Death of a Stranger (4 page)

Behind her, one of the women started to cry.

Hester talked all the time she worked. Most of it was probably nonsense; her mind was on the bloody flesh, trying to stitch it together evenly, without cobbling, without missing a vessel where the blood was still oozing, without causing more pain than was absolutely unavoidable.

Silently, Margaret handed her more and more cloths, and took away those that were soaked and useless.

Where was Lockhart? Why did he not come? Was he drunk again, lying in someone else’s bed, under a table, or worse, in a gutter where no one would ever recognize him, much less find him and sober him up? She cursed him under her breath.

She lost track of how long it was since Margaret had sent the woman out. All that mattered was the wound and the pain. She did not even notice the street door opening and closing.

Then suddenly there was another pair of hands, delicate and strong, and above all clean. Her back was so locked in position that when she straightened up it hurt, and it took her a moment to refocus her eyes on the young man beside her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, his fair hair was damp around his brow as if he had splashed his face with water. He looked down at the wound.

“Good job,” he said approvingly. “Looks as if you’ve got it.”

“Where have you been?” she replied between her teeth, overwhelmed with relief that he was there, and furious that he had not come sooner.

He grinned ruefully and shrugged, then turned his attention back to the wound. He explored it with sensitive, expert touch, all the while looking every few moments at the patient’s face to make sure she was no worse.

Hester considered apologizing to him for her implied criticism and decided it did not matter now. It would not help, and she did not pay him, so perhaps he owed her nothing. She caught Margaret looking at her, and saw the relief in her eyes also.

It seemed as if the bleeding was stopped. She handed Lockhart the final bandages soaked in balm and he bound them in place, then stood back.

“Not bad,” he said gravely. “We’ll need to watch her for infection.” He did not bother to ask what had happened. He knew no one would tell him. “A little beef tea, or sherry if you have it. Not yet, but in a while. You know what else.” He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug and smiled. “Probably better than I do.”

Hester nodded. Now that the immediate crisis was over she was overwhelmed with weariness. Her mouth was dry and she was trembling a little. Margaret had gone to the stove for hot water so they could wash the worst of the blood away, and to make tea for them.

Hester turned to the waiting women, and the question in all their faces. “Give it time,” she said quietly. “We can’t tell yet. It’s too soon.”

“Can she stay ’ere?” one of them asked. “Please, missus! ’E’ll only do it again if she goes back.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Hester let her fury out at last. “He could have killed her. He’s got to be a madman-you should get rid of him. Don’t you have some kind of-”

“It weren’t Bert!” another of the women said quickly. “I know that ’cos ’e were out cold drunk in the gutter w’en it ’appened. I know that fer sure, ’cos I seed’im meself. Great useless, bleedin’ oaf!”

“A customer?” Hester said in surprise and increasing anger.

“Nah!” The woman shuddered.

“Yer dunno that,” the third woman said grimly. “Fanny in’t sayin’ ’oo it were, missus. She’s that scared she won’t say nuffin’, but we reckon as it’s some bastard as she knows, but it in’t ’er reg’lar pimp, ’cos like Jenny said, ’e were blind drunk an’ not fit ter beat a rice puddin’, never mind do that ter anyone.” She grimaced. “Besides, wot sense does it make ter put yer own women out o’ work? Gawd! There’s little enough around now without cuttin’ anyone open. Even a bleedin’ eejut can see that!”

“Then who would do it?” Hester asked as Margaret poured hot water into a bowl on the other table, then added cold to it to make it bearable to wash in. The carbolic was already to hand.

Lockhart rolled his sleeves farther up, ignoring the blood on them, and began to wash. Hester followed straight after him and he handed her the towel.

Margaret made tea for all of them, including herself, and brought it over, hot and very strong. Hester was glad to sit down at last and made no demur when Lockhart carried the bowl away to empty it down the drain.

Fanny was lying on the main table, her head on a pillow, her face ashen white. It was too soon to think of moving her, even to a bed.

“Who would do it?” Hester repeated, looking at the woman.

“Dunno,” the first one replied. “Ta.” She accepted a mug of tea from Margaret. “That’s wot’s got us frit. Fanny’s a good girl. She don’ take nothin’ wot don’ belong to ’er. She does wot she’s told, poor little cow! P’rhaps she was once quite decent.” She lowered her voice. “Parlor maid or summink like that. Got inter trouble, an’ afore yer can say ’knife,’ ’ere she is in the street. Don’ talk much, but she’ad it rough, I’d say.”

Lockhart came back with the empty bowl and accepted his tea.

“If I could get me ’ands on the sod wot did that to ’er,” the middle woman said. “I’d slit ’is… sorry, miss, but so I would.”

“You shut yer mouth, Ada!” her companion warned. “There’s rozzers all over the place. Comin’ outa the bleedin’ woodwork, they are. Don’ wanna be, but they’re gettin’ leant on every which way, poor sods. Someone’s tellin’ ’em ter clear us up. Others is tellin’ ’em ter leave us alone, so they can ’ave their fun. Poor rozzers is runnin’ around like blue-arsed flies, fallin’ over each other.”

“Yeh! An’ poor little cows like Fanny is gettin’ cut up by some bleedin’ lunatic!” Ada retorted, her face pinched, her voice rising with barely controlled hysteria.

Hester did not argue. She sat quietly and thought about it, but she did not ask any more questions. The three women thanked them, and after saying good-bye to Fanny and promising to return, they went out into the night.

After an hour Lockhart looked closely at Fanny, who seemed to be quite a lot easier, at least in her fear. He helped Hester and Margaret carry her over to the nearest bed and laid her on it. Then, promising to come back the following day, he took his leave.

Hester suggested Margaret take a turn to sleep, and she would watch. Later they would change places. In the morning Bessie Wellington would come to take care of the house for the day and keep it clean. She had once been a prostitute herself, then kept a bawdy house until fiercer competition had driven her out of business. Now she was glad to find a warm room to spend the day, and was gentle enough with such patients as remained in the beds. She asked for no payment, and her knowledge of the area was worth almost as much as her labor.

When Hester returned the next evening, she was met by Bessie at the door, her face red, her black hair pulled back into a screwed knot and poking out at all angles. She was bursting with indignation.

“That slimy toad Jessop was ’ere arter money again!” she said in a whisper which carried halfway across Coldbath Square. “Offered’im a cup o’ tea, an’ ’e wouldn’t take it! Suspicious sod!”

“What did you put in it, Bessie?” Hester asked, concealing a wry smile. She came in and closed the door behind her. The familiarity of the room engulfed her, the scrubbed boards still smelling of lye and carbolic, the faint echo of vinegar, the heat of the stove, and over near the tables the pungency of whiskey and the sharper clean tang of herbs. Automatically her eye went to the bed where she had left Fanny. She saw the dark tangle of her hair and the mound of her body under the blankets.

“She’s all right, poor little bitch,” Bessie said with anger rumbling in her voice. “Can’t get a word out of ’er ’oo done that to ’er, mind. Don’ understand that. If it were me, I’d be cursin’’im up an’ down ter everyone wot’d listen-an’ them wot wouldn’t!” She shook her head.

“Only a bit o’ licorice,” she said in answer to Hester’s original question. “An’ a spot o’ whiskey ter ’ide the taste, like. Pity that. Waste o’ good whiskey. Not that there’s any other sort, mind!” She grinned, showing gap teeth.

“Did you throw it away?” Hester asked anxiously.

Bessie gave her a sideways look. “ ’Course I did, bless yer! Wouldn’t wanna give anyone cold tea, would I?” She stared back with mock innocence, and Hester could not help at least half wishing Jessop had drunk it. Surely, Bessie would not cause him anything worse than an acute discomfort and possibly embarrassment. Would she?

She went over and looked at Fanny, who was still frightened and in considerable pain. It took half an hour to take off the bandages and look at the wound to make sure it was not infected, rebandage it, then persuade her to take a little broth. She was barely finished when the street door opened with a gush of chilly, damp air, and she turned to see a woman of uncertain age standing only just inside. She was plainly dressed, like a good lady’s maid, and her face was pinched hard with disapproval. Even her nose was wrinkled, though it was impossible to tell if it was the odor of lye and carbolic or fierce disgust that consumed her.

“Yes?” Hester said enquiringly. “Can I help you?”

“Is this a… a place where you take in injured women who are… are…” She stopped, apparently unable to say the word in her mind.

“Prostitutes,” Hester said for her, with a touch of asperity. “Yes, it is. Are you injured?”

The woman blushed scarlet with mortification, then the blood drained out, leaving her face gray. She swiveled on her heel and went out of the still-open door.

Bessie stifled a laugh.

The next moment another young woman stood in the entrance, very different in appearance. Her complexion was extremely fair, her yellow hair thick. She had pale lashes and brows, but a healthy color in her face, which was too bland of feature to be pretty but had an openness and a balance about it which was immediately pleasing. She appeared nervous and was obviously controlling deep emotions, but there was no sign of injury or physical pain in her. The quality of her clothes, which, even though they were of unrelieved black, made it quite obvious she spent a considerable amount of money on them, and her bearing-head high, eyes direct-said that she was not a woman of the streets, however successful. It occurred to Hester with a jolt of embarrassment that probably the first woman had indeed been her maid, and there very much against her will. Perhaps she should not have made the remark she made.

She put down the dish and spoon with which she had been feeding Fanny, and went toward the visitor. “Good evening. Can I help you?”

“Are you in charge here?” the young woman asked. Her voice was low and a trifle hoarse, as if her feelings were held in so tightly the effort had half closed her throat, but her diction was perfect.

“Yes,” Hester replied. “My name is Hester Monk. What can I do for you?”

“I am Livia Baltimore.” She took a deep breath. “I understand this place…” Studiously, she avoided looking around her. “This is a refuge where women of the streets come if they are injured? I beg your pardon if I am mistaken. I do not mean to insult you, but my maid informed me that this is the correct place.” Her fists were clenched by her sides, her body rigid.

“It is not an insult, Miss Baltimore,” Hester replied steadily. “I do this because I wish to. Medicine deals with those who need, it does not make social judgments.” She hesitated, uncertain whether to say anything about Nolan Baltimore’s death or not, then instinct broke through regardless. “I am sorry for your bereavement, Miss Baltimore. Please come in.”

“Thank you.” She glanced once behind her, then closed the door. “Perhaps you can also help me…”

“If I knew anything about it, I would already have told the police,” Hester replied, turning and moving back toward the table. She knew what Livia Baltimore had come seeking. It was natural enough, and showed a great deal of courage, even if little wisdom. She was touched with pity for the pain this young woman would experience as she realized more fully the reality of the places her father had frequented, whatever his purpose. She would have kept her emotions, her dreams, her grief, far safer had she stayed at home. But perhaps she would not only gain information but be able to give it as well. Even if vast areas of her father’s life were unknown to her, she would still have some sense of his personality.

“Please sit down,” Hester offered. “Would you like tea? It’s a miserable night.”

Livia accepted. Apparently the maid had been dismissed to wait for her in the carriage, or whatever other form of transport she had used. Either Livia wished this conversation to be private or the maid had declined to remain in such a place. Possibly it was both.

Breathing heavily, Bessie filled up the kettle again from a ewer on the floor and set it on the stove. “It’ll be a few minutes,” she warned grudgingly. She sensed condescension and resented it.

“Of course,” Hester agreed, then turned to Livia. “I really have no idea what happened to Mr. Baltimore,” she said gently. “I deal only with injury and illness here. I don’t ask questions.”

“But you must hear things!” Livia urged. “The police won’t tell me anything. They speak to my brother, but they say there was a woman involved, and she may have been hurt.”

Her black-gloved hands clenched and unclenched on her reticule. “Perhaps he saw a woman being attacked, and he tried to help her, and they set upon him?” Her eyes were eager, desperate. “If that were so, she might have come here, surely?”

“Yes,” Hester agreed, knowing the word was true but the thought was not.

“Then you would have seen her, or your woman would?” Livia half nodded toward Bessie, standing with her arms folded beside the stove.

“I would have seen her,” Hester conceded. “But several women come here every night, and they are all injured… or ill.”

“But that night… the night he was… killed?” Livia leaned forward a little across the table, in her eagerness forgetting her distaste. “Who was here then? Who was hurt, and might have seen his… murder?” Her eyes filled with tears and she ignored them. “Don’t you care about justice, Mrs. Monk? My father was a good and decent man, and generous. He worked so hard for what he had, and he loved his family! Doesn’t it matter to you that someone killed him?”