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“I don’t know,” Runcorn said unhappily. “But there were all sorts of toffs on the guest list. Investors with money to burn. At least that’s what Lord Ossett, the government adviser to the Home Office and the Foreign Office, told me. Not just British, but European, Middle Eastern, even American.”
“Is that what it is about?” Monk began to see a much uglier and more complicated picture than he had initially imagined. He had assumed it was an isolated incident, but perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps he should be grateful that Lydiate had been given the burden of solving it—and preventing any further attacks. If what Runcorn was suggesting was true, this wasn’t really a river crime. The fact that the first blow had taken place there might be incidental.
As if reading his thoughts, Runcorn spoke again. “Have you seen the papers? They’re screaming so loudly they’re getting in the way. All kinds of people are coming forward telling us things that don’t matter, and the people that might know something relevant are so frightened they’re hiding, lying, telling us whatever they think we want to hear. You’ve no idea how many one-eyed black dwarfs there are in the London docks …”
“What?” Monk was incredulous. Then he saw Runcorn’s face and understood. “Monsters—anyone but us,” he said, leaning back in his chair again. “Any real hope?”
Runcorn sighed. “A bit. We’ve spoken to a lot of people up and down the river. Could be getting closer to who actually planted the stuff—which incidentally we are certain was this new Swedish dynamite—but we still don’t know why, or, more important, who is truly behind it.”
For the first time Monk heard the real strain in Runcorn’s voice. Monk knew what it was like to have those frightened demands for an answer ringing in your ears every day. You felt hounded. It was too easy to make mistakes, to tell your superiors anything just to make them go away. Every man would be doing his best, but there was just too little to grasp. It depended on luck, asking the right question at the right moment.
“Call if I can help,” he said impulsively. “It doesn’t have to be official.”
Runcorn nodded. “I will, if I think of anything. I don’t want to defy Ossett. He’s a decent enough chap, but he’s dead set on handling it his own way. I dare say a lot of people higher up are leaning on him.”
HESTER WALKED BRISKLY ALONG Portpool Lane to the huddle of interconnected houses that had once been a thriving brothel run by one Squeaky Robinson. A few years ago, at the successful conclusion of a case, Sir Oliver Rathbone had tricked Squeaky and his silent backers out of possession of the place. Several of them had ended up in prison, but Squeaky had remained in the place, not as owner or manager anymore, but as a peculiarly gifted bookkeeper.
The property itself had, with minor changes, been turned into a clinic for sick or injured prostitutes. Hester, with her military nursing experience in the Crimean War, ran the place. She managed to obtain professional help from one or two doctors willing to give their time without charge. Funds for simple maintenance were obtained by different volunteers: ladies of a charitable nature who were prepared to ask their friends, acquaintances, and even strangers for help.
Margaret Ballinger, later Oliver Rathbone’s wife, and now his ex-wife, had been one of the best at raising funds. It was a sadness to Hester that she no longer worked with them. However, Hester’s relationship with Margaret had suffered irreparable damage thanks to the tragedy that had struck Margaret’s family, and the way in which Margaret had reacted to it.
Now, as Hester went in through the door to the room turned into a reception hall, she was greeted by Claudine Burroughs, a woman in her middle years, plain of countenance but remarkable of character. Her success here had given her a sense of freedom from her restrictive marriage, and the friendships she had won at some cost enriched her in all manner of ways. Her face lit up when she saw Hester.
“How are you?” she asked warmly. “We’ve missed you since that dreadful event on the river.” She looked Hester up and down, assessing if she was really well enough, regardless of what she might say.
Hester smiled back. “Feeling totally useless,” she replied. She felt comfortable being completely honest Claudine, and had for some time now. It was inevitable, given the work they faced together. They had shared triumphs and disasters both in the clinic and beyond. They helped people, sometimes cured them, but the very nature of their purpose meant that they came late into every battle against death, and often lost. Sometimes all they could give was warmth, peace, and a little dignity, making sure a woman didn’t feel alone in the last days of her life.
Claudine frowned. “Come and have tea. The accounts are all done and we are in quite good shape. I didn’t ask Mr. Robinson where our latest funds came from. I don’t know if you care to know?” Her expression reflected her erratic opinion of and relationship with Squeaky. To begin with they had despised each other. He was a renegade in every respect, loathing the law and having little regard for women, particularly of the stiff, plain, middle-aged, and genteel variety—all of which Claudine so perfectly epitomized.
She saw him, in return, as devious, despicable, and personally repulsive. Experience had taught both of them their mistakes. Tolerance had very gradually turned into something almost resembling affection.
“Thank you,” Hester said drily. “I have sufficient troubles not to go courting anymore. I have to say I miss Margaret’s help in the funding.”
“You mean Lady Rathbone …” Claudine said with a slight rasp to her voice. She was intensely loyal to those who had offered her friendship, but she regarded Margaret as one who had betrayed them all.
They went into Claudine’s storeroom—now also her office—where Ruby was counting bandages, bottles of medicine, and packets of powder of one sort or another. She gave Hester a shy smile.
Claudine asked her if she would be kind enough to get them tea and she went off to do it, relieved she wouldn’t have to focus on numbers in front of her superiors.
“She’s improving,” Claudine said the moment the door was closed. “She doesn’t make many mistakes, although she hasn’t really got the difference between three and five yet.”
Hester smiled. It had been a long and wandering journey with Ruby, but the successes were joyous.
“How is Mr. Monk?” Claudine asked with a look of sudden gravity in her face. “I don’t know whether to be furious that they have taken the investigation away from him, or relieved that he can’t be blamed if they don’t catch anyone. I think he is the only person who might have had a chance.”
“That is precisely how I feel,” Hester agreed. “But I am angry with myself for being angry that they took the case away from him. I’m sure the Home Office did what they thought was most beneficial to finding out the truth, and I ought to care only about the truth. A hundred and seventy-nine people died.” She refused to visualize it in her mind; it was a hideous picture.
“One or two women we know were on it,” Claudine said quietly.
Hester was startled. “Women we know? You mean contributors to the clinic?”
“No, I mean patients we’ve had,” Claudine answered with a wry smile at Hester’s misunderstanding. “It was a pleasure boat, with a big party on board. Apparently planned for some time. All sorts of people were there, several very wealthy, and liking their entertainment. And I heard talk that there were a good few army men expected, young and unattached.” She did not elaborate on her meaning; it was obvious.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. That is terrible.” Hester said quickly. She meant it. You cannot nurse someone and see them in extreme distress without feeling a degree of pity. Of course, the information should not have come as a surprise, considering their clientele. “How do you know?”
“From Kate Sawbridge,” Claudine replied. “You know her? Big girl with a lot of fair hair. She said Jilly Ford told her about it, especially the soldiers, and she wished she’d been asked. Could have been fun, and good pay. Maybe something on the side. She said Jilly was showing of
f a bit.” Suddenly her face was bleak. “Poor soul …”
