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He looked at her carefully, assessing her mood. “Usual,” he said with uncharacteristic candor. “What’s wrong?”
She could seldom fool Squeaky. Actually she very rarely tried. Quite simply and in as few words as possible, she told him about Monk being given back the case of the Princess Mary, and why he could not refuse it.
Squeaky grunted. “So we’ve got to sort it, then?” he concluded. “Could have told them in the beginning it wouldn’t work, putting them regular police on it. Stupid sods …”
“They’re not stupid,” Hester said reasonably. “They just don’t know the river …”
“Not the police, the government!” Squeaky said indignantly. “They’re covering up something, just bad at it, like everything else. Now everybody’s going to know. It’s a wonder they
can even get their clothes on straight, that lot! Couldn’t cover their backsides with a bed sheet!”
Hester swallowed her laughter at the vision in her mind. “We still have to sort the mess,” she pointed out.
“Why? To save them what made it? Or to get vengeance on whatever evil bastard drowned all these people?” he asked reasonably.
“I prefer the word ‘justice’ to ‘vengeance,’ ” she answered.
He pulled a face, but made no comment.
“But it’s fair, either way,” she continued reasonably. “If I’d lost somebody I’d want a better answer than this. And it makes us look terribly incompetent. What faith can anyone have in justice if this is all it can do? This doesn’t comfort the innocent or scare the guilty into thinking twice.”
Squeaky shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder about you. You bin to war, you seen hundreds of men hurt and dying, you seen what boneheaded idiots the military are. You seen hospitals where they don’t change nothing, and don’t learn nothing, you seen the police and the government and the streets, not to mention this place!” He swung his arm around, indicating the warren of a building around them. “And you still believe in fairies! I sometimes wonder if you’re all there!” He tapped his head.
Perhaps she should have been hurt, but she wasn’t. “It’s called survival, Squeaky. Now, we must begin with the people we know. Who do we have in here at the moment that could help?”
He looked dubious. “Don’t know as they want to …” he pointed out.
“They want to,” she assured him. “It’s the price of medicine next time they’re cold, sick, hurt, or scared.”
His face lit up. “I think I just seen a fairy! Little one, up in the air—with wings!”
“Good. I’m going to see Claudine.” Hiding her smile, Hester stood up and went out of the room.
She found her in the pantry with its shelves of powders, leaves, bottles of lotion or spirits, creams, and bandages. She was assessing what supplies they had, and how much more of anything they needed, or could afford. After the briefest greeting—they knew each other too well to need more—Hester began to assist. When they had reached a satisfactory conclusion, she told Claudine roughly what she had already explained to Squeaky. They discussed it further in the kitchen over a cup of tea. Claudine was angry.
“I said they had no right to take the investigation from Mr. Monk in the first place,” she said bitterly as she added the boiling water from the kettle into the already warmed teapot. It was an old and very battered pewter one that somebody had thrown out, but it made an excellent cup of tea, and the crooked spout still did not drip. The crockery also was mismatched, but not chipped. What did it matter if a bluebell cup sat on a wild-rose saucer? Or poppy or daisy on anything else?
“And now that they’ve made a complete mess of it, hand it back,” she added indignantly. “It’s like being given cold porridge that somebody else has already half eaten.”
“What a disgusting thought!” Hester turned her mouth down. “But regrettably accurate.”
“What are we going to do?” Claudine also automatically included herself in the problem. “There were quite a few prostitutes at that party, we know, from the survivors and the bodies. We’ll get help. And I dare say some will speak to us who wouldn’t to the police.”
“I’m counting on it. I’ve already told Squeaky that cooperation in this is the price of help in the future: sick, injured, or just hungry.” Hester bit her lip, looking very steadily at Claudine. “I’ve never put a price on it before. I don’t like doing it.”
Claudine did not hesitate. She had been watching Hester’s face as she listened, and she knew trouble when she saw it. Her own long, unhappy marriage had taught her a lot about bargains and prices. Since working at the Portpool Lane clinic, a new world of possibilities had opened up to her, most particularly the realization of her ability to make friends, to be clever, helpful, and liked by the oddest of people. Years ago she would have helped prostitutes with suggestions for their salvation, and considered it her Christian duty. Most of her acquaintances would still do that, or less.
Now she knew prostitutes as individual people. Some she liked, some she didn’t. She helped them in practical ways regardless. They were to be treated in whatever way was possible for their illness or injuries: fed, and occasionally given better clothes, warmer ones. No comment was made on their occupation. That generous silence had not come easily to her, at first.
Now Claudine amazed Hester.
“I think it’s a good idea,” she said firmly. “Sometimes you can do too much for people. No self-respect in always taking. Price can be part of value. It’s time we showed them that. They’ll be the wiser for it.”
Hester thought about it for a moment or two, and realized with surprise how deeply she agreed. And she was relieved because up to then she had felt guilty about it. Nursing help was never conditional, no judgment involved, except as to the best treatment. But food, shelter, clothes, dignity … that was different. Above all other things, worth could not be given.
“Good,” she agreed.
The information about the party on the Princess Mary was teased out slowly, and with much impatience on Squeaky’s part. He counted every spoonful of food given in reward as if it were a potato off his own plate.
