Page 58 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

There was no point in stretching out the fear which already sat thick and heavy in the room.

“Ruth Clark is dead,” Hester said, looking at the incomprehension in their faces. They saw nothing beyond a small loss in the midst of others. Most of them had not liked her. Hester drew in a shivering breath. “She did not die of pneumonia. She died of plague. . ” She watched their faces. One of them knew that was a lie. Had that person any idea at all of the deeper, infinitely more terrible truth than murder? She saw nothing except the slow struggle to understand, to grasp the enormity and the true horror of it.

“Plague?” Claudine said in bewilderment. “What sort of plague? What do you mean?”

“What the ’ell are you talking about?” Squeaky demanded.

“Bubonic plague,” Hester replied. “In some cases it starts as pneumonic congestion in the chest. Some people recover, not many. Some die with it in that stage. In others it goes on to the bubonic-swellings in the armpits and the groin that go black. We call it the Black Death.”

Flo stood motionless, her mouth open.

Squeaky turned white as a sheet.

Claudine fainted.

Mercy caught her and pushed her head between her knees, holding her until she struggled back to consciousness, gasping and choking.

Bessie sat blinking, her breath rasping in her throat.

“No one can leave, in case we carry it out of here to the rest of London,” Hester went on. “No one at all, at any time or for any reason. Sutton has already arranged for friends of his, with pit bull terriers, to patrol outside. If anyone leaves, they will set the dogs on them. Please believe that they will really do that. Whatever happens, we cannot allow the disease to spread. In the fourteenth century it killed nearly half of Europe-man, woman, and child. It changed the world. Our few lives are nothing; we must stop that from happening again.”

“ ’Ow are we gonna live?” Squeaky asked furiously, as if it were some kind of reason to deny it all.

“Other people will bring us food, water, and coal,” Hester replied. “They will leave them outside, and we will go and fetch them. We will never meet. We have told them it’s cholera, and they must never ever think differently.”

Mercy rubbed her hands up over her face, sweeping her hair back. “If anyone outside gets to know. .”

“They’ll burn the place down!” Flo finished for her. “Mrs. Monk’s right. We gotta keep it a secret from everyone. It’s the only chance we got-God ’elp us!”

“

Oh, Gawd!” Bessie said, rocking back and forth in her chair. “Oh, Gawd!”

“I never thought of praying,” Claudine said with wry bitterness. “But I suppose that’s all we have!”

Hester looked across at Sutton. He was the only other person, apart from herself, and one more, who knew that they also had a murderer in the house.

NINE

Monk was sitting at home, building up the fire to try to create in the house the warmth that was gone from it because Hester was devoting so much time to the clinic. Her absence robbed him of a great deal of the pleasure he would have felt had he been able to share his triumph with her. He had been extraordinarily successful. He had pulled off a master stroke, retrieving the ivory and getting it to Louvain right under the noses of the thieves-and of Culpepper, for whom it was taken, and even of the River Police! Louvain had paid him handsomely, and his reputation was now high. Other jobs would come from it. But there was no one to tell.

He was not finished. He still needed to find out who had killed Hodge. It might have been Gould’s partner, but that was likely only if he had gone on board after Gould, found Hodge stirring, and killed him. That would have been a result of panic, and completely unnecessary-unless the man was someone paid by Louvain, and thus had betrayed him? Louvain would exact a bitter vengeance for that, and it would explain why Hodge had been killed and not merely knocked senseless.

And then there was the other possibility, that Hodge had been killed by a member of the crew in some personal quarrel that had nothing to do with the theft.

If he found out who Gould’s partner had been, it might be possible to prove whether he had ever come on board the Maude Idris. Gould should be able to remember his own actions, which would at least help. Tusks were difficult things to handle. He would surely know where his partner had been. One could not pass anyone on the gangway to the hold without knowing. The difficulty would be in making sure he was honest. On the other hand, he must have walked close to Hodge’s body every time he carried ivory up or went back down for more.

Louvain would not like it; he might even try to block him, but Monk had taken care of that. He had no intention of allowing Hodge’s murderer to escape. He had never known Hodge, and might well have disliked him if he had, but that was irrelevant. The less anyone else cared, the more it mattered that he was given some kind of justice.

Monk was sitting by the fire, getting too hot but barely noticing it, when he realized there was someone knocking on the door. It could not be Hester; she had a key. Was it a new client? He could not accept one, unless he or she was prepared to wait. He stood up and went to answer.

The man on the step was lean, and quite smartly dressed, but his shoes were worn. His wry, intelligent face was lined with weariness, and there was a small brown-and-white terrier at his feet. Monk would be sorry to have to refuse him.

“Mr. William Monk?” the man enquired.

“Yes.”

“I have a message for yer, sir. May I come in?”

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