Blood on the Water (15 page)

Outside the light was fading. The starlings were circling back and settling in the trees.

“What is it?” Monk said quietly.

“Nothing,” she answered. “Just thinking. You’ll … be extremely careful, won’t you? Perhaps …” She was fumbling for words, ideas. “Perhaps it would be a good idea if whatever you do, you do it so many people know? I mean people other than Orme and your own men.”

“Hester, I don’t know who else is complicit in this,” he said patiently. “It stretches a long way! I might be telling the very people I’m trying to catch!”

She clenched her fists in her lap, where he could not see them. “I know that, William! That is precisely what I mean. If they know that there are plenty of other people who know all that you do, there would be no point in hurting you! In fact, it would only make matters worse for them.” She sat motionless, holding her breath for his reaction.

He laughed, but it had a harsh note to it, not of anger but fear. The fact that she knew it too made it impossible for him to deny without putting a barrier between them that neither of them could live with. However much he might wish to protect her, they had experienced too much together for him to pretend now.

“That’s probably good advice,” he conceded. “I’ll keep Orme in the picture, and probably Hooper. I’m beginning to appreciate what a good man he is. Maybe I’ll speak to Runcorn too.”

“Promise me you will!” she urged. “Especially Runcorn! He’s a … a safety escape.”

“I know. Fancy that, after all these years of hating each other.”

There was a lot she could have said about that, but this was not the time.

“William …”

He was waiting, watching her.

“You don’t know how high up this goes,” she began tentatively. As
an army nurse she had more experience than he with the hierarchy of authority, men who felt that a threat to their authority was a threat to their lives, and to question orders was treason. They might break, if the pressure were overwhelming, but could not bend.

“No, I don’t,” he agreed, smiling at her because he understood what she was trying to say, and why there were no words. “And you’re right … a degree of openness is the only safety. It really is a bag of snakes, isn’t it!”

S
CUFF STOOD IN THE
kitchen doorway, taller now than Hester, an achievement he was immensely pleased about.

“Another cup of tea?” she asked without turning around.

He sat down at the kitchen table, dropping his bag of school books on the floor. “Not yet,” he replied. “Wot’s ’appened?”

She must include him as if he were an adult. In wisdom of the street, he was so more than she. If she in any way excluded him she would not be able to make up for it later.

“One of the people who gave testimony in court about seeing Beshara in a certain place was lying,” she told him. “Or at best he was badly mistaken. That means that now all the evidence needs to be questioned to see what else could be wrong. They call it an ‘unsafe’ verdict.” She wanted to see if he understood.

“ ’E din’t do it, then?” he summed it up.

“We don’t know. But it means it hasn’t been proved that he did. So they are asking that the River Police take the case back and start all over again.”

Scuff’s eyes widened. “Can they do that? Take it from us, mess it all up, then say, ‘ ’Ere y’are, ’ave it back!’ ”

“Yes, it looks as if they can,” she admitted.

“I’d tell them ter—” He remembered who he was speaking to and blushed.

She tried to hide her smile, failing conspicuously. “I’d be tempted to as well,” she agreed. “But that would be like saying that you didn’t
think you could do it. And somebody has to. All those people are still dead. It’s not just a matter of finding the guilty ones; it’s clearing the innocent ones as well.”

He looked at her for a long, steady moment, and then he nodded. “Yeah. So ’ow are we goin’ ter start, then?”

She felt a sudden sting of tears in her eyes and blinked an extra time. “First we think very carefully, and make plans—which we keep to ourselves.”

“O’ course,” he agreed. “We will tell ’im when we know anything, though, won’t we?”

“Yes, the moment we are sure it makes sense,” she agreed. “The important thing is that we tell each other, just to keep safe. You must promise me?”

He hesitated.

“Scuff! If you don’t tell me where you are going to be, I will be so worried about you I won’t be able to think straight myself. If I didn’t tell you, wouldn’t you worry?”

“ ’Course I would! You—” Then he saw he was cornered. “Yeah … that’s fair … I s’pose.”

She smiled and held out her hand.

Soberly he took it and they shook on the deal.

She could remember most of the evidence in the trial, and checking on that was a good way to start. She wrote everything down, trusting that Scuff would be able to read her writing. She had long practiced making it clearer than character and nature had intended. A mistake in medical notes could be fatal.

“ ’Oo are they?” he asked, taking the paper from her and scowling at it.

“All the people who say they saw something, or somebody,” she replied. “As clearly as I recall.”

He searched her face. “You think they’re lying?”

“Not necessarily. But they might have been saying what they thought people wanted to hear. Have you ever seen something happen, and then asked three different people what it was?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, understanding bright in his face. “They all remember it different. You reckon that’s what ’appened ’ere?”

“Maybe. But they’ve said it so many times now that they’re remembering what they said, not what they saw. We need to know what evidence is there that’s not about faces and memories. Or at least is not from people who’ve already testified; they will feel that they can’t afford to go back on what they said now, because they’ll look stupid, and everyone will know. And, of course, they could be charged with perjury—lying in court when you’ve sworn to tell the truth.”

“You mean we need to speak to the people what isn’t noticed, like?”

“People who aren’t noticed,” she corrected automatically.

“Them too,” he grinned. “I can find out. An’ before you tell me, I’ll be careful. I know people who the police don’t. Even the River Police.”

She didn’t have the heart to tell him it should have been “whom.”

“Thank you. And be careful! Whoever really did it could still be out there.” Now she had misgivings about including Scuff in the hunt. Hurt feelings were much easier to deal with than if Scuff should be physically harmed. “People who will blow up a boat with two hundred men and women on it won’t think twice about drowning one inquisitive boy!” she said sharply.

He winced. “I know,” he answered almost under his breath. “Or one woman either. Is that going to stop you?”

“It’s going to make me very careful indeed,” she replied.

He looked at her absolutely levelly. “Good. I’ll tell Monk that, if he asks me.”

She would dearly like to have clipped his ears for impertinence, but that would keep for another time. “I’m going to the clinic,” she told him. “To see what help I can get from Squeaky Robinson, and anyone else.”

Hester arrived at the clinic to find it very pleasantly free of urgencies. Perhaps the summer weather had helped. There were the usual slight injuries, bruises, dislocations, a cut or stab, but none of them
life-threatening. Nor were there any of the chronic diseases of colder seasons: no pneumonia, bronchitis, or pleurisy.

“Morning,” Squeaky said cheerfully as she came into his office, which was lined with bookshelves and locked cupboards. There were engravings on the wall that Squeaky said were worthless, and she knew were very good indeed. As usual he had the ledgers open and spread out across the table, and the top off the inkwell. It made him look busy, should Claudine come in and ask him to do anything that he did not want to—something Claudine knew perfectly well. “We need money,” he added.

“I know,” Hester replied, ignoring the subject. She knew from Claudine that the situation was far from desperate.

“You haven’t been here for days,” Squeaky complained. “How do you know?”

“We always need money,” she answered with a smile, pulling out the chair opposite the desk and sitting down. “Is this a sudden crisis, or just the usual state of affairs?”

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.