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She took them and he helped himself to two boxes off the tray. He looked up at her, and she glanced at his eyes to see if he was going to ask her for something more. Then she froze. Every shred of warmth vanished from her body. She must be as white as a winter sky. It was Arthur Ballinger. She had no doubt of it. She had met him at several social functions with Wallace. She remembered him because he was Margaret Rathbone's father. Did he remember her? Was that why he was staring at her? This was even worse than in the shop! He would tell Wallace, he would be bound to. There was no conceivable explanation she could give. What reason could a lady of Society have for dressing up like a pauper and selling matches on the street outside a shop that sold pornography of the most depraved kind?
No, it was far worse than that! Ballinger would understand the reason. He would know she was spying on him, and others like him. She must speak, say something to shatter his suspicion and make him certain she was just what she looked like, a peddler, a woman of grinding poverty.
“Thank you, sir,” she said hoarsely, trying to imitate the voices of the women who came to the clinic. “Gawd bless yer,” she added, and choked on the gasped air and the dryness of her throat, now so rasping it nearly strangled her.
Ballinger backed away a step, looked at her again, then changed his mind and strode away. Two minutes later he was out of sight and she was alone in the street, which was now so dark she could barely see the ends. The lamps hung like straight-edged towers girded by pale wreaths that moved, dissolved, and formed again as the wind from the water gusted between the dark housefronts.
A dog trotted by soundlessly, its shape indistinct. A cat ran, low to the ground, shinned up a wall, seemingly without effort, and dropped on the other side invisibly. Somewhere out of sight a man and a woman were shouting at each other.
Then three men came around the corner, abreast, swaggering towards her. As they passed under the lamp she saw their coarse faces. Two of them were looking at her with anticipation. One of them ran his tongue over his lips.
She dropped the match tray and ran, ignoring her ill-fitting boots on the uneven cobbles, the enclosing darkness, and the stench of garbage. She did not even look which way she was going, anything to get away from the pursuing men, shouting after her, laughing and yelling obscenities.
At the end of the street she turned left, around the nearest corner that allowed her not to cross the open stretch where she would be seen. This alley was darker, but she knew they would still hear her boots on the stones. She turned again, and again, always running. Her dread was that she would find one of the alleys blind, and they would trap her against a wall with nowhere else to go.
A dog was barking furiously. Somewhere ahead there were lights. A tavern door was open, and a yellow lantern gleam spilled out onto the cobbles. The smell of ale was strong. She was tempted to go in; it was bright and looked warm. Perhaps they would help her?
Or perhaps not. No, if someone tore at her clothes they would see the clean linen under them. She would be exposed for a fraud. They would be furious. They would feel mocked, duped. They might even kill her. She had seen the wounds of too many street women who had incurred someone's uncontrolled rage. Keep running. Trust no one.
Her breath stabbed in her aching lungs, but she dared not stop.
There was more shouting behind her. She tried to run faster. Her feet were slipping on the cobbles. Twice she nearly fell, only saving herself by swinging her arms wildly to keep her balance.
She had no idea how long she ran, or where she was when finally she fell, exhausted, huddling in the doorway of some tenement house on a narrow street, walls above her almost meeting at the roofs. She could hear scuffling, the scrape of animal claws, and breathing, but no human boots on the road's surface, no voices shouting or laughing.
There was someone near her, a woman like a pile of laundry, all ragged and tied together with twine. She crept near her, glad of the warmth. Perhaps she could even sleep a little. In the morning she would try to find out where she was. For now she was invisible in the dark, another bundle of rags, just like all the rest.
Hester arrived at the clinic in the morning to find Squeaky Robinson waiting for her. She had barely sat down at her desk to look at the figures for medicines when he knocked and came straight in without waiting for her to answer. He closed the door behind him. He looked angry and worried. He had a piece of stiff, white notepaper in his hand. He started to speak without even the barest civility of a greeting.
Two days! he said sharply. “Nothing at all, not a word. And now ‘ere's her ‘usband writing us letters demanding ‘er ter come ‘ome.” He waved the paper in proof.
“Who?” Hester asked him. She did not question his manners; she could see that he was very obviously distressed.
“‘Er ‘usband!” he snapped. He looked at the papers. “Wallace Burroughs.”
Then she understood, and was instantly as concerned as he. “You mean Claudine hasn't been here for two days? And she hasn't been home either?”
He closed his eyes in exasperation. “That's wot I jus’ said! She's gorn missing, taken off, the stupid …” He fumbled for a word violent enough to express his emotions, and failed to find one he could use in front of her.
“Show me.” Hester held her hand out for the note, and he passed it to her. It was brief to the point of curtness, but perfectly explicit. He said he had forbidden Claudine to involve herself any more deeply in the affairs of the clinic, and she had apparently defied him, and had now been missing from her home and her duties for two whole days and nights. He required immediately that whoever was in charge of the clinic should send Claudine home, and not in future address her or importune her for further assistance, either with time or for financial offerings.
At another time Hester would have been furious with his arrogance and his patronizing and domineering manner, but she read in his tone not only injured pride but also genuine anxiety, not just for his own well-being but for Claudine's.
“This is serious, Squeaky.” She looked up at him. “If she isn't at home, and she isn't here, then it may be that she is in some trouble.”
“I know that!” he said sharply, his voice unusually loud. “Why d'yer think I came ter yer? She's gorn an’ done summink stupid.”
“What sort of thing? What do you know, Squeaky?”
“I dunno nothin’ or I'd be tellin’ yer,” he said. His exasperation had reached the point where he could not keep still. He moved his weight from one foot to the other in agitation. “Nobody's gonna listen ter me. Yer'll ‘ave ter ask Bessie an’ Ruby an’ anyone else, or put the word out. Tell Mr. Monk, if yer ‘ave ter. We gotta find ‘er, or she'll come ter some ‘arm. Gawd knows, she's daft enough.”
Hester drew breath to give a string of alternatives as to where Claudine could be, all of them safe, but of course she knew that Claudine would not have gone on any kind of social trip without telling them, and at the moment her mind was worried and angry over Jericho Phillips, just as they all were.
“I'll speak to Ruby and Bessie.” She stood up. “Then if they have nothing, I'll start with the women we have in at the moment.”
“Good,” he said firmly. He hesitated over whether to thank her or not, and decided not to. She was doing it for herself, not for him. “I'll wait ‘ere,” he finished.
She left him and went to find Bessie, who knew nothing at all, except that she thought Ruby was looking busy and self-important these last couple of days, and now she was a bit preoccupied this morning.
