Anne Perry: A Christmas Odyssey

But he had grown out of it before he was thirty. It was all a hazy memory now, which was not even worth exploring. What compelled Lucien was something entirely different. It was a hunger that fed upon itself and that, in the end, would devour everything.

He spread out the sheet of paper Wentworth had given him, the list of places he had found Lucien in the past. But by his own admission Lucien was no longer likely to be in such places. He had sunk deeper than mere drunken brawling and abuse, or even the simple womanizing many young men indulged in at the better-known brothels.

Many of his own friends had sons who had disappointed them, one way or another, but a good man did not ask questions about such things, and if he accidentally learned of them he affected not to have. He certainly did not repeat it to others.

H enry’s own son, who was perhaps London’s most brilliant barrister, had been both admired and deplored, depending upon whom he had represented most recently. He had also, at times, behaved in ways that Henry found difficult to understand, and would certainly not have wished to discuss with anyone outside the family—except perhaps Hester Monk. It had never been a matter of overindulgence. Actually he wondered at times if it might not have been better for Oliver to have let himself go occasionally, even at the cost of an error or two!

Once, Henry had hoped Oliver would marry Hester, but he had realized some time ago that it would not have made Hester happy. She needed a man of more will and passion, like William Monk. Whether or not Hester would have made Oliver happy he was less certain. He thought perhaps she might have, but of course it was far too late now.

However, Hester might be able to advise Henry in his quest for Lucien, and he could be honest with her. There would be no need for any pretense, which would be exhausting, and in the end also self-defeating.

Hester had been a nurse in the Crimea during that wretched war, which was now—at the end of 1865—a decade gone into history. On her return home, she had initially dreamed of reforming nursing in England, in line with Florence Nightingale’s beliefs. However, the world of medicine was powerful, and unready for such advances. Hester had been obliged to seek one position after another in private nursing. Then she had married Monk, and found it difficult to work so far from home. As his work prospered, she had opened the clinic in Portpool Lane where she and others nursed women of the street who could find no other medical care for their most desperate needs. The funds came from charitable donations. Through these experiences, Hester might well have access to the kind of knowledge that Henry now needed.

With a little spring in his step he increased his pace along the wet, windy street and hailed a hansom cab.

“Portpool Lane, if you please,” he requested, climbing up and seating himself comfortably. It was not a long ride, even though the traffic was growing denser as the light faded in the winter afternoon.

“Right y’are, Guv,” the driver said briskly, urging his horse forward along the Strand, and then left up Chancery Lane.

The street lamps were being lit already. It was not long until the shortest day of the year, and they traveled in the murk of smoke and drifting rain. Henry could hear the clatter of hooves, the jingle of harness, and the hiss of wheels on the wet cobbles.

“Happy Christmas!” a man called out cheerfully, his voice rising above the cries of peddlers and curses of those caught up in tangles of traffic.

“You too!” came back the reply.

“Get on, yer fool!” someone else yelled out, caught behind a slow-moving dray, and there was a roar of laughter.

“Happy Christmas to you too!”

They turned right briefly up High Holborn, and then left on Gray’s Inn Road. Just past the square Henry rapped with his cane to catch the driver’s attention. “This will be excellent, thank you. I can walk the rest of the way.”

“Right, sir,” the driver said with some surprise. “ ’Appy Christmas, sir.”

Henry paid him, adding a rather generous tip, prompted by the well wishes, even though he knew they were given for precisely that purpose.

He crossed the road to the entrance of Portpool Lane and stepped onto the narrow path with confidence. The street lamps were few, and the vast dark mass of Reid’s Brewery dominated the farther end, but he knew his way.

I nside the clinic, Squeaky Robinson was sitting at the table going over the accounts. It was his profession to keep the books—not that it had always been so. In the previous incarnation of the building he had owned it, and run it as a very successful brothel. He had been tricked out of its ownership by William Monk and Oliver Rathbone, Sir Oliver, as he now was.

The loss of it meant that Squeaky, in his later middle years, had become homeless and penniless in the same instant. What was worse, he even stood in some danger of going to prison. That was a fate he had managed to avoid all his life, from childhood pocket-picking, with great skill—none of your ordinary stuff—right through his whole career until he owned this warren of buildings and made a handsome profit from them.

But those days were over, and he greatly preferred not to think of them. He was now a perfectly respectable man, keeping the books and managing the offices of the Portpool Lane Clinic for Hester Monk, who was a lady of spirit, considerable intelligence, and formidable will.

His attention was on the next column of figures when the door opened and a tall, lean gentleman came in, closing it behind him to keep out the bitter weather. Squeaky used the word “gentleman” in his mind, because years of experience had taught him to estimate a man’s social standing at a glance, and also to make a pretty accurate guess as to his intentions. In the past, his life had occasionally depended on that, and old habits died hard. This man he judged to be a gentleman by nature, possibly middle-class by birth, and a scholar by occupation. This estimate he drew from his unpretentious but well-cut clothes, his mixture of modesty and confidence, and the very slight stoop of his shoulders.

“Mornin’ sir,” he said curiously. “Can I help you?”

“Good morning,” the man replied pleasantly. His voice reminded Squeaky of someone, but he could not recall who. “My name is Henry Rathbone. I would very much like to speak with Mrs. Monk. If she is here, would you be good enough to ask her if that is possible?”

Of course: He must be Sir Oliver’s father. That was the resemblance. Now why would he be here to see Miss Hester? Squeaky regarded him more closely. He had a mild, agreeable face, but there was nothing passive about those blue eyes. A very clever man, Squeaky judged, possibly very clever indeed, but—at the moment—also a worried man. Before he let him in to see Hester, Squeaky would like very much to know what he wanted so urgently that he came all the way from wherever he lived to a place like Portpool Lane.

“She’s helpin’ patients right now,” he replied. “We had a bad night. Big catfight down Drury Lane, knives an’ all.” He saw the gentleman’s look of pity with satisfaction. “Mebbe I can help? In the meantime, like.”

Rathbone hesitated, then seemed to come to some decision. “It is advice I need, and I believe Mrs. Monk may be able to guide me toward someone who can give it to me. When might she be free?”

“Is it urgent?” Squeaky persisted.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

Squeaky studied the man even more closely. His clothes were of excellent quality, but not new. This suggested that he cared more for substance than appearance. He was sure enough of himself not to have any hunger to impress. Squeaky looked into the clear blue eyes and felt a twinge of unease. He might be as gentle as he seemed, but he would not be easy to fool, nor would he be put off by lies. He would not have come to Hester for medical help; he would most certainly have his own physician. Therefore it was help of some other sort that he wanted: perhaps connected with the clinic, and the kind of people who came there.