Cain His Brother

chapter 4
Every hour or two brought more cases of fever to the makeshift hospital in Limehouse. The only blessing was that it also brought more volunteers to help with what little practical nursing could be done, and willing hands to help with the endless tasks of emptying, cleaning, laundering what sheets and blankets they had, and changing the soiled straw and fetching in new. Local men came and carried away the bodies of the dead.

"Where do they take them?" Enid Ravensbrook asked as they sat together in the small room where Monk had spoken with Callandra and Hester. It was late afternoon, dark and cold. Three people had died the previous night.

Kristian had been there since the previous evening, and he had taken a short break to go home, wash and change his clothes and get a few hours of sleep before going back to his own hospital. There was little enough he could do at the best of times. There was no known medicine against typhoid, only constant nursing to ease the distress, keep the temperature down and some fluid in the body, and the will of the victim to live.

Callandra looked up with surprise. "I don't know," she said. "I admit I hadn't thought about it. I suppose to-"she stopped. "No, that's ridiculous.

No undertaker's going to handle fever victims. Anyway, there are too many of them."

"They've got to be buried," Enid pointed out, sitting in the rickety chair where Monk had sat. Callandra was on the other, Hester on the floor. "If not undertakers, then who? You can't expect gravediggers to lay out bodies properly and observe the decencies. All they know is to bury coffins. Coffin makers will be the only people profiting out of this." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "At least it has got warmer. Or is it just that we have more fuel in the stove?"

"I'm frozen." Callandra shivered and hugged her arms around herself.

"Hester, have you put more on the fires?"

"No." Hester shook her head. "I daren't, or we'll run out. We've only got enough for two more days anyway. I meant to speak to Bert about that, and I forgot."

"I'll ask him next time I see him." Callandra dismissed it.

"I don't know where he's gone." Enid was staring at her. She looked very pate except for spots of color in her cheeks. She must be exhausted. She had not been home for two days, just sleeping on the floor in this room when she had the chance. "He went out over two hours ago," she added. "I asked him about going to the undertaker, but I don't think he heard me."

Hester glanced at Callandra.

"There must be so many funerals," Enid went on, speaking more to herself than to either of them. Her face was very pale and there was a gleam of sweat across her brow and upper lip. She looked up. "What graveyard are they putting them in, do you know?" She turned, first to Callandra, then to Hester.

"I don't know," Callandra said quietly.

"I should find out." Enid sighed and pushed her hand across her brow, brushing away her falling hair.

"It doesn't matter!" Callandra said, looking past her to Hester.

"Yes it does," Enid insisted. "People may ask, relations may."

"They are not burying them separately anymore." Hester gave the answer Callandra had been avoiding.

"What?" Enid swiveled around. She looked bleached of all color but for a feverish stain on her cheeks, and her eyes were hollow, as though bruised.

"They are in common graves," Hester explained quietly. "Don't grieve over it." She reached over and touched Enid's arm very lightly. On the table the candle flickered, almost went out, then burned up again. "The dead won't mind."

"What about the living?" Enid protested. "What about when all this is over and they need to grieve, need a place to remember those they lost?" "There isn't one," Hester answered. "It happens in war. All you can say to the family of a soldier is that he died bravely, and if it was in hospital, that there was someone there to care for him. There isn't anything more."

"Yes, there is," Callandra said quickly. "You can tell them he died fighting for a cause, serving his country. Here all you can say is they died because the damnable council would not build sewers, and they were too poor to do it themselves. That's hardly a comfort to anyone." She looked across at Enid and frowned. "They also died because they are half starved and cold all winter, half of them have rickets or tuberculosis, or are stunted by some other childhood disease. But you can hardly put on a tombstone, if you had one, that they died of having been born in the wrong time and place. Are you all right? You don't look well."

"I have a headache," Enid confessed. "I thought I was just tired, but I do feel rather worse now than I did before I sat down. I thought I was hot, but perhaps I'm cold. I'm sorry-I sound ridiculous..."

Hester stood up and crossed the short space between them, bending down in front of Enid, searching her face, her eyes. She reached up her hand and placed it on her brow. It was burning.

"Is it...?" Enid whispered, the question too dreadful to ask.

Hester nodded. "Come on. I'll take you home."

"But..." Enid began, then realized it was pointless. She clambered to her feet, swayed, and buckled at the knees. Hester and Callandra only just caught her in time to ease her back down into the chair.

"You must go home," Callandra said firmly. "We can manage here."

"But I can't just leave!" Enid argued. "There's so much to do! I..."

"Yes you can." Callandra forced a smile; there was tiredness, patience and a deep grief in it. She touched Enid very gently, but without the least indecision. "You will only distract us here, because we can't look after you as we would wish. Hester will take you."

"But..." Enid swallowed hard and began to writhe deeply, gasping, and in obvious distress. "I'm sorry... I think I may be sick."

Callandra looked across and met Hester's eyes.

"Fetch a pail," she ordered. "Then go and tell Mary. You'd better find a hansom and bring it back here."

"Of course." There was nothing to discuss or with which to take issue. She went into the main room and returned within seconds with a pail, then went to find Mary, who was up at the far end of the room, sponging down a woman who was almost insensible with fever. The rush torches on the walls threw shifting shadows over the straw and the dim shapes of bodies under the blankets. There were no sounds but the rustling of feverish movement and the murmurs and cries of delirium, and close to the windows, the thrumming of the rain outside.

"I fink she's a little better," Mary said hopefully when she realized Hester was beside her.

"Good." Hester did not argue. "Lady Ravensbrook's got the fever now. I'm going to find a hansom to take her home. Lady Callandra will stay here, and Dr. Beck will be back later this evening. See what you can do about some more wood. Alf said there was some rotten timber on the dockside. It'll be wet, but if we stick it in here it may dry out a bit. It will spark badly, but in the stoves that won't matter."

"Yes, miss. I..."

"What?"

"I'm sorry about Lady Ravensbrook." Mary's face was pinched with concern.

Hester could see it even in this uncertain light. "That's a real shame."

Mary shook her head. "Didn't think a strong lady like that'd catch it. You take care, miss. In't much ter you neither." She looked up and down Hester's rather thin figure with kindly honesty. "Yer ain't got much ter fight agin it wif. You lose 'alf yer weight an' there won't be nuffink left."

Hester did not agree with that piece of logic, but she did not argue. She pulled her shawl closer around herself and retraced her steps back between the straw beds and the entrance, and went down the stairs to the outside door and the street.

Outside was pitch-dark and gusting rain on the blustery wind. The solitary gas lamp just around the corner shed a haze of light through the rain, guiding her towards Park Place. She would probably have to round the narrow Limehouse Causeway up to the West India Dock Road before she could find a hansom. She pulled her shawl tighter around herself and bent her head against the rain. It was less than half a mile.

She passed several people. It was still early evening and men were returning from work in factories, dockyards and warehouses. One or two nodded to her as their paths crossed in the misty arc of a streetlight. She had become a familiar figure to far too many who knew or loved someone stricken with typhoid, but to most she was just another drab woman about her business.

The West India Dock Road was busier. There was plenty of general traffic, goods carts, drays, wagons laden with bales for the docks or warehouses, loads taken off barges or ready to go on in the morning, horse-drawn omnibuses, an ambulance, and all manner of coach and carriage of the more ordinary type. There were no hansoms, broughams or fashionable pairs.

It was ten minutes before she managed to stop a hansom looking for a fare.

"The corner of Park Street and Gill Street, please," she requested. "It's less 'n five minutes away," the cabby protested, seeing her wet shawl, worn boots and dull dress. "Lost the use o' yer legs, 'ave yer? Look, luv, Put worth your money. You can walk it, an' sure as 'ell's a waitin', yer i'nt goin' ter get any wetter than y'are!"

"I know, thank you." She forced herself to smile at him. "I've got a friend there who needs to go up west, all the way to Mayfair. That's what I need you for."

"Mayfair?" he said with disbelief. "What'd anybody from 'ere be doin' in Mayfair?"

She debated whether to tell him to mind his own business, and decided swiftly against it. She needed him too much. Enid was too ill to wait until she found another cabby who was less skeptical or inquisitive.

"She lives there. She's been helping us organize the hospital for the fever!" She said it in her own most cultured accent.

"'Ad enough o' Limehouse, 'as she?" he said dryly, but there was no unkindness in his voice, and she could not see his face since he had his back to the light.

"For a while," she replied. "Change of clothes and some more money." It was a lie, but one to serve a better purpose. If she told him the truth, he might well whip up his horse and she'd never see him again.

"Get in!" he said agreeably.

She climbed in without hesitation, ignoring her wet skirts slapping around her ankles, and immediately the cab lurched forward.

As he had said, it was less than five minutes before they were outside the fever hospital, and she went inside to fetch Enid, who was by now so dizzy and faint she was unable to walk unaided. Hester and Callandra were obliged to come, one on either side of her to support her, and Hester thanked God in a silent prayer that the street lamp was around the corner and the cabby could see only the lurching figures of three women and not how ghostly the center one looked with her ashen face and half-closed eyes, and the sweat streaming off her, making her skin wetter even than the fine rain of the night could explain.

He peered at them in the gloom, and snorted. He had seen gentry drunk before, but the sight of a drunken woman always disturbed him. Somehow it was worse for a woman than a man, and the quality had not the same excuses.

Still, if she gave money for the sick, he would reserve judgment... this once.

"'Yal in," he said, holding the horse steady as it smelled fear and threw its head up and took a step sideways. "'Old 'ard!" he ordered, pulling the rein tighter. "Come on!" He turned back to his passengers again. "I'll take yer 'ome."

The journey was a nightmare. By the time they reached Ravensbrook House, Enid was hot and cold by turns, and seemed unable to keep her body from shaking violently. Her mind wandered as if she were half waking and half in dream.

As soon as they drew up, Hester threw open the door and almost fell to the pavement, calling out commands to the cabby to wait exactly where he was.

She rushed up the steps and rang the bell violently, then again and then a third time. She heard it jingling in the hall.

A footman came to the door, his expression fixed in furious disapproval.

When he saw a white-faced, bedraggled young woman with wild eyes and no hat, his offense knew no bounds. He was a good six feet tall, as a footman should be, and with excellent legs and a suitably supercilious mouth.

"Lady Ravensbrook is extremely ill in that hansom!" Hester said curtly.

"Will you please assist me to carry her inside, and then send for her maid and anyone else necessary to make her comfortable."

"And who are you, may I ask?" He was shaken, but not to be stampeded by anyone.

"Hester Latterly," she snapped back. "I am a nurse. Lady Ravensbrook is very ill. Will you please hurry, instead of standing there like a doorpost!"

He knew where she had been, and why. He wavered on the edge of argument.

"Are you hard of hearing?" she demanded more loudly. "Go and fetch your mistress before she falls insensible faint and may injure herself." "Yes, ma'am." He galvanized into action, striding past her down the steps and across the pavement gleaming wet in the lamplight to the hansom where the cabby was fingering the reins nervously, staring down at the doorway as if it were an open grave.

The footman flung the door open and with the expression of a man about to spur his horse into battle, poked his head and shoulders inside to lift Enid, who was now fallen sideways and almost unconscious. As soon as he had grasped her, which even for a man of his strength was not easy, he pulled her out and straightened up, bearing her in his arms back across the footpath towards the door.

Hester took a step down, fishing in her reticule for money to pay the cabby, but he stood up in his urgency to get his horse going, flicking the long whip over its ears, and was already away from the curb and increasing pace before she could go any farther.

She was surprised only for a moment. He knew where he had picked up his fare, and seeing the address to which he brought her, and the liveried footman, he had guessed the truth. He did not want her close enough to touch, or to take anything, even money, from her hand.

Hester sighed and followed the footman, closing the door behind her. He was standing in the center of the hall helplessly, Enid in his arms as lifeless as a rag doll.

Hester looked for a bell rope to pull.

"Bell?" she asked sharply.

He indicated with his head to where the ornamental rope hung. No other staff had come because presumably they knew it was his duty to answer the door. She strode over and yanked the rope more roughly than she had intended.

Almost immediately a parlormaid appeared, saw the footman, then Enid, and her face went white.

"An accident?" she said with a slight stammer.

"Fever," Hester answered, going towards her. "She should go straight to bed. I am a nurse. If Lord Ravensbrook is willing, I shall stay and look after her. Is he at home?"

"No ma'am."

"I think you should send for him. She is very ill."

"You should have brought her sooner," the footman said critically. "You had no right to leave her till she was in this state."

"It came on very suddenly." Hester held her tongue with difficulty. She was too tired and too distressed for Enid to have patience to argue with anyone, least of all a footman. "For heaven's sake, don't stand there, take her upstairs, and show me where I can find clean water, a nightgown for her, and plenty of towels and cloths, and a basin-in fact, two basins. Get on with it, man!"

"I'll get Dingle," the parlormaid said hastily. And without explaining who that was, she turned on her heel and left, going back through the green baize door and leaving it swinging. Hester followed the footman up the broad, curved staircase and across the landing to the door of Enid's bedroom. She opened it for him and he went inside and laid Enid on the bed.

It was a beautiful room, full of pinks and greens, and with several Chinese paintings of flowers on the walls.

But there was no time to observe anything but the necessities, the ewer of water on the dresser, the china bowl and two towels.

"Fill it with tepid water," Hester ordered.

"We have hot-"

"I don't want hot! I'm trying to bring her fever down, not send it up. And another bowl. Any sort will do. And please hurry up."

With a flash of irritation at her manner, he took the ewer and left with the door ajar behind him.

He had been gone only long enough for Hester to sit on the bed beside Enid and regard her anxiously as she began to toss and turn, when the door swung wide again and a woman of about forty came in. She was plain and dowdy, and wore a gray stuff dress of rigid design, but extremely well cut to show an upright and well-shaped figure. At the present she looked in a state of considerable distress.

"I am Dingle, Lady Ravensbrook's maid," she announced, staring not at Hester but at Enid. "What has happened to her? Is it the typhoid?" "Yes, I'm afraid so. Can you help me to undress her and make her as comfortable as possible?"

They worked together, but it was not an easy task. Enid now ached all over, her bones, her joints, even her skin was painful to the touch, and she had such a headache she could not bear to open her eyes. She seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, suffocatingly hot one moment and shivering the next.

There was nothing to be done for her except bathe her in cool water at regular intervals to moderate the fever at least to some degree. There were moments when she was aware of them, but much of the time she was not, as if the room swayed, ballooned, and disappeared like some ghastly vision in mirrors, distorted beyond reality.

It was nearly two hours before there was a knock at the door and a small and very frightened maid, standing well back, informed Hester that his lordship was home, and would miss please attend on him in the library straightaway.

Leaving Dingle with Enid until she returned, when it would be necessary to do the first laundry, Hester followed the maid as she was bid. The library was downstairs and at the far side of the hall, around a corner. It was a quiet room, comfortably furnished, lined with oak bookcases and with a large fire burning in the hearth. It took barely a glance to notice the polished wood, the warmth, the faint smell of lavender, beeswax and leather, to know its luxury.

Milo Ravensbrook was standing by the window, but he turned the moment he heard Hester's step.

"Close the door, Miss..."

"Latterly."

"Yes, Miss Latterly." He waited while she did so. He was a tall man, extraordinarily handsome in a dark, highly patrician way. His was a face in which both temper and charm were equally balanced. He might be an excellent friend, entertaining, intelligent and quick to understand, but also she judged he would be an implacable enemy. "I understand you brought Lady Ravensbrook home, having observed she was taken ill," he said, allowing it to be half a question.

"Yes, my lord." She waited for him to continue, watching his expression to see the fear or the pity in it. It was not a mobile face. There was a stiffness in him, both of nature and of a rigid upbringing of self-mastery, extending perhaps as far back as the nursery. She had known many such men before, both in the aristocracy and in the army. They were born into families used to power and its responsibilities as much as its privileges.

They took for granted the respect and obedience of others, and expected to pay for them in the self-discipline taught from the nursery onwards, the mastery of indulgence to the softer things, either emotional or physical.

He stood to attention, like a soldier, in the warm library, surrounded by the deep color of the old wood, velvet and leather, and she could judge nothing of him at all. If he was racked by pity for his wife, he masked it in front of her. If he was wary of hiring her, or afraid of catching the illness himself, it was too well hidden for her to see.

"My footman said you are a nurse. Is that correct?" He moved his lips so very slightly it was barely discernible, but there was an inflexion in his voice when he spoke the word nurse that betrayed his feelings. Nurses were generally women of the roughest sort; very often they were drunken, dishonest, and of a physical appearance where the more lucrative occupation of prostitute was not open to them. Their duties were largely those of scrubbing, emptying slops and on occasion disposing of dressings or rolling new bandages and tending to linen. Actual care of patients lay with doctors, and most certainly all decisions, attention to wounds or giving of medicines.

Of course, since Florence Nightingale's fame in the Crimea, many people were aware that a nurse could be much more, but it was very far from the normal case. Lord Ravensbrook was obviously among the skeptics. He would not be openly offensive without provocation, but his view of her was the same as his view would have been of Mary, or any of the other East End women who helped in the pesthouse. Hester found her body stiffening and her jaws tight with anger. For all her ignorance and dirt, Mary had a compassion which was eminently worthy of his respect.

She made an effort to stand even straighter.

"Yes, I am." She did not add "sir." "I learned my craft in the Crimea, with Miss Nightingale. My family did not approve, which was not unexpected. They considered I should remain at home and many someone suitable. But that was not the path I wished." She saw in his face that he was not in the slightest interested in her life or the reasons for her choice, but reluctantly he had a certain respect. The mention of the Crimea held a credit he could not deny.

"I see. Presumably you have tended fever before, other than in Limehouse?"

"Regrettably-yes."

He raised black eyebrows, straight and level above deep set eyes.

"Regrettably? Does that not give you an advantage of experience?"

"It is not pleasant. I saw too many men die who need not have."

His expression closed over. "I am not concerned with your political opinions, Miss -er-Latterly. My only interest is in your ability to nurse my wife, and your willingness."

"Of course I am willing. And I have as much ability as anyone."

"Then it remains only to discuss your remuneration."

"I consider Lady Ravensbrook my friend," she said icily. "I do not require remuneration." She could regret that later. She most assuredly required funds from somewhere, but she had enormous satisfaction in denying him now.

It would be worth a little chill or hunger.

He was taken aback. She could see it in his face. He regarded her soiled and crumpled clothes, of very mediocre quality, and her weary face and straggly hair, and a minuscule flicker of amusement crossed his mouth and vanished.

"I'm obliged to you," he accepted. "Dingle will attend to any laundry that may be necessary and prepare and bring to you whatever food you desire, but since she will be in the company of other servants, she will not enter the sickroom. I have a responsibility to do what I can to keep the fever from spreading throughout the household, and then God knows where."

"Of course," she said levelly, wondering how much he was thinking of himself, whether he would visit the sickroom... or not.

"We will have a cot put into the dressing room where you may rest," he went on. "May we send to your home for any change of clothes you require? If that is not suitable, I am sure Dingle could find you something. You look not dissimilar in build."

Remembering Dingle's scrubbed, middle-aged face and meticulously plain clothes, Hester found it not a flattering thought, but then on the other hand, she was of a surprisingly comely figure for such a dour woman, so perhaps she should not be downhearted about it.

"Thank you," she said briefly. "I am afraid I have little available at home. I have been in Limehouse for so many days I have had no opportunity to launder."

"Just so." At the mention of Limehouse his face tightened, and his disapproval of Enid's participation was plain enough not to need words, not that he would have spoken them in front of her. "Then it is agreed? You will remain here as long as it is required." It was an assumption, and as far as he was concerned, the matter was finished.

"She may need nursing all the time," she pointed out. "Night as well as day, when the crisis comes."

"Is that more than you can cope with, Miss-Latterly?"

She dimly heard someone's footsteps crossing the hall behind her and fading away as they went into another room.

"Yes it is," she said decisively. "Especially since I still have some moral commitment to the hospital in Limehouse. I cannot leave Lady Callandra totally without experienced assistance."

A flash of temper crossed his face and he drew in his breath sharply. "My wife is a great deal more important to me, Miss Latterly, than a score of paupers in the East End who will almost assuredly die anyway, if not of this, then of something else. If you require some remuneration, then please say so. It is not dishonorable to be rewarded for one's labor."

She curbed the answer that rose to her lips, although with difficulty. She was too tired to be bothered with such trivialities of arrogance and misjudgment.

"She is also personally more important to me, my lord." She met his eyes very levelly. "But matters of duty can exceed one's own emotional ties and certainly one's individual wishes. I imagine you believe that as thoroughly as I do? I am a nurse, and I do not abandon one patient for another, no matter what my personal feelings might be."

A dull color flushed up his face and his eyes looked hot and angry. But she had shamed him, and they both knew it.

"Have you some friend or relative who could watch while I am absent?" she asked quietly. "I can show them what is to be done."

He thought for a moment. "I imagine that will be possible. I will not have Dingle coming and going, spreading it through the house. But Genevieve may be willing to spend the necessary time here. She can bring her children with her, and they can be cared for by the staff. That will serve very well. It will benefit her for the time being, and she will know she is of service, and not feel obliged. She is a very proud woman."

"Genevieve?" It did not really matter who he was referring to, but she would like to know.

"A relative," he replied coldly. "By marriage. An agreeable young woman who is presently in a difficult circumstance. It is an excellent solution. I shall attend to it."

And so it was that by that evening Hester was established in Ravensbrook House, with the promised cot in the dressing room, and changes of clothes from Dingle which fitted adequately.

Enid was extremely ill. Her entire body ached so se verely it was painful to the touch. She was running so high a fever she seemed unsure of where she was and did not recognize Hester even when she spoke to her gently, held a cool cloth on her brow and called her by name. She was perpetually thirsty, and so weak she could not sit up suffi ciently to drink without assistance, but she did manage to keep on her stomach the boiled water mixed with honey and salt which Hester gave her. From her face it was obvious that the taste of it was most unpleasant, but Hester knew from experience that plain water did not give the body some element it needed, and so she insisted in spite of Enid's whispered protest.

At about half past nine in the evening there was a knock on the bedroom door, and when she went to open it, she found on the threshold a woman perhaps a year or two older than herself but with a face she knew to be far prettier than her own, with a frank and earthy openness to it which she could not but like.

"Yes?" she inquired. The woman was plainly dressed, but both the cut and fabric were excellent, and the style was more flattering than any servant would be permitted. She knew before she spoke that this must be the relative Lord Ravensbrook had promised.

"I'm Genevieve Stonefield," the woman introduced herself. "I've come to help you nurse Aunt Enid. I hear she is dreadfully ill."

Hester opened the doors wider. "Yes, I'm afraid she is. I'm very grateful you have come, Mrs.-Stonefield, did you say?" The name was familiar, but for the moment she could not place it.

"Yes." She came in through the door nervously, almost immediately glancing across to the big bed where Enid lay, white-faced, her hair wet and straggling over her brow. The room was lit only by the gas bracket on the farther wall, hissing gently, casting long shadows from the bedside chair and the jug on the table. "What can I do to help?" she asked. "I-I've never nursed anyone before, except my own children, and that was only for colds and chillsnothing like this. Robert once had tonsillitis, but that is hardly the same."

Hester could see that she was profoundly afraid, and she could not blame her. Only experience made it tolerable for her. She could well remember her first night in the wards in Scutari. She had felt so inadequate, so aware of each moan or rustle of movement. The minutes had dragged by as if daylight would never come. The next night had been even worse, because she had known in advance how long and desperate it would be. If she could have run away, she would have. Only pity for the men and shame for herself kept her there.

"There is nothing you can give her that will help, except the water from that jug." Hester closed the door and indicated the small blue china jug on the side table. "The other is just clear water for the cloths to keep her as cool as you can. Wash her brow and hands and neck as often as you please. Every ten minutes, if it seems it may help. She has not vomited since the very beginning, but if she should seem distressed in that way, be prepared for it. There is a dish over there." Again she pointed.

"Thank you," Genevieve said huskily. She looked alarmed. "You're not going just yet, are you?"

"No," Hester assured her. "And when I do, I will simply be in the next room to sleep for a few hours." She indicated the dressing room door. "I can't remember when I last lay down, but it seems like the day before yesterday, although I don't suppose it can be."

"I didn't know she had been ill so long!" Genevieve was aghast. "Why did Lord Ravensbrook not send for me before?"

"Oh no, she was only taken ill today. We have been down in Limehouse, with the typhoid outbreak there," Hester replied, leading the way to the bed.

"I'm sorry, I'm not being very clear."

Genevieve swallowed, her throat tight as if she would choke.

"Limehouse?"

"Yes. There is a very bad outbreak there at the moment. We have converted a disused warehouse into a temporary hospital."

"Oh. That is very good of you. I believe it is not a pleasant area at all.

Not that I know it, of course," she added hastily.

"No," Hester agreed. She could not imagine how any relative of Lord Ravensbrook would know Limehouse, or anywhere else in the East End. "Before I go, we should change the bed linen. It will be much easier with two of us. Dingle will take the soiled sheets and attend to them."

Together they changed the bed. Hester had said good night and was almost at the dressing room door when Genevieve's voice stopped her.

"Miss Latterly! What-what can you do for them in Limehouse? It isn't like this, is it? And won't there bewell-lots of them ill?"

"Yes. And no, it isn't like this." Genevieve, with her charming face and well-cut gowns, could not have any conception of the makeshift fever hospital in Limehouse, the stench of it, the suffering, the stupid unnecessary dirt, the overflowing middens, the hunger and the hopelessness.

There was no point in trying to tell her, and no kindness. "We do what we can," she said briefly. "It does help. Even someone there to try to keep you cool and clean and feed you a little gruel is better than nothing."

"Yes. Of course." She seemed to want to discuss the subject, but as if she regretted asking. "Good night."

"Good night, Mrs. Stonefield."

It was only when Hester was washing her face in the bowl of water which had been left for her that she suddenly remembered the name. Stonefield. It was the name of the man Monk was searching for in Limehouse! He had said he was a respectable man who had suddenly disappeared, for no apparent reason other than to visit his brother in the East End. And his wife feared him dead.

Surely Enid would have said something, if she had overheard Monk? But Enid had not been in the room, only Monk, Callandra and herself. She was too tired now to turn it over in her mind any further. All she wished was to wash the grit out of her eyes, feel the warm clean water on her skin, and then lie down and at last stop fighting exhaustion and allow it to overcome her.

_ She was wakened by a persistent rocking and a voice in her ear whispering her name over and over. She struggled to consciousness to find a gray light seeping into the room and Genevieve Stonefield's white and anxious face only a foot from hers.

"Yes?" the mumbled, fighting to clear her mind and free herself from the shreds of sleep. Surely it couldn't be morning already? It seemed she had just lain down.

"Miss Latterly! Aunt Enid seems-worse. I dare not leave calling you any longer. I know how tired you must be-but..."

Hester hauled herself up, reaching out blindly for her robe, then remembered she did not have one. Even her nightgown was Dingle's. Ignoring the cold-there was no fire in the dressing room, although there was a fireplaceshe went past Genevieve into the bedroom.

Enid was tossing and turning and crying out with pain in a soft, almost childlike whimpering, as if she were completely unaware of her surroundings. She seemed completely delirious. The perspiration stood out on her skin, even though the jug of water and a cloth were on the bedside table and the cloth was still cool and damp when Hester picked it up. A good deal of the sugar water was gone.

"What can we do?" Genevieve asked desperately from just behind her. There was little enough, but Hester heard the fear and the grief in her voice, and felt a quick pity for her. If she was indeed Monk's client, then she had enough tragedy to contend with, without this bereavement added to it.

"Just try to bring the fever down," she replied. "Ring for some more water, at least two jugs of it, and cool, no more than hand heat at the most. And perhaps we'd better have clean cloths and towels as well."

Genevieve went to obey, glad to have something specific to do. The relief was naked in her face.

When the water and towels came Hester put them on the table and pulled back the bedcovers, ready to begin. Enid's nightgown was soaked with perspiration and clung to her body.

"We'll change her into a shift, I think," Hester suggested. "And change that lower sheet again. It's very rumpled." She reached out her hand. "And damp."

"I'll get the clean ones," Genevieve said instantly, and before Hester could agree or disagree, she darted away and started opening the drawers of the linen press and searching.

She brought the shift, and then went back straightaway to find a sheet, leaving Hester holding Enid and trying alone to take off the soiled nightgown. Enid did what she could, but she was barely conscious, and it was only too apparent that every touch hurt her and every movement sent pain right through her bones and joints. Added to which, her vision was so distorted by fever she could not focus on anything and kept misjudging where her hands could grasp.

Hester was intent upon causing her as little additional distress as possible.

"Genevieve!" she called. "Please help me here. Never mind the sheet yet."

Genevieve turned around from the drawers where she was standing. Her face was white, her hair straggling out of its pins. She looked desperately tired.

"Please?" Hester said again.

Genevieve hesitated. The silence hung between them as if she had not heard, or not understood what was said. Then as if with a great effort, she came over and stood at the far side of the bed, leaned forward, her head down, and took Enid's limp body in her arms.

"Thank you," Hester acknowledged, and pulled the nightgown off and put it away. Quickly and as gently as she could, she bathed Enid all over with cool water. Genevieve stood back again, taking the used cloths from her and rinsing them out and wringing them, then passing them back. Over and over she washed her own hands, once or twice right up to the elbows.

"I'll get the clean sheet," she offered as soon as the task was completed.

"Help me put the shift on her first, will you?" Hester asked.

Genevieve took a deep breath, gulping awkwardly, but she did as she was bid. She stretched out her arms, and Hester saw the muscles tense, and saw that her hands were shaking. It was only then that she realized how terrified Genevieve was of catching the disease herself. She was trembling and almost sick with the sheer fear of it.

Hester was not sure how she felt. A tangle of emotions rose in her. She could understand it easily! She had felt the same overwhelming horror in her own early experiences. Now time had taught her a more philosophical view. She had seen hundreds of cases, by far the majority of them dying of it, and yet she had never been touched by it herself. She had suffered the occasional chest fever or chill, but nothing worse, although they could certainly make one feel badly enough at the time.

"You are not likely to get it," she said aloud. "I never have."

The color burned hot up Genevieve's face.

"I-I'm ashamed to be so afraid," she said haltingly. "It's not for myself-it's my children. There is no one to care for them if anything happened to me."

"You are a widow?" Hester asked more gently. Perhaps in her place she would have felt the same. It was more than natural, it would be hard to understand any other feeling.

"I..." Genevieve took a deep breath. "I don't know. I know that sounds absurd, but I am not sure. My husband is missing... ' "I'm sorry." Hester meant it profoundly. "That must be dreadful for you-the uncertainty and the loneliness."

"Yes." Genevieve took a deep breath and steadied herself. Very deliberately she slid the clean cotton shift over Enid's body, watching every movement in her attempt not to jolt or bump her.

"How long?" Hester asked as they took off the old sheet.

"Twelve days," Genevieve replied. "I-I know this sounds as if I have given up all faith, but I believe he is dead, because I know where he went, and he would have been back long ago if he were able."

Hester went over to the linen press and fetched the clean sheet. Together they put it on the bed, moving Enid gently as they did so.

"Where did he go?" Hester asked.

"To Limehouse, to see his brother," Genevieve answered.

"Caleb Stone..." Hester said slowly. "I've heard of him."

Genevieve's eyes widened. "Then you know I am not foolish in my fear."

"No," Hester agreed honestly. "From the little I have learned, he is a violent man. Are you sure that is where he went?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation in Genevieve's voice. "He went quite often.

I know it seems hard to understand, when Caleb was so dreadful, he seems to have nothing to commend him at all, but you see they were twins. Their parents died when they were very young, and they grew up together." She smoothed the blanket and tucked it in with quick, careful hands. "Lord Ravensbrook took them in, but he is only a distant cousin, and that was before he married Aunt Enid. They were cared for by servants. They had only each other to show any kind of affection to, any laughter-or tears. If they were ill, or afraid, they had no one else. Caleb was different then. Angus doesn't say a great deal, I think he finds it too hurtful." Her face was pinched with imagination of pain, and the child she could not comfort within the man she loved. Now even the man was beyond her reach, and there was nothing she could do, except wait.

Hester longed to offer her some ease or hope, but there was none, and to invent it would be cruel. It would force her through the agony of realization, acceptance and grief twice, instead of once.

"You must be tired," she said instead. "Have Dingle bring us some breakfast, then you should change your clothes and go to your room and sleep."

They had barely finished eating when there was a brisk tap on the door, and before either of them could answer, it opened and Milo Ravensbrook came in.

He closed it behind him and stepped a couple of yards inside. He spared only a glance at Hester and Genevieve, staring past them to Enid, his face bleak. From his pallor and the red rims to his eyes, he could have lain awake most of the night.

"How is she?" he asked, looking at neither of them.

Genevieve said nothing.

"She is very ill," Hester answered gently. "But the fact that she is still alive gives good cause for hope."

He swung around to her, his face tight and hard.

"You don't mince with words, do you! I hope you are kinder with your patients than you are with their families!"

Hester had seen fear lead to anger too often to respond with anger herself.

"I told you the truth, my lord. Would you rather I had told you she was better, when she is not?"

"It is not what you say, ma'am, it is your manner in saying it," he retorted. He would not retreat. He had criticized her, therefore she must be wrong. He would forgive her in his own time. "I will have the physician attend as soon as possible-within the hour. I shall be obliged if you will remain on duty until he has been. Thereafter, if he deems it acceptable, you may go back to your patients in Limehouse for a spell, providing he is not of the opinion you may return further infection here with you. I am sure you yourself would not wish to do that."

She was about to argue, but he gave her no opportunity. He turned instead to Genevieve.

"I am delighted you saw fit to come, my dear. Not only are you of the greatest help to poor Enid, but it gives me the chance to offer you some measure of assistance in your present difficulty." His face softened a fraction, a tenderness above the mouth, there, and then gone again. "And as family, we should be together in this anxiety, and support each other, should it come to be a bereavement." His expression flickered, unreadily. "I sincerely hope it will not. We may yet discover there has been some form of accidentretrievable. Caleb is violent-indeed, he has lost almost every redeeming feature of his youth-but I fmd it hard to believe he would willfully injure Angus."

"He hates him," Genevieve said, her voice thick with an inner exhaustion far deeper than the one night nursing Enid, the sleeplessness or the fear of disease. "You don't know how much!"

"Nor do you, my dear," he said, without making any move towards her. "All you have heard is Angus's fear speaking, and his very natural grief at the situation, and the degradation he has seen in his brother's nature. I refuse to believe it is irredeemable."

"Thank you," she whispered. For an instant her face was bright with gratitude, and vulnerable as a child's with sudden new hope.

Hester did not know whether to be furious with him for wakening such thoughts again in her or to pity him because of his own need. She imagined the young man he must have been, taking in two orphaned boys and learning to think of them as his own, clothing them in his dreams, teaching them the arts and truths of life, sharing his experiences and beliefs. And then must have come the disillusion as one of them slowly became bitter, vicious, and began step by tragic step to destroy himself. He had burned out all that was good, all the gentleness and the aspiration towards virtue, until at last he had cut himself off completely and given way to a kind of despair.

Surely such a man as Caleb Stone had become could only result from despair?

No wonder Milo Ravensbrook stood in his wife's sickroom and refused to believe one son could have murdered the other. He was facing the loss of all those he loved, except Genevieve and her children, who, through Angus, were his last blood left.

He turned slowly and looked at Enid, then pale-faced, stiff-backed, he walked out, unable to bring himself to speak.

By midday the doctor had been and gone, offering little more than sympathy.

Hester was about to leave for Limehouse, when she almost ran into Monk in the hallway of Ravensbrook House. She stopped abruptly, the instant after he also had seen her.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, but his face was full of relief.

In spite of all her intentions, she felt a surge of pleasure inside her.

She refused to explain or excuse it to herself.

"Lady Ravensbrook is ill. I am caring for her," she replied.

There was a flicker of black humor in him, almost a kind of perverse satisfaction. "You got tired of Limehouse rather quickly, didn't you? What about Callandra? Is she there all by herself now that you and Lady Ravensbrook have left?"

"I'm on my way there," she said tartly, anger welling up inside her.

"Very intelligent," Monk said sarcastically. "Then you can bring the typhoid back here with you, to add to whatever Lady Ravensbrook already has. I hadn't thought you so stupid! Does Lord Ravensbrook know? Perhaps he doesn't realize, but I would have thought better of you."

"It is typhoid she has," she replied, looking him straight in the eyes. "It is a risk one runs, nursing fever patients. But as you also pointed out, Callandra has very little other help, except a few local women who are willing but have no experience. The only other one there is Kristian. They have to get some rest, so I imagine they are taking turns. They need someone else to help for a while, even if only so they can leave to buy more supplies."

His face was pale and he looked considerably shaken, as if what she had said distressed him.

"Is she going to recover?" he asked after a moment.

"I hope so. She'll be very tired, of course, but Kristian will do all he can to-"

"Not Callandra, you fool," he cut across her. "Lady Ravensbrook. You said she has typhoid."

"Yes. You seem very slow to grasp the point, but that is why I am here looking after her."

"So why are you leaving her then?" He jerked his head towards the front door, where she had been going. "Is she well enough to be left alone?" "For heaven's sake, she's not alone," she snapped furiously. "Genevieve Stonefield is here while I am gone. We are taking turns to do all we can.

Do you think I would walk out and leave a patient? I am used to you being gratuitously offensive, but even you know better than that."

"Genevieve?" He was surprised.

"That is what I said. Presumably she is your client'? Have you proceeded any further? You seemed to have had no success at all when I last saw you."

"I have considerably more information," he answered.

"In other words, no," she interpreted.

"Do you really think you have time and talent enough to spare to do your own work and mine too?" he asked with a lift of sarcasm. "You rate yourself higher than the evidence supports."

"If you want Genevieve," she retorted, "you will have to wait. She cannot leave Lady Ravensbrook until I return." And with that she brushed past him and strode towards the front door, yanking it open and leaving it swinging behind her for the footman to close.

"I came to see Lord Ravensbrook," Monk said between his teeth. "You monumentally stupid woman!"

Nevertheless on the evening of the day after, tired as she was, Hester went to Monk's rooms in Fitzroy Street to give him the general information she had learned about Angus and Caleb Stonefield from her time in Ravensbrook House. It was not a great deal, but it might help. She was not concerned so much for him as for Genevieve.

It was a wintry night and she held the collar of her cloak up around her neck and chin as she crossed the pavement and mounted the step. She rapped smartly on the door, before she could change her mind.

She stepped back, and was about to decide that he was not in and she had done all duty demanded of her, when the latch turned and the door swung open. Monk stood just inside, outlined by the light behind him. From what she could see of his face he was tired and discouraged. He did not hide his surprise at seeing her.

She felt sorry for him, and was suddenly glad she had come.

"I thought I should tell you the little I have learned about Angus and Caleb," she explained her presence.

"You've learned something?" he said quickly, stepping back for her to enter.

Perhaps she had overstated it and given him unjustified hope. She felt foolish.

"Only a few facts, or perhaps I should more correctly say a few people's opinions."

"Whose opinions? For heaven's sake, come in! I don't want to stand here on the step, even if you don't mind." He pulled the door wider, and then as she passed him, closed it behind her.

"Why are you so angry?" She decided to stop retreating and attack instead.

It was more in her nature. She should not allow him to make her feel as if she had to justify herself all the time. "If your case is going badly, that is unfortunate," she continued, walking past him through the outer chamber to the inner one. "But being offensive will not help it, and it is very childish. You should learn to control yourself."

"Have you come all the way, at this time of the evening, to tell me that?" he said incredulously, following her in. "You interfering, opinionated, monumentally arrogant woman! Treating the sick has gone to your brain! Even in your futile field, surely you must have something more useful to do? Go and empty some slops, or scrub a floor. Stoke a fire somewhere. Comfort someone, if you have the faintest idea how."

She took off her wet cloak and handed it to him.

"Do you want to know about Angus and Caleb, or not?" It was almost a relief to be just as rude in return. She had guarded her tongue for so long, all sorts of emotions were knotted up inside her, memories of loneliness and fear, of horror and exhaustion in the past, pain she could not ease, deaths she had been helpless to prevent. All of it came back to her so much more vividly and easily than she had expected. And she did not want to care about Monk. It was nice, almost like a familiar pleasure, to quarrel with him. "Are you actually interested in helping poor Genevieve, or are you just taking her money?"

His face went white. She had hurt him with that last suggestion. For all his faults, she knew with absolute certainty he would never have done that.

Perhaps she should not have said it. But then he had insulted her professionally just as much.

"I'm sorry," he said tightly. "I had not realized that this time you had something useful to say. What is it?" He put her cloak absentmindedly over the back of one of the chairs.

Now she felt foolish. It was not truly useful. Maybe he knew that too? She took a deep breath and faced him. His gray eyes were cold and level, full of anger.

"Lord Ravensbrook does not think Caleb would have harmed Angus," she began.

"Because for all his violence, they are brothers, and grew up together, sharing their loneliness and grief when they lost their parents. But he thinks that because he loves them, and cannot bear to think otherwise. He has already lost his first wife, and then the boys' parents, and now Enid is terribly ill, and Angus is missing."

He was staring at her, waiting for her to conclude.

Her voice sounded thin even in her own ears. "But Genevieve is convinced Caleb has killed him. She told me that in the past Angus has come home with knife scars that no one else knows about. He would not call a doctor. He was ashamed of them. I think that is why she did not tell you. She does not wish anyone to think Angus was not able to stand up for himself, or that he was a coward. Angus..." She did not know how to phrase what she thought and make it seem sensible. She could almost hear Monk's sarcastic dismissal even before she spoke. "Angus loved Caleb," she went on hastily. "They were very close as children. Perhaps that bond still existed, for him, and he could never believe Caleb would hurt him. Maybe he could even have felt guilty for his own success, when Caleb had so little. That could be why he kept going back-to try to help him-for his own conscience's sake. And pity can be a very hard thing to take. It can eat more deeply into the soul than being hated or ignored."

He looked at her in silence for a long time. She did not look away, but stared back.

"Perhaps," he conceded at length. For the first time his imagination could conceive of the emotions within Caleb, the explosion of rage which could end in such violence. "It could explain both why Angus did not simply leave him to rot, which is what it would seem he both wanted and deserved, and why Caleb was stupid enough to kill the one man on the earth who still cared about him. But it doesn't help me find Angus."

"Well, if it was Caleb who killed him, at least you have some idea where to look," she pointed out. "You can stop wasting your time trying to find out if Angus had a secret mistress or gambling debts. He was probably just as decent as he seemed, but even if he wasn't, you don't need to find out, and you certainly don't need to tell Genevieve-or Lord Ravensbrook. They are both convinced he was an extraordinarily good man. Everything they knew of him was honorable, generous, patient, loyal and innately decent. He read stories to his children, brought his wife flowers, liked to sing around the piano, and was good at flying a kite. If he is dead, isn't that loss enough? You don't have to find his weaknesses too, do you, simply in the name of truth?"

"I'm not doing it in the name of truth," he said, his face screwed up with irritation and pain at the thought. "I want, in the name of truth, to find out what happened to him."

"He went to the East End to see his twin brother, who in a fit of violence, which he is prone to, killed him! Ask the people of Limehouse-they are terrified of him!" she went on urgently. "I've seen two of his victims myself, a boy and a woman. Angus crossed him one time too many, and Caleb killed him-either by accident or on purpose. You have to prove it, for the sake of justice, and so Genevieve can know what happened and find some peace of heartand know what to do next."

"I know what I have to do," he said curtly. "It is a great deal harder to know how. Can you be as quick to tell me that?"

She would have loved to reply succinctly and brilliantly, but nothing came to her mind, and before she had time to consider the matter for long, there was a sharp, light rap on the door.

Monk looked surprised, but he went straight over to answer it, and returned a moment later accompanied by a woman who was beautifully dressed and quite charming. Everything about her was feminine in a casual and unaffected way, from her soft, honey-colored hair, under her bonnet, to her small, gloved hands and dainty boots. Her face was beautiful. Her large hazel eyes under winged brows looked at Monk with pleasure, and at Hester with surprise.

"Am I intruding upon you with a client?" she said apologetically. "I am so sorry. I can quite easily wait."

Somehow the suggestion was painful. Why had the woman automatically assumed that Hester could not be a friend?

"No, I am not a client," Hester said more sharply than she would have wished the moment she heard her own voice. "I called to give Mr. Monk some information I thought might be of assistance."

"How kind of you, Miss...?"

"Latterly," Hester supplied.

"Drusilla Wyndham." The woman introduced herself before Monk had the opportunity. "How do you do."

Hester stared at her. She seemed very composed and her attitude made it apparent that in spite of the fact that this was Monk's office, her call was social. Monk had never mentioned her before, but there was no question that he knew her, and every evidence he also liked her. It was there in his expression. The way he stood with his shoulders straight, the very slight smile on his lips, unlike the hardeyed look of the moment before she came.

Perhaps he had known her in the past? She seemed extraordinarily comfortable with him. Hester felt a sudden, awful sinking in her stomach, as if there were nothing inside her. Of course, he must have known women in the past, probably loved them. For heaven's sake. It was not impossible he had been married! Could a man forget such a thing? If he had really loved...?

But would Monk really love anybody? Had he that capacity in him to love utterly and totally, sharing all of himself?

Yes. For a few moments in that closed room in Edinburgh he had. It was precious, like a brilliant star inside her memory. And yet it hurt, because she could not forget or dismiss it. She could never think of him as she had before that, never completely believe the anger or the coldness, and never tell herself with any honesty that there was nothing in him she really wanted.

Drusilla Wyndham stopped talking to Monk, and had swung around to look at Hester again, her lovely eyes wide and inquiring.

"Would you care for me to wait somewhere else while you conclude your business, Miss Latterly?" she asked politely. "I do not wish to intrude, or to hold you from what else you plan for this evening. I am sure you must have friends to call upon, or family awaiting you." It was a remark, not a question. It was also a very plain dismissal.

Hester felt her neck and shoulders tighten in anger and a bitter resentment. How dare this woman take charge like this, as if in some way she owned Monk? Hester knew him far better than she ever could. She had shared desperate battles with him, hope and courage, pity and fear, victory and defeat. They had stood beside each other when both honor and life were threatened. Drusilla Wyndham knew nothing of that!

But she might know all manner of other things. Perhaps she could even tell Monk his lost past? And if Hester loved him-no, that was absurd! If she was a true friend, an honorable person, she could not wish to deny him that.

"Of course," she said coldly. "But there is no need to retire, Miss Wyndham. All that is confidential has already been said." She must let her know that there were confidential things. "I wish you a pleasant evening."

She turned to Monk and saw amusement in his face, which infuriated her and sent the color burning up her cheeks.

Drusilla smiled. Perhaps she too had read Hester more accurately than she wished. She felt horribly naked.

"Good night, Mr. Monk," she said with a forced smile in return. "I hope you have more success in the future than you have found so far." And she went to the door and opened it before he could get there and do it for her. She stepped out into the cold street, and left him to close the door after her.

As soon as Hester had gone, Drusilla turned to Monk.

"I do hope my calling was not inopportune? I did not mean to embarrass her.

The poor creature looked quite disconcerted. She said it was not a personal matter, but was she simply being polite?" Her words were concerned, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that looked close to laughter, and a glow in her face.

"Not at all," Monk said firmly, although he knew Hester had been upset. It was quite extraordinary. He would never have suspected her of being vulnerable to such a feminine emotion as jealousy. He was angry on her behalf. It was such a gap in her armor it was uncharacteristic. And yet he was also undeniably pleased. "She had given me the information," he said to Drusilla, stepping back so she could come closer to the fire. "She had no call, and no desire to remain. She was about to leave when you arrived." He did not add that he was delighted to see her, but it was plain in his manner, and he meant it to be.

"Are you working on another case, beside the one you told me of?" she inquired.

"No. May I offer you some refreshment? A cup of tea? Or a cup of hot chocolate? It is a cold evening."

"Thank you," she accepted. "That would be most welcome. I admit I became very chilled in the hansom. It was a rash thing to do to come here, when I did not even know if you would be at home, let alone prepared to receive company. I blushed for myself, when it was rather late, and I was already halfway here. Thank you." She handed him her cape and took off her bonnet, running her fingers delicately through the soft curls at the edge of her brow. "I admit to being interested, in a most unladylike fashion, in the story you told me of your investigation of the unfortunate man who has been missing." She looked at him with a smile. "I have asked among the few acquaintances I have in the Geographical Society, and also in a musical society I know and a debating association, but I learned nothing, except that Mr. Stonefield attended the Geographical Society once, as a guest, and seemed a quiet and charming man who claimed too many family and business obligations on his time to attend more often." Her glance strayed around the room, taking in the gracious but well-worn furnishings, the polished wood, the rich dark colors of the eastern carpet, the absolute lack of any photographs or personal mementos.

"The others did not know him at all," she continued. "Except by repute, and as a most honorable man, very upright, given to charitable donations of a modest sort, a regular attender at church, and in every way a pillar of the community." There was a vividness in her eyes and a faint flush in her cheeks. "It is very strange, is it not? I fear greatly that his poor wife is correct, and he has met with some harm."

"Yes," Monk agreed gravely. He stood by the mantelshelf, close to the fire.

She sat in the chair opposite, her wide skirts almost touching the fender.

Almost absently he rang the bell for his landlady. "Yes, I am afraid it looks more and more as if that is so."

"What are you going to do next?" she asked, looking up at him. "Surely you will try to prove it? How else can any sort of justice be done?"

"Yes, of course I will."

There was a sharp knock on the door and his landlady appeared. She was a cheerful soul who had overcome her scruples at having an agent of inquiry in the establishment, and now took a certain kind of pride in it, suggesting all kinds of intrigue and glamour to other less fortunate keep- ers of similar establishments in the neighborhood whose lodgers followed more pedestrian callings.

"Yes, Mr. Monk. And what can I do for you?" She eyed Drusilla with interest. A lady of such beauty must either be in a marvelous distress or be a very wicked woman and highly dangerous. Either way, it was of the utmost interest. Not that she would repeat a word of it, of course, should she chance to overhear anything.

"Two cups of hot chocolate, if you please, Mrs. Mundy," he replied. "It is a very inclement evening."

"Indeed it is that," Mrs. Mundy agreed. "Only one in dire need would be out at this hour of a winter's evening. Two cups of hot chocolate it is, Mr.

Monk." And she withdrew to set about preparing them, her imagination whirling.

"What are you going to do next?" Drusilla asked the moment the door was closed. "How will you set about finding where he went, and finding Caleb Stone? That surely must be the answer, mustn't it?"

"I think so," he agreed, amused by her eagerness and, in spite of himself, somewhat flattered. She was attracted to him, no matter how modest he might want to be, that much was apparent. He found himself responding because he too found her everything which appealed to him in a woman: charming, intelligent, confident, amusing and feminine with just the hint of vulnerability which complimented him. It was not a completely unfamiliar feeling. He had no specific memory, but he responded by instinct, with assurance and quite definite pleasure.

"So you will go to the East End?" she urged, her eyes shining.

"Yes," he said, looking at her with amusement, baiting her gently. He knew she was bored, looking for adventure, something utterly different from anything her friends could boast. She had courage, that he did not doubt, and possibly even a desire to broaden her experience and to help someone for whom she felt a certain pity. He knew what she was going to say. "I'll help you," she offered. "I am a very good judge of whether someone is lying or telling the truth, and together we can speak to twice as many people as you could alone."

"You can't come dressed like that." He looked her up and down with open appreciation. She was delightful to the eye, a perfect blend of spirit and good taste, enough beauty displayed to hold any man's attention, and yet sufficiently modest and with that measure of dignity and self-possession to make it plain she was her own person and there was immeasurably more concealed than any man could learn unless he gave a great deal of himself in return. He found he most definitely wanted her to come, whether she was of the slightest use or not. Her company would be delightful.

"I shall borrow my maid's clothing," she promised. "When may we begin?"

"Tomorrow morning," he answered with no more than a hint of a smile, his eyebrows raised. "Is eight o'clock too early for you?"

"Not in the slightest," she rejoined, her chin high. "I shall be here at eight o'clock, on the dot."

He grinned. "Excellent!"

Mrs. Mundy knocked on the door and brought in the hot chocolate. Monk accepted it as if it were champagne.