Page 53 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

“Family?” Mercy said in amazement. “Who?”

“I don’t know.” She was about to add that it was Clement Louvain who had spoken of them, then she changed her mind. Perhaps Mercy had no idea of her brother’s private life, or that of his friend, supposing he existed. “But don’t worry about her,” she said instead. “We can’t keep her here if she wants to leave, but I’ll try to persuade her how foolish it would be.” She looked at Mercy’s drawn face. “She’s a difficult woman. She’s always quarreling with Flo, even accused her of being a thief, and really upset her. Flo’s all kinds of things, and it doesn’t matter. But she’s not a thief and she really cares about that. If someone comes for Ruth, it would be a good thing.”

Mercy stood still. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly.

“Go and have a cup of tea,” Hester said. “And something to eat. When did you last sit down?” She put her hand on Mercy’s arm. “We can’t help everyone; some people just won’t be helped. We have to do what we can, and then go on to think of the next person.”

Mercy moved as if to say something, then the words died on her lips.

“I know it’s difficult. But it’s the only way to survive.”

If Mercy found any comfort in that, it did not reflect in her face. She nodded, but more as a matter of form than agreement, and went on down the stairs.

The rest of the night passed with little incident. Hester managed to get several hours’ sleep. In the morning she sent Squeaky to the undertaker to have him come and remove the body of the dead woman, then set about making breakfast for everyone able to eat.

Claudine looked tired and withdrawn, but she carried out her duties with slightly increased skill. She even took a dish of gruel up to Ruth Clark and helped her to eat most of it.

“I’m bothered whether I know if that woman’s better or not,” she said when she returned to the kitchen with the dish. “One minute I think she is, then she has that fever back and looks like she’ll not make it to nightfall.” She put the uneaten gruel down the drain and the dish in the sink. “I’ll go down the street and fetch water,” she added through pursed lips. “It’s as cold as the grave out there.”

Hester thanked her sincerely and decided to go up and see Ruth herself. She found her propped up very slightly on the pillows, her face flushed, her eyes bright and angry.

“How are you?” Hester asked briskly. “Claudine says you were able to eat a little.”

A slightly sour smile touched Ruth’s lips. “Better to swallow it than choke. She has hands like a horse, your pinched-up Mrs. Burroughs. She despises the rest of your help, but I daresay you can see that.” A curious, knowing look crossed her face. “Even if you haven’t the wit to see why,” she added.

Hester felt a moment’s chill, an acute ugliness in the room, but she refused to entertain it. “I am not concerned why, Miss Clark,” she replied sharply. “Any more than I care why your lover put you out for some friend to bring to a charity clinic to care for you. You are sick and we can help; that is all that concerns me. I am glad you were able to eat a little.”

“Charity clinic!” Ruth said in a choking voice, as if, had she the strength, she would laugh, but there was hatred in her eyes.

Hester looked at her and saw fear also. “We’ll do our best,” she said more gently. “See if you can rest for a while. I’ll come back soon.”

Ruth did not answer her.

The undertaker came and Squeaky saw to the necessary details, including paying him. It was another strain on their dwindling resources which he complained about vociferously.

Just before midday the rat catcher arrived. Hester had completely forgotten she had sent for him, and for a moment she was so startled she did not recognize his outline. He was thin, a little square-shouldered, only an inch or two taller than she. Then he moved into the light and she saw his wry, humorous face, and the small brown-and-white terrier at his feet.

“Mr. Sutton! You gave me a fright. I’d forgotten what day it was. I’m sorry.”

He smiled at her, lopsidedly because his face was pleasantly asymmetrical, one eyebrow higher than the other. “I guess that these rats in’t too bad then, or yer’d be a day ahead o’ yerself, rather than a day be’ind. But yer look fair wore out, an’ that’s the truth.”

“We’ve got a lot of sick people in just now,” she replied. “Time of the year, I suppose.”

“It’s blowin’ fit ter snow out there,” he agreed. “I reckon as it’ll freeze by dark. Even the rats’ll ’ave more sense than ter be out then. Got a lot, ’ave yer?” He glanced around the kitchen, noting the food bins, the clean floor, the pails of water. “Don’t take no bad feelin’ if you ’ave. Rats din’t mind it warm and tidy, no more’n we do. Bit o’ spilled flour or crumbs an’ they’re ’appy.”

“They’re not bad, actually,” she answered. “I just want the few we’ve got discouraged.”

He grinned broadly. “Wot’d yer like me ter do, miss? I can sing to ’em? That’d discourage anyone. Rats a got very good ’earin’. ’Alf an hour o’ me singin’ me ’eart out, an’ they’d be beggin’ fer peace. Like or not, most of ’em’d be in the next street. An’ yer staff wif ’em.”

Hester smiled at him. “If that were sufficient, Mr. Sutton, I could do that myself. My mother always said I could make money singing-they’d pay me to move on.”

“I thought all young ladies could sing.” He looked at her curiously.

“Most of us can,” she answered, taking a loaf of bread out of the bin and picking up the serrated knife. “Of those of us who can’t, some have the sense not to try, some haven’t. I have, so I still need your help with the rats. Would you like some lunch?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice o’ yer,” he accepted the invitation, sitting down at the scrubbed wooden table and motioning the dog to sit also.

She toasted some of the bread, holding it up to the open stove, piece by piece, on the three-pronged fork, then when it was brown, passing it over to him to set in the rack. Then she fetched the butter and cheese, and a fresh pot of tea.

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