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Claudine finished her tea slowly, giving herself time to think. Finally she put the cup down on the bedside table and took a deep breath. “I found a shop selling pornographic photographs of young boys. I saw a couple. They were terrible. I don't want to talk about them. I wish I didn't have them in my mind. I didn't realize how hard it is to get something out of your memory once you've seen it. It's like a stain no amount of soap or water can remove.”
“It dulls with time,” Hester said gently. “As you get more and more things in there, there's less room for the horrors. Push it out every time it comes back, and eventually the details will fade.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Not those. But I've seen other things, on the battlefield, and heard them. Sometimes when we have someone in here with a knife wound, the smell of blood brings it all back.”
Claudine's face was gentle, full of pity.
“Why wouldn't Squeaky tell me that?” Hester asked her. “That doesn't make sense.”
“That wasn't what he wouldn't tell you,” Claudine replied. “It was who I saw on the pavement just outside the shop, with cards in his hand. He bought some matches from me and stared at me very closely. I was scared he'd recognized me.”
Hester frowned, her imagination struggling. “Who did you see?”
Claudine bit her lip. “Mr. Ballinger, Lady Rathbone's father.”
Hester was stunned. It seemed preposterous. And yet if it was true, it explained Rathbone's predicament exactly. “Are you certain?” she said aloud.
“Yes. I've met him several times, at dinners and balls. My husband is acquainted with him. He stood no more than two feet from me.”
Hester nodded. It was hideous. How on earth could Margaret bear that, if she believed it? If it became known? Had Rathbone had any idea? How would he see it: disgust, pity, loyalty, protection for Margaret and her mother? She could not believe that he knew already. And yet he would have to one day. Perhaps he could in some way prepare?
“Your husband was worried about you,” she said to Claudine. “Would you like me to send a letter? I could say you were kept in some kind of emergency, but we had better offer the same explanation.”
A shadow crossed Claudine's face. “I don't think he is going to forgive me, whatever it is,” she replied. “I am not quite sure what I am going to do. I shall have to give it a great deal of thought. If … if he puts me out, may I live here?” She looked frightened, and embarrassed.
“Of course,” Hester said instantly. “If you wish to, for whatever reason.” She nearly added that Rathbone would give her legal help, then she thought that was a little premature. Surely Wallace Burroughs would calm himself and behave a little more reasonably. Although his behaving reasonably was a very long way indeed from giving Claudine any kind of happiness. “I shall write to him that you were helping someone in an accident.” There was a note of gentleness in her voice. “He will never know differently,” she went on. “You had better say the same. You know enough details to give them to him if he should ask you.”
“He won't. He is never interested in such things,” Claudine told her. “But thank you.”
Hester ver
y briefly told Squeaky that she was going to the Wapping police station to find Monk, then she left immediately, dreading the chance of running into Margaret on the way out.
She caught a cab on Farringdon Road, and half an hour later was in Wapping. She had a further hour to wait before Monk returned from the water, but she was prepared to wait far longer, had it been necessary.
He closed the door of his office and stood waiting for her to speak.
Briefly, leaving out everything that was irrelevant to the issue, she told him of Claudine's adventure, and that she was certain beyond any doubt that it had been Arthur Ballinger she had seen.
“She must be wrong,” he said. “She was tired, frightened, upset after seeing the cards …”
“No she wasn't, William,” Hester said levelly “She knows Ballinger.”
“How would she know him? He's not her solicitor, surely?”
“No. They move in the same circles in Society,” she explained. “Claudine may scrub kitchens and cook for the sick in Portpool Lane, but in her own home she's a lady. She probably knows most people in Society, more or less. Now she is terrified because he looked so closely at her she was afraid he had recognized her too.”
He did not fight any longer; the grief in his eyes showed his acceptance.
“We have to be prepared,” she continued more gently. “I don't imagine Oliver knows, but perhaps he does. It may even be the reason he took Phillips's case in the first place. But I'll wager Margaret doesn't. Or her mother.” She winced. “I can't imagine what that will be like for them, if they are forced to know.”
Monk breathed out slowly. “God! What a mess!”
There was a sharp rap on the door and before Monk could answer, it opened and Orme stood there, ashen-faced, eyes hollow. Hester saw him before Monk did.
“What is it?” she demanded, fear gripping her like a tightening noose.
