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He could not waste all day looking at hats. He must broach the subject of his call, however difficult.
“Actually the lady in question is with child,” he said abruptly.
“So she will shortly be remaining at home for some time,” the assistant observed, thinking of the practicalities. “The hat will be worn only for a few months, or even weeks?”
He pulled a face.
“Unless she is able to …” He stopped, shrugged slightly.
The woman was most perceptive. “She already has a large family?” she suggested.
“Indeed.”
“Unfortunate. I assume, sir, that she is not—happy—with the event?”
“Not happy at all,” he agreed. “In fact, it may well jeopardize her health. There is a limit….” He looked away and spoke very quietly. “I believe if she knew how to—take steps …”
“Could she afford … assistance?” the woman inquired, also very quietly.
He turned to face her. “Oh yes … if it were anything within reason.”
The woman disappeared and returned several moments later with a piece of paper folded over to conceal the writing on it.
“Give her this,” she offered.
“Thank you. I will.” He hesitated.
She smiled. “Have her tell them who gave you the address. That will be sufficient.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Before he went to the address she had given him, which was in one of the back streets off the Whitechapel Road, he walked some distance in that general direction, thinking long and carefully about the story he would present. It crossed his mind with some humor that he should take Hester and say that she was the lady in need of help. But dearly as he would have liked to do that—the poetic justice of it would have been sweet—she was too importantly occupied as she was at the hospital.
He could no longer pretend to be going for a sister. The abortionist would expect the woman herself; it was not something which could be done at one removed. The only case where she might accept a man making the inquiries would be if the woman were too young to come in person until the last moment—or too important to risk being seen unnecessarily. Yes—that was an excellent idea! He would say he was inquiring for a lady—someone who would not commit herself until she knew it was safe.
He hailed a cab, gave the driver directions to the Whitechapel Road, and sat back, rehearsing what he would say.
It was a long journey. The horse was tired and the cabby sullen. They seemed to stop every few yards and the air was loud with the shouts of other frustrated drivers. Peddlers and costers called their wares, the driver of a dray misjudged a comer and knocked over a stall, and there was a brief and vicious fight, ending with bloody noses and a lot of blasphemous language. A drunken coachman ran straight over a junction at something close to a gallop, and several other horses either shied or bolted. Monk’s own hansom had gone a full block before the driver managed to bring it under control again.
Monk alighted onto the Whitechapel Road, paid the driver, who by now was in an unspeakable temper, then began walking toward the address he had been given at the milliner’s shop.
At first he thought he had made a mistake. It was a butcher’s. There were pies and strings of sausages in the window. If he were right, someone had a macabre sense of humor—or none at all.
Three thin children in dirty clothes stood on the pavement watching him. They were all white-faced. One, about ten or eleven years old, had broken front teeth. A dog with mange in its fur crept around the corner and went in the doorway.
After a moment’s hesitation Monk went in after it.
Inside was hot and dim, little light getting through the grimy windows—the smoke of countless factory chimneys and domestic fires had grayed them over the months, and the summer thunderstorms had done nothing to help. The air was heavy and smelled stale and rancid. A large fly buzzed lazily and settled on the counter. The young woman apparently awaiting customers picked up an old newspaper and slammed it down, killing the fly instantly.
“Gotcher!” she said with satisfaction. “What can I do for yer?” she asked Monk cheerfully. “We got fresh mutton, rabbit pie, pigs’ trotters, calves’-foot jellies, brawn, best in the East End, and tripes, sheeps’ brains, pigs’ liver, and sausages o’ course! What yer want then?”
“Sausages look good,” he lied. “But what I really want is to see Mrs. Anderson. Is this the right address?”
“That depends,” she said guardedly. “There are lots of Mrs. Andersons. What did yer want ’er for?”
“She was recommended to me by a lady who sells hats….”
“Was she now.” She looked him up and down. “I can’t think what for.”
