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felt its misery enter into him, and a coldness that had nothing to do with the sharp November wind that whined along the street and rattled an old newspaper in the gutter.
He knocked at the door, and when it was opened by a thin man with lank dark hair and a lugubrious expression, he stated immediately who he was and his profession, so there should be no mistaking his purpose in being here. He would not allow them even for an instant to suppose he was seeking shelter, or the poor relief such places were built and maintained to give.
“You’d better come in. I’ll ask if the master’ll see yer,” the man said without interest. “But if yer want ’elp, yer’d best not lie,” he added as an afterthought.
Monk was about to snap at him that he did not, when he caught sight of one of the “outdoor poor” who did, who were reduced by circumstance to seeking charity to survive from one of these grim institutions which robbed them of decision, dignity, individuality, even of dress or personal appearance; which fed them bread and potatoes, separated families, men from women, children from parents, housed them in dormitories, clothed them in uniforms and worked them from dawn until dusk. A man had to be reduced to despair before he begged to be admitted to such a place. But who would willingly let his wife or his children perish?
Monk found the hot denial sticking in his throat. It would humiliate the man further, to no purpose. He contented himself with thanking the doorkeeper and following him obediently.
The workhouse master took nearly a quarter of an hour to come to the small room overlooking the labor yard where rows of men sat on the ground with hammers, chisels and piles of rocks.
He was a pallid man, his gray hair clipped close to his head, his eyes startlingly dark and ringed around with hollow circles as if he never slept.
“What’s wrong, Inspector?” he said wearily. “Surely you don’t think we harbor criminals here? He’d have to be desperate indeed to seek this asylum—and a very unsuccessful scoundrel.”
“I’m looking for a woman who may have been the victim of rape,” Monk replied, a dark, savage edge to his voice. “I want to hear her side of the story.”
“You new to the job?” the workhouse master said doubtfully, looking him up and down, seeing the maturity in his face, the smooth lines and powerful nose, the confidence and the anger. “No.” He answered his own question. “Then what good do you imagine that will do? You’re not going to try and prosecute on the word of a pauper, are you?”
“No—it’s just corroborative evidence.”
“What?”
“Just to confirm what we already know—or suspect.”
“What’s her name?”
“Martha Rivett. Probably came about two years ago—with child. I daresay the child would be born about seven months later, if she didn’t lose it.”
“Martha Rivett—Martha Rivett. Would she be a tall girl with fairish hair, about nineteen or twenty?”
“Seventeen—and I’m afraid I don’t know what she looked like—except she was a parlormaid, so I expect she was handsome, and possibly tall.”
“We’ve got a Martha about that age, with a baby. Can’t remember her other name, but I’ll send for her. You can ask her,” the master offered.
“Couldn’t you take me to her?” Monk suggested. “Don’t want to make her feel—” He stopped, uncertain what word to choose.
The workhouse master smiled wryly. “More likely she’ll feel like talking away from the other women. But whatever you like.”
Monk was happy to concede. He had no desire to see more of the workhouse than he had to. Already the smell of the place—overboiled cabbage, dust and blocked drains—was clinging in his nose, and the misery choked him.
“Yes—thank you. I don’t doubt you’re right.”
The workhouse master disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with a thin girl with stooped shoulders and a pale, waxen face. Her brown hair was thick but dull, and her wide blue eyes had no life in them. It was not hard to imagine that two years ago she might have been beautiful, but now she was apathetic and she stared at Monk with neither intelligence nor interest, her arms folded under the bib of her uniform apron, her gray stuff dress ill fitting and harsh.
“Yes sir?” she said obediently.
“Martha.” Monk spoke very gently. The pity he felt was like a pain in his stomach, churning and sick. “Martha, did you work for Sir Basil Moidore about two years ago?”
“I didn’t take anything.” There was no protest in her voice, simply a statement of fact.
“No, I know you didn’t,” he said quickly. “What I want to know is did Mr. Kellard pay you any attention that was more than you wished?” What a mealymouthed way of expressing himself, but he was afraid of being misunderstood, of having her think he was accusing her of lying, troublemaking, raking up old and useless accusations no one would believe, and perhaps being further punished for slander. He watched her face closely, but he saw no deep emotion in it, only a flicker, too slight for him to know what it meant. “Did he, Martha?”
She was undecided, staring at him mutely. Misfortune and workhouse life had robbed her of any will to fight.
“Martha,” he said very softly. “He may have forced himself on someone else, not a maid this time, but a lady. I need to know if you were willing or not—and I need to know if it was him or if it was really someone else?”
She looked at him silently, but this time there was a spark in her eyes, a little life.
