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“It’s better than most women, around here,” Hester said quietly. “She isn’t often cold or hungry, and no one knocks her around.”
“Except Caleb!” he said.
“That’s something,” she replied calmly. “It’s many people’s dream to escape, but few ever do, except to the whorehouses up in the Haymarket, or worse.”
He winced—at her language, not at the truth.
“Mary says one pretty girl did, Ginny something,” she went on, though he was not interested. “Got married, she thought; but that’s probably more a hope than a fact. Gentlemen don’t marry girls they pick up in Limehouse.”
It was a bare reality, and if he had said it himself he would have said it was simply the truth. From her lips it had a coarseness and a finality he resented.
“Do you know anything useful?” he said abruptly. “That Selina won’t betray him doesn’t help me.”
“You asked me,” she pointed out. “But I can tell you the names of a few of his enemies who would be delighted to see his downfall, if they can do it safely.”
“Can you?” He could not hide his eagerness. He had not managed to turn up anything so definite himself. Of course, she was trusted in a way he never could be. She was living and working among these people, risking her life daily to tend to them in their extremity. He pushed that thought away. “Who? Where do I find them?”
She gave him a list of five names—one man, three women and a youth—and in all cases where he could find them.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “That is excellent. If any one of them can tell me something, we may yet help Mrs.
Stonefield. I shall begin immediately.”
* * *
But he did not. That evening he had arranged to see Drusilla, and it was a pleasure he longed for. Not even to help Genevieve Stonefield could he forgo it and creep around the slums and rookeries of Limehouse in the dark and the cold. It could wait until tomorrow, when it would be both easier and safer. Caleb had to be aware Monk was still pursuing him. He was not a man to wait idly to be caught.
The weather had cleared and it was a dry, chilly evening with only the ever-present pall of smoke hiding the stars.
Half past seven found Monk superbly dressed, stepping out of a hansom cab to meet Drusilla on the steps of the British Archaeological Association in Sackville Street. She had requested that he meet her there because she had said she had promised to accompany a friend for dinner, which was a great bore. She had cancelled the arrangement, but in order to avoid lengthy and unnecessarily dishonest explanations, she could not be at home.
She appeared at exactly half past, as she had said she would. She wore a wide-skirted gown of silk the color of candlelight through brandy, and it complimented her marvelously. She seemed to glow in golds and tawny bronzes and her skin had a delicacy and a warmth unlike any he had seen before.
“Is something amiss?” she said laughingly. “You look terribly serious, William!”
The sound of his name from her lips was acutely pleasing. He collected his attention with an effort.
“No, nothing at all. I even have news which may help me eventually to find where poor Angus Stonefield met his death.”
“Have you?” she said eagerly, taking his arm and falling into step as he matched his pace to hers. “It does seem terribly tragic. Did he do it merely from jealousy, do you suppose? Why now? He must have been jealous of him for years.” She gave a little shiver. “I wonder what happened which suddenly made such a difference? I don’t suppose it really matters, but don’t you long to know?” She turned to look at him curiously. “Don’t you think it is one of the most interesting subjects in the world, why people do what they do?”
“Yes, of course it is.” She could not know the nerve her question had struck in him, how many of his own acts he had learned from the evidences left of his life, and yet could not remember, so did not know why he had done them. So much can be understood, even excused, when one understands.
“You look sad.” She was searching his face with her wide hazel eyes. “Where shall we go, so I can cheer you up? Do you still think the widow is innocent? Do you think she may have known Caleb, recently?”
The idea was funny. He could not imagine the socially correct, money-careful, domestic Genevieve having the slightest thing in common with the violent, lonely Caleb, who lived from hand to mouth, never knowing what he would eat next or where he would sleep.
“No, I don’t!”
“Why not?” she pursued. “After all, he must look very much like her husband. There must have been something in him which could have attracted her.” She smiled, her eyes close to laughter. “I know you say Angus was very worthy, and virtuous in every way.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But perhaps he was just the slightest bit tedious? Some of the most worthy people are, you know.”
He said nothing.
“Don’t you know some very worthy women who are crashingly dull?” She looked at him sideways, a little through her lashes.
He smiled back. If he had denied it she would not have believed him for a moment. And perhaps Angus was everything Genevieve wanted and needed in a husband, but he could indeed have been a bore.
“If it were so, where do you suppose they might meet?” she asked thoughtfully. “Where would a respectable woman, with a limited knowledge of the less salubrious sides of society, go in order to meet a lover?”
