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Downstairs in the kitchen there was porridge on the large cast-iron stove. Two kettles were boiling, and the door to the toasting fire was closed while an entire loaf of bread, sliced and browned on the fork, sat crisping in two wooden racks. There was butter, marmalade, and black-currant jam on the table. The clinic was obviously quite well-off in funds at the moment.
Sutton, a lean man not much more than Hester’s height, sat on one of the few unsplintered kitchen chairs. He stood up the moment he saw her. The brown and white Jack Russell terrier at his feet wagged his tail furiously, but he was too tightly disciplined to dart forward.
Sutton’s thin face lit up with pleasure and what looked like relief. “Mornin’, Miss ’Ester. ’Ow are yer?”
“I’m very well, Mr. Sutton,” she replied. “How are you? I’m sure you could manage some breakfast, couldn’t you? I’m having some.”
“That’d be very civil of yer.” He watched her, sitting down as soon as she had.
Margaret had already eaten at home; she never ate the clinic’s rations unless she was there for too long to abstain. She collected most of the clinic’s funds through her social acquaintances, and she was far too sensitive to the difficulty of that to waste a farthing or consume herself what could be used for the sick. She would make an excellent mistress of this in Hester’s place.
Sutton devoured his porridge and then toast and marmalade, while Hester had just the toast and jam. They were both on their second cup of tea when Claudine excused herself and they were left alone. Much against her own better judgment, Claudine had given Snoot porridge and milk as well, and he was now happily asleep in front of the hearth.
“She’ll spoil ’im rotten, that woman,” Sutton said as Claudine closed the door. “Wot good’ll ’e be fer rattin’ if ’e’s ’anded ’is breakfast on a plate?”
Hester did not bother to answer. It was part of the slow retreat by which Claudine was going to allow Sutton to understand that she granted him a reluctant respect. She was a lady, and he caught rats. She would not bring herself to treat him as an equal, which would have made both of them uncomfortable, but she would be more than civil to the dog. That was different, and they both understood it perfectly.
“What is it?” Hester asked, before they should be interrupted again by some business of the day.
He did not prevaricate. They had come to know each other well during the crisis of the autumn. He looked at her earnestly, his brow furrowed. “I dunno as there’s anythin’ yer can do, but I gotta try all I can. We all knows about the Great Stink an ’ow the river smells summink evil, an’ they’re doin’ summink about it, at last. An’ that’s all as it should be.” He shook his head. “But most folks ’oo live aboveground in’t got no idea wot goes on underneath.”
“No,” she agreed with only a faint gnawing of concern. “Should we?”
“If yer gonna go diggin’ around in it wi’ picks an’ shovels an’ great machines, then yeah, yer should.” There was a sudden passion in his voice, and a fear she had not heard before. He had been so strong in the autumn. This was something new, something over which he felt he had no control.
“What sort of thing is there?” she asked. “You mean graveyards and plague pits—that sort of thing?”
“There are, but wot I were thinkin’ of is rivers. There’s springs and streams all over the place. London’s mostly on clay, yer see.” His face was tense, eyes keen. “I learned ’em from me pa. ’E were a tosher. One o’ the best. Knew every river under the city from Battersea ter Greenwich, ’e did, an’ most o’ the wells too. Yer any idea ’ow many wells there is, Miss ’Ester?”
“There must be…” She tried to think and realized she had no idea. “Hundreds, I suppose.”
“I don’t mean where we get water up,” he explained. “I mean them wot’s closed over and goes away secret like.”
“Are there?” She did not know why it troubled him, still less why he should have come to her about it.
He understood and grimaced at his own foolishness. “Thing is, Miss ’Ester, there’s ’undreds o’ navvies workin’ on all this diggin’. ’As bin for years, wot with one tunnel an’ another for sewers, roads, trains, an’ the like. It’s ’ard work an’ it’s dangerous, an’ there’s always bin accidents. Part o’ life. But it’s got worse since all this new diggin’s bin goin’ on. Everyone’s after a bit o’ the profit, an’ it’s all in a terrible ’urry ’cos o’ the typhoid an’ the Big Stink an’ all, an’ Mr. Bazalgette’s new drawings. But it’s gettin’ more dangerous. People are usin’ bigger and bigger machines, an’ goin’ faster all the time ’cos o’ the ’urry, an’ they in’t takin’ the time ter learn proper where all ’em streams an’ springs is.” His face was tight with fear. “Get it wrong an’ clay slips somethin’ ’orrible. We’ve ’ad one or two cave-ins, but I reckon as there’ll be a lot more, an’ worse, if folks don’t take a bit more care, an’ a bit more time.”
She looked at his drawn, tired face and knew that there was more behind his wo
rds than he was able to tell her.
“What is it you think I could do, Mr. Sutton?” she asked. “I don’t know how to help injured workmen. I don’t have the skill. And I certainly don’t have the ear of any person with the influence to make the construction companies take more care.”
His shoulders slumped a little, looking narrower under his plain, dark jacket. She judged him to be in his fifties, but hard work—much of it dangerous and unpleasant, plus many years of poverty—might have taken more of a toll on his strength than she had allowed. He might be younger than that. She remembered how he had helped all of them at the clinic, but most especially her, tenderly and fearlessly. “What would you like me to do?” she asked.
He smiled, realizing she had given in. She hoped profoundly that he did not know why.
“If anyone’d said ter me a year ago as a lady oo’d bin ter the Crimea would take ol’ Squeaky Robinson’s place an’ turn it inter an ’ospital fer tarts off the street,” he answered, “an’ then get other ladies ter cook and clean in it, I’d ’a throwed a bucket o’ water at ’em till they sober’d up. But if anyone can do somethin’ ter get them builders ter be’ave a bit safer, it’s you.” He finished his tea and stood up. “If you can come wi’ me, I can show you the machine’s wot I’m talkin’ about.”
She was startled.
“It’ll be quite safe,” he assured her. “We’ll go ter one o’ ’em that’s open, but yer can think wot it’d be like underneath. Some tunnels is dug down, then covered over. Cut and cover, they call ’em. But some is deep down, like a rat’ole, under the ground all the way.” He shivered very slightly. “It’s ’em that scares me. The engineers might be clever wi’ all kinds o’ machines an’ ideas, but they don’t know ’alf o’ wot’s down there, secret for ’undreds o’ years, twistin’ an’ seepin’.” She felt a chill at the thought, a coldness in the pit of her stomach. The daylight was coming in brighter now through the windows into the scullery. There was a sound of footsteps across the cobbled yard where deliveries were made.
She stood up. “How close will they let me come?”
“Borrer a shawl from one o’ yer patients an’ keep yer eyes down, an’ yer can come right up close wi’ me.”
“I’ll go and speak to Miss Ballinger.”
