The Shifting Tide (26 page)

“Can you take a letter to my husband . . . so he knows why I don’t come home? And why he can’t come here . . .”

“I’ll tell ’im,” Sutton answered.

“And you’d better tell Margaret, Miss Ballinger, too. She can’t come back. Anyway, we will need her help raising money even more than before. Make her see that, won’t you!”

He nodded. His face was sad and bleak. “Yer gonna tell ’em ’ere?”

She hesitated.

“Yer gotta,” he said simply. “They can’t leave. If they try, they’ll set the dogs on ’em too. That in’t a death as yer’d wish on anyone.”

“No . . . I know.”

“No you don’t, Miss ’Ester, not unless yer seen anyone taken down by dogs.”

“I’ll tell them!” She stood up slowly and walked over to the door as if she were pushing herself against a tide. She reached it and called out into the passage beyond. “Claudine! Mercy! Flo! Someone please waken Bessie as well, and Squeaky. I need you all in here. I’m sorry, but you have to come.”

It was ten minutes before they were all there, Bessie still dazed with sleep. It was Mercy who first realized something terrible had happened. She sat down hard on one of the chairs, her face white. She looked as if she had not eaten or slept properly in days. “What is it?” she said quietly.

There was no point in stretching out the fear which already sat thick and heavy in the room.

“Ruth Clark is dead,” Hester said, looking at the incomprehension in their faces. They saw nothing beyond a small loss in the midst of others. Most of them had not liked her. Hester drew in a shivering breath. “She did not die of pneumonia. She died of plague. . . .” She watched their faces. One of them knew that was a lie. Had that person any idea at all of the deeper, infinitely more terrible truth than murder? She saw nothing except the slow struggle to understand, to grasp the enormity and the true horror of it.

“Plague?” Claudine said in bewilderment. “What sort of plague? What do you mean?”

“What the ’ell are you talking about?” Squeaky demanded.

“Bubonic plague,” Hester replied. “In some cases it starts as pneumonic congestion in the chest. Some people recover, not many. Some die with it in that stage. In others it goes on to the bubonic—swellings in the armpits and the groin that go black. We call it the Black Death.”

Flo stood motionless, her mouth open.

Squeaky turned white as a sheet.

Claudine fainted.

Mercy caught her and pushed her head between her knees, holding her until she struggled back to consciousness, gasping and choking.

Bessie sat blinking, her breath rasping in her throat.

“No one can leave, in case we carry it out of here to the rest of London,” Hester went on. “No one at all, at any time or for any reason. Sutton has already arranged for friends of his, with pit bull terriers, to patrol outside. If anyone leaves, they will set the dogs on them. Please believe that they will really do that. Whatever happens, we cannot allow the disease to spread. In the fourteenth century it killed nearly half of Europe—man, woman, and child. It changed the world. Our few lives are nothing; we must stop that from happening again.”

“ ’Ow are we gonna live?” Squeaky asked furiously, as if it were some kind of reason to deny it all.

“Other people will bring us food, water, and coal,” Hester replied. “They will leave them outside, and we will go and fetch them. We will never meet. We have told them it’s cholera, and they must never ever think differently.”

Mercy rubbed her hands up over her face, sweeping her hair back. “If anyone outside gets to know . . .”

“They’ll burn the place down!” Flo finished for her. “Mrs. Monk’s right. We gotta keep it a secret from everyone. It’s the only chance we got—God ’elp us!”

“Oh, Gawd!” Bessie said, rocking back and forth in her chair. “Oh, Gawd!”

“I never thought of praying,” Claudine said with wry bitterness. “But I suppose that’s all we have!”

Hester looked across at Sutton. He was the only other person, apart from herself, and one more, who knew that they also had a murderer in the house.

NINE

Monk was sitting at home, building up the fire to try to create in the house the warmth that was gone from it because Hester was devoting so much time to the clinic. Her absence robbed him of a great deal of the pleasure he would have felt had he been able to share his triumph with her. He had been extraordinarily successful. He had pulled off a master stroke, retrieving the ivory and getting it to Louvain right under the noses of the thieves—and of Culpepper, for whom it was taken, and even of the River Police! Louvain had paid him handsomely, and his reputation was now high. Other jobs would come from it. But there was no one to tell.

He was not finished. He still needed to find out who had killed Hodge. It might have been Gould’s partner, but that was likely only if he had gone on board after Gould, found Hodge stirring, and killed him. That would have been a result of panic, and completely unnecessary—unless the man was someone paid by Louvain, and thus had betrayed him? Louvain would exact a bitter vengeance for that, and it would explain why Hodge had been killed and not merely knocked senseless.

And then there was the other possibility, that Hodge had been killed by a member of the crew in some personal quarrel that had nothing to do with the theft.

If he found out who Gould’s partner had been, it might be possible to prove whether he had ever come on board the
Maude Idris
. Gould should be able to remember his own actions, which would at least help. Tusks were difficult things to handle. He would surely know where his partner had been. One could not pass anyone on the gangway to the hold without knowing. The difficulty would be in making sure he was honest. On the other hand, he must have walked close to Hodge’s body every time he carried ivory up or went back down for more.

Louvain would not like it; he might even try to block him, but Monk had taken care of that. He had no intention of allowing Hodge’s murderer to escape. He had never known Hodge, and might well have disliked him if he had, but that was irrelevant. The less anyone else cared, the more it mattered that he was given some kind of justice.

Monk was sitting by the fire, getting too hot but barely noticing it, when he realized there was someone knocking on the door. It could not be Hester; she had a key. Was it a new client? He could not accept one, unless he or she was prepared to wait. He stood up and went to answer.

The man on the step was lean, and quite smartly dressed, but his shoes were worn. His wry, intelligent face was lined with weariness, and there was a small brown-and-white terrier at his feet. Monk would be sorry to have to refuse him.

“Mr. William Monk?” the man enquired.

“Yes.”

“I have a message for yer, sir. May I come in?”

Monk was puzzled and already concerned. Who would send him a message in this fashion? “What is it?” he said a little sharply. “A message from whom?”

“From Mrs. Monk. Can I come in?” There was an odd dignity to the man, a confidence despite his obvious lack of education.

Monk opened the door and stepped back to allow him to walk past into the warmth, followed by the dog. Then he closed the door and swung around to face him.

“What is it?” Now his voice was sharp, the edge of fear audible. Why would Hester send a message through a man like this? Why not a note if she was delayed and wanted to tell him? “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Sutton,” the man replied. “I’m a rat catcher. I’ve know’d Mrs. Monk awhile now—”

“What did she say?” Monk cut across him. “Is she all right?”

“Yeah, she’s all right,” Sutton said gravely. “Though she’s workin’ too ’ard, like most times.”

Monk looked at him. There was nothing in the man’s face or his demeanor to ease Monk’s growing alarm.

“Wot I got ter tell yer in’t a few moments’ worth,” Sutton went on. “So yer’d best sit down an’ listen. There in’t nothing yer can do ’ceptin’ keep yer ’ead, and then ’old yer tongue.”

Monk suddenly found his legs were weak and he felt a rush of panic well up inside him. He was glad to sit down.

Sutton sat in the other chair. “Thank yer,” he said as if Monk had invited him. He did not tease out the suspense. “One o’ the women wot was brought inter the clinic died today. When Miss ’Ester come ter wash ’er fer the undertaker, she seed what she really died of, which weren’t pneumonia like she thought.” He stopped, his eyes shadowed, his face intensely serious.

Monk leapt to the conclusion that was most familiar to him. “Murdered?” He leaned forward to stand up. He should go there immediately. Helping Gould would have to wait. He could afford a few days.

“Sit down, Mr. Monk,” Sutton said in a low, very clear voice. “The trouble in’t nothin’ ter do wi’ murder. It’s far more ’orrible than that. An’ yer gotta act right, or yer could bring down a disaster like the world in’t seen in five ’undred years.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Monk demanded. Was the man mad? He looked perfectly sane; the gravity in him was saner than in a score of men who governed the fates of businesses and societies. “What is it?”

“Plague,” Sutton answered, his eyes fixed on Monk. “Not yer cholera or yer pox, or any o’ them diseases. It’s the real thing—the Black Death.”

Monk could not grasp what Sutton had said. It had no reality; it was just huge words, too big to mean anything.

“That’s why nobody’s goin’ in there, an’ nobody’s comin’ out,” Sutton went on quietly. “They gotta keep it closed, no matter wot.”

“You did!” Monk said instantly.

“I kept away from Miss ’Ester an’ the woman wot nursed the dead one, an’ I in’t comin’ out again arter this.”

“I’m still going in,” Monk insisted. Hester was there without him. She was facing something worse than any human nightmare. How could he possibly stay out here, safe, doing nothing? “She’ll need help. Anyway, how could you stop people from leaving? I mean, the sheer practicality? You have to tell the authorities! Get doctors—”

“There in’t nothin’ a doctor can do fer the Black Death.” Sutton sat almost motionless. His face was impassive, beyond emotion. It was as if the horror of it had drained everything out of him. “If it takes yer, it takes yer, an’ if it leaves yer, it leaves yer. In’t no use tellin’ the authorities. In’t nothin’ they can do. An’ wot d’yer think’d ’appen then, eh?”

The hideousness of it was very slowly becoming real. In his mind, Monk could see exactly what this strange, composed man was saying. “How will you stop people from leaving?” he asked.

“Dogs,” Sutton said with a slight movement of his shoulders. “I got friends with pit bulls. They’re guardin’ all the outsides. I ’ope nobody runs fer it, but so ’elp me, they’ll set the dogs on ’em if they do. Better one torn ter bits than lettin’ ’er spread it over all the land, all over the world, mebbe.”

“What if they tell people?”

“We told ’em it’s cholera an’ they don’ know different.”

Monk tried not to think of what his own words meant. “I must still go and help. I can’t leave her alone there. I won’t.”

“Yer gotter . . .” Sutton began.

“I won’t come out again!”

Sutton’s face softened. “I know yer won’t. Not as I’d let yer, any road. But yer can be more ’elp out ’ere. There’s things as need doin’.”

“Getting food, coal, medicine. I know that. Anyone can do those things—”

“Course they can,” Sutton agreed. “An’ I’ll see as they do. But in’t yer thought where the plague come from? Where’d that poor woman get it, then?”

Monk felt the sweat break out on his skin.

“We gotter find out,” Sutton said wearily. “An’ there in’t nobody else as can do that without settin’ the ’ole o’ London on fire wi’ terror. She come from somewhere, poor creature. Where’d she get it, eh? ’Oo else ’as it? Ye’re a man as knows ’ow ter ask questions, an’ get answers as other people can’t. Miss ’Ester says as yer the cleverest man, an’ the cussedest, as she ever met. She right?”

Monk buried his head in his hands, his mind whirling, ideas beating against him, bruising in their violence. Hester was alone in the clinic with the most terrible disease ever known to man. He would never see her again. He could do nothing to help her. He could not even remember now what were the last words they had said to each other! Did she know how much he loved her, as his wife, his friend, the one person without whom he had no purpose and no joy, the one whose belief in him made everything matter, whose approval was a reward in itself, whose happiness created his?

And the whole of Europe could be decimated with disease. Corpses everywhere, the land itself rotting. History books told how the whole world had changed. The old way of life had perished and a new order had been made—it had had to be.

“Is she right?” Sutton asked again.

Monk lifted his head. Did Sutton know that in those words he had made it impossible for Monk to refuse? Yes, almost certainly he did.

“Yes,” he answered. “What do you know about the woman who died?”

“ ’Er name were Ruth Clark, an’ she were brung in by a shipowner called Louvain. ’e said she were the mistress of a friend of ’is, which is mebbe true an’ mebbe not.”

“Louvain?” Monk’s body froze, his mind whirling.

“Yeah.” Sutton stood up. “I ’ave ter go. I can’t see yer again. Yer just gotta do yer best.” He seemed about to add something, but could not think of words to convey it.

“I know,” Monk said quickly. “Tell Hester . . .”

“Don’t matter now,” Sutton replied simply. “If she don’t know it, words in’t gonna ’elp. Find where it come from. An’ do it soft, like—very, very soft.”

“I understand.” Monk rose to his feet also, surprised that the room did not sway around him. He followed Sutton and his dog to the door. “Good-bye!”

Sutton went out into the street, rain drifting in the lamplight and glistening on the pavement. “Good night,” he replied, then turned and walked with a peculiar ease, almost a grace of step, into the darkness, the dog still at his heels.

Monk closed the door and went back into the room. It seemed airless and unnaturally silent. He sat down very slowly. His body was shaking. He must control his thoughts. Thought was the only way of keeping command of himself.