the butler and the footman. She would take the carriage to Lady Stanhope's house now. It was an uncivil time for calling, and it was unlikely Lady Stanhope was receiving visitors in the circumstances anyway, but she was prepared to force the issue if that was necessary. She was wearing a very simple afternoon dress, fashionable two years ago, and it did not occur to her to change.

She rode in the carriage deep in thought, and was startled to be told she had arrived. She instructed the coachman to wait, alighted without assistance, and went straight to the front door. It was handsome, discreet, speaking of a great deal of money. She noted it absently, aware with bitterness that Sir Herbert would keep all this, probably even with his reputation little damaged. It gave her no satisfaction that his personal life would be scarred forever. All her thoughts were filled with the pain she was about to inflict upon his wife.

She rang the bell, and it was answered by a footman. Perhaps in these anguished times the women were being kept in the rear of the house. It might be deemed better for a man to deal with the curious and tasteless who might call.

"Yes ma'am?" he said guardedly.

"Lady Callandra Daviot," Callandra said briskly, passing him her card. "I have a matter of extreme urgency to discuss with Lady Stanhope, and I regret it cannot, wait until a more fortunate time. Will you inform her that I am here." It was an order, not a question.

"Certainly ma'am," he replied stiffly, taking the card without reading it. "But Lady Stanhope is not receiving at present."

'This is not a social call," Callandra replied. "It is a matter of medical emergency."

"Is-is Sir Herbert ill?" The man's face paled.

"Not so far as I am aware."

He hesitated, in spite of experience, uncertain what best to do. Then he met her eyes; something in him recognized power and authority and a strength of will which would not be overridden or gainsaid.

"Yes, ma'am. If you would be good enough to wait in the morning room." He opened the door wider to allow her in, and then showed her to a very formal room, at present devoid of flowers and bleak in its sense of being unused. It was like a house in mourning.

Philomena Stanhope came after only a few moments, looking pinched and anxious. She regarded Callandra without apparent recognition. Society had never meant anything to her, and the hospital was only a place where her husband worked. Callandra was touched by pity for the ruinous disillusion she was about to inflict on her. Her comfortable family and home were about to be ripped apart.

"Lady Callandra?" Philomena said questioningly. "My footman says you have some news for me."

"I am afraid I have. I profoundly regret it, but further tragedy may occur if I do not."