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Monk felt a leap of excitement in spite of all common sense telling him otherwise.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “That’s only a drawing. Forget Caleb Stonefield—”
“Stone,” the cobbler corrected.
“Sorry, Stone.” Monk brushed it aside. “This man is related to him, so there will be a resemblance. Have you ever seen him? Specifically, did you see him four days ago? He probably passed this way.”
“Dressed like a toff, an’ with an ’at an’ all?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t ’ave no ’at as I recall, but yeah, I reckon as I saw ’im.”
Monk sighed with relief. He must not overpraise the man or he might be tempted to embroider the truth.
“Thank you,” he said as gravely as he could, squashing the elation rising inside him. “I’m obliged to you.” He fished in his pocket and brought out threepence, the price of a pint of ale. “Remember me at the pub,” he offered.
The cobbler hesitated only a second. “I’ll do that, guv,” he agree
d, and shot out a strong, misshapen and callused hand before Monk could change his mind.
“Which way did he go?” Monk asked the final question.
“West,” the cobbler replied instantly. “T’ ward the South Dock.”
Monk had already turned the handle of the door to leave when another question occurred to him, perhaps the most obvious of all.
“Where does Caleb Stone live?”
The cobbler turned pale under the layer of grime on his face.
“I dunno, mister, an’ I’m real ’appy ter keep it that way. An’ if yer’d any sense yer’d not ask neither. W’ere some folks is concerned, iggerance is a blessin’.”
“I see. Thank you anyway.” Monk smiled at him briefly, then turned and went out into the cold street and the stench of salt tide, raw sewage and overloaded drains.
He tried for the rest of the day, but by five o’clock it was dark, bitterly cold with a rime of ice forming on the slimy cobbles of the footpaths, and he had achieved nothing further. It was not safe to remain here alone and unarmed. He walked rapidly, head down and collar up, back towards the West India Dock Road and regular street lamps and a hansom back home again. He was stupid to have come here in good clothes. He’d never get the smell out of them. Another hole in his memory! He should have thought of that before he set out! It was not only the gaping voids in his life—an entire childhood, youth and early manhood which were a mystery to him, his triumphs and failures, his loves, if there had been any which were of lasting value—it was the stupid little pieces of practical knowledge he had forgotten, the mistakes which were like splinters under the skin every day.
The cabby had been almost correct in his information about the fever in Limehouse. It was not the respiratory disease of typhus, but the intestinal typhoid, which raged through the tenements and rookeries, carried from one inadequate and overflowing midden to the next.
Hester Latterly had been a nurse serving with Florence Nightingale in the Scutari hospital in the Crimea and on the battlefield. She was more than used to disease, cold, filth and the sight of suffering. She could not count the deaths she had seen from injury or fever. But still the plight of the poor and the sick in Limehouse touched her, until the only way she could bear it and shut out the nightmares was to work with her close friend and Monk’s patroness, Lady Callandra Daviot, and Dr. Kristian Beck to do all she could, both to relieve the distress in whatever small way was possible and to fight for some alleviation of the conditions which made these diseases endemic.
On the day that Monk was searching the streets for someone who had seen Angus Stonefield, Hester was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor of a warehouse which Enid Ravensbrook, another woman of wealth and compassion, had obtained, at least temporarily, so that it might be used as a fever hospital after the order of the military hospital in Scutari. Hester had a feeling that the water she was using was as full of infection as any of the patients, but she had added plenty of vinegar and hoped it might serve the purpose. Dr. Beck had also obtained half a dozen open braziers in which they were going to burn tobacco leaves, a practice much followed in the navy to fumigate between decks and help to fight against yellow fever. Callandra had purchased several bottles of gin, which were firmly locked in the medicine cabinet and which could be used to clean pans, cups and any instruments. Since they had no others who were nurses by trade, there was a diminished chance of it being drunk.
Hester had just finished the last yard of floor and stood up, easing her back from its stiffness by bending back and forth a few times, when Callandra came in. She was a broad-hipped woman well into middle-age. Her hair was habitually untidy, but today it had exceeded even its usual wildness. It poked and looped in every direction, several of its pins threatening to fall out completely. Even in her youth she could not have been thought beautiful, but there was such intelligence and humor in her face it had a unique charm.
“Finished?” she asked cheerfully. “Excellent. I’m afraid we’re going to need every foot of space we can find. And, of course, blankets.” She surveyed the room for a moment, then proceeded to pace the floor out carefully, measuring precisely how many people might lie on it without touching each other. “I would like to get pallets,” she went on, her back to Hester. “And pans or buckets of some type. Typhoid is such a beastly disease. So much waste to dispose of, and heaven only knows how we are going to do that.” She was now at the far end of the space and almost inaudible to Hester. She turned and started to pace the width. “There isn’t a midden or a cesspit within miles of here that isn’t overflowing already.”
“Has Dr. Beck spoken to the local council of authority yet?” Hester asked, picking up her bucket and going over to the window to tip it out. There were no drains, and the water was full of vinegar anyway, so it would be more likely to improve the gutters than harm them.
Callandra reached the far side and lost count. She had loved Kristian Beck since before the wretched business at the Royal Free Hospital the previous summer. Hester was aware of it, but it was something they never discussed. It was too delicate, and too painful. The depth of Kristian’s feeling in return only added to the poignancy of the situation. Callandra was a widow, but Kristian’s wife was still alive. She had long ceased to care for him, if indeed she ever had in the manner he longed for, but she clung to her rights and all the status and the comfort they afforded. To Callandra he could give nothing but an intense friendship, humor, warmth, admiration, and shared passions for causes in which they both believed with ardor and dedication.
Even the mention of his name could still jar her concentration, so vulnerable was she even now. She turned and began to pace back, beginning to count the width again.
Hester looked out of the window to make sure no one was passing beneath, then emptied the bucket.
“I think we could get about ninety people in here,” Callandra announced. Then her face pinched. “I wish to God I could think that was all we should need. We have forty-seven cases already, not counting seventeen dead and another thirteen too ill to move. I’ll be surprised if they live the night.” Her voice rose. “I feel so helpless! It’s like fighting the incoming tide with a mop and bucket!”
The door opened behind Hester and a striking-looking woman came in, a bottle of gin under one arm and another in each hand. It was Enid Ravensbrook.
