Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

Sutton came in through the back door, Snoot at his heels. Hester poured tea for him, offered him toast, and invited him to sit down.

“It’s good to see you, miss,” he said to Margaret, accepting the invitation. The words were bare enough, but the expression in his face was profound approval, and Margaret found herself coloring at the unspoken praise.

Hester took the crusts from her toast and gave them to Snoot. “I know I shouldn’t,” she acknowledged to Sutton. “But he’s done such a good job.”

“He’s a beggar!” Sutton said tartly. “ ’Ow many times ’ave I told yer not to beg, yer little ’ound?” His voice was full of pride. “ ’e ’as done a good job, Miss ’Ester. I in’t seed a rat fer two days now.”

Hester felt a hollowness at the thought that Sutton might leave. She realized how much she relied upon him, even with Margaret back. His resourcefulness, his wry, brave wit, his companionship could not be replaced by anybody else.

“There might still be some,” she said too quickly.

“I’ll show yer where I bin,” he replied, waiting until she was ready to move.

She finished her tea, and when he had also she followed him to the laundry. It smelled of carbolic, wet stone, and cotton. He stopped. “We in’t had no more new cases o’ the plague since Miss Mercy. Mebbe we’re gonna get the better of it,” he said softly. “But I in’t goin’ till yer find out ’oo killed that Clark woman. Not as she din’t deserve it, like, but nob’dy can take the law into their own ’ands.” He looked at her in the dim light. “I bin thinkin’, it’s gotter be between Flo, Miss Claudine, an’ Miss Mercy, though why Miss Mercy should wanter kill ’er I in’t got no idea. Summink ter do wi’ ’er brother, mebbe. Bessie could’ve o’ course, but she in’t like that. The rest of ’em were too poorly accordin’ ter Bessie, an’ din’t never see ’er.”

“Or Squeaky,” Hester added. “But so far as I know, he didn’t see her either. And why on earth would he want to kill her?”

“That’s exactly it,” Sutton said unhappily. “An’ as yer said, it were Mr. Louvain as brung ’er in.”

“Yes. He said she was the mistress of a friend of his.”

He raised an eyebrow in a lopsided expression of doubt. “Or mebbe not? ’ave yer thought as mebbe she were ’is own mistress, like?”

“Yes, of course, I have.” A coldness touched her. “You mean that Mercy knew that, perhaps even knew her?”

“In’t wot I wanna think,” he said sadly. “Nor wouldn’t I wanter think as mebbe that’s why she come ’ere ter ’elp-”

“Just to murder Ruth Clark?” Hester refused to believe it. “She was here for days before Ruth was killed. If that’s what she came for, why would she wait?”

“I dunno. Mebbe she wanted ter argue the Clark woman inter leavin’ the family alone?” he suggested, his face pinched with weariness. “But p’r’aps the Clark woman ’ad ideas o’ becomin’ Mrs. Louvain? Or mebbe just o’ bleedin’ ’im o’ money. Miss Mercy could a bin protectin’ ’im.”

“No.” This time she was quite certain. “He doesn’t need anyone to do that. If Ruth Clark was trying to blackmail him, or get money in any way, he’d simply have dumped her in the river himself.”

He looked at her, shaking his head a little. “Someb’dy put a piller over ’er ’ead. D’yer reckon as it were Flo-or Miss Claudine? Miss Claudine got a tongue on ’er as’d slice bacon, but she wouldn’t stoop ’erself to ’it anyb’dy. I seen ’er wi’ Squeaky. She’d fair bust ’er stays, but she wouldn’t ’it ’im. Flo’s a different kettle o’ fish. She’d a throttled ’er if she’d really lost ’er rag, like. But d’yer reckon as she’d a carried it off after, all cool an’ surprised, like? An’ nob’dy’d guessed it were ’er?”

“No. .”

“Then I reckon yer’ve gotter think as it were Miss Mercy.” His face was marked with weariness and sorrow. “I wish I ’adn’t ’ad ter say that.”

“I was just putting off thinking it,” she admitted. “I sensed emotion between them, but I really didn’t think it was hatred, and I would have sworn that Ruth wasn’t afraid of her. If there’d been that kind of threat between them, if Ruth was blackmailing Clement Louvain, or imagining she would marry him, then surely she’d know Mercy would try to stop it? Wouldn’t she have been afraid?”

He was disconcerted. “ ’Ow daft were she?”

“Not at all. She was quick, well educated; in fact, they seemed to belong to the same social class, except that Ruth was possibly Louvain’s mistress, whereas Mercy is his sister.”

There was a sound at the doorway, and Claudine came in, aware that she was probably interrupting and ignoring the fact. Her eyes were bleak and she held her voice in control with difficulty. “Mrs. Monk, I think Mercy is sinking. Flo is with her, but I thought you’d like to be there yourself if she rallies long enough to know.”

Hester was not ready. Her thoughts were in turmoil and she needed to know the truth, however deeply it hurt, if only to free Flo and Claudine from suspicion. Nor was she ready emotionally. She liked Mercy, liked her patience, her curiosity, the way she was willing to learn skills outside her class or style of life, her generosity of spirit, her ease to praise others, even her occasional flashes of temper. Hester was not prepared to accept her death with so much turbulence of heart, so many painful questions unanswered.

But time would not wait; the hand of plague waited for nothing.

“I’m coming,” she said, glancing once at Sutton. Then she followed Claudine out through the kitchen and up the stairs to Mercy’s room.

Flo was sitting beside the bed, leaning forward a little to hold Mercy’s hand. Mercy lay quite still, her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily and the sweat stood out on her skin.

Flo rose and allowed Hester to take her place, moving silently to the door.

Hester touched Mercy’s head, then wrung out the cloth in the dish of water and placed it on her brow. A few minutes later Mercy opened her eyes. She saw Hester and smiled, just the corner of her lips moving a fraction.

“I’m here,” Hester whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

Mercy seemed to be struggling to say something. Hester wet her lips with the cloth.

“Are there any more?” Mercy breathed, the words barely audible.

“Any more?” Hester did not understand what she meant, but she could see that it was of intense importance to her.

“Any more. . sick?” Mercy whispered.

“No, no more,” Hester answered.

There were several more minutes of silence. Mercy was blue about the lips and she was obviously in severe pain. The poison that had blackened the buboes under her arms and groin was racking her whole body now. Hester had seen death often enough to know that it would not be long. She would have to get word out to Clement Louvain when it was over and they could communicate with the outside world. She would have to tell him about Ruth Clark as well, whatever the truth of his regard for her had been. Odd, such lovely words: Mercy and Clement. And the sister was Charity-the same meaning again. And Ruth Clark too. The word was usually used in the negative- ruthless -so ruth must be a kind of mercy and forbearance, a gentleness of spirit. Presumably, Clement Louvain would tell Charity. What a lot of grief for one man to bear.

Had he known that Ruth had plague? Was that why he had brought her here instead of having her nursed in his own home? If she had been his mistress, then he could well have it too by now.

Mercy’s eyes were open.

Hester looked at her. “Did you know that Ruth Clark had the plague?”