Page 54 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

They sat down together in the warm, candlelit kitchen, and for over half an hour no one interrupted them. She liked Sutton. He had a vast string of tales about his adventures, and a dry wit describing people and their reactions to rats. It was the first time she had laughed in several days, and sh

e felt the knots easing out at the sheer relief of thinking about trivial things that had no relation whatsoever to life and death in Portpool Lane.

“I’ll come back this evenin’,” Sutton promised, picking up the last piece of toast and finishing his third cup of tea. “I’ll ’ave traps an’ me dog an’ the lot. We’ll get it tidied up for yer-on the ’ouse, like.”

“On the house?” she questioned.

He looked very slightly self-conscious. “Yeah, why not? Yer in’t got money ter spend. Gimme the odd cup o’ tea when I’m in this part o’ town, an’ it’ll do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sutton,” she accepted. “That is very generous of you.”

“I’m glad yer don’ stand on no pride.” He looked relieved. “Daft, it is, when yer can do some real good. An’ I reckon yer does.” He stood up and straightened his coat. It was actually rather smart. “I’ll see yer about dark. Good day, Miss ’Ester.” He motioned to the dog. “C’mon, Snoot.”

“Good day, Mr. Sutton,” she replied.

She and the others took around bread, gruel, beef tea-whatever they had that their various patients could consume. Mercy had peeled and stewed the apples from Toddy, and that was a very welcome addition.

At three o’clock all seemed quiet. Hester decided to pay another visit to Ruth Clark to try to persuade her to remain in the clinic for at least two days longer and get her strength back. She was far from well yet, and the bitter air outside could give her a relapse that might even be fatal.

She opened the door and went into the room, closing it behind her because she expected an argument and did not wish it to be overheard, especially by Mercy. It might reveal more things about Ruth’s situation and her relationship to Clement Louvain than Mercy would be happy to know, nor did Hester wish any unkind remarks Ruth might make to be overheard.

Ruth was lying down, her head lower on the pillows than Hester would have left her. Someone had no doubt been trying to ease her, and had not known that it was better for those with congestion of the lungs to be raised. She walked over quietly and looked down at the sleeping woman. It was a shame to disturb her; she was resting in profound peace. But she might waken with her lungs choked.

“Ruth,” Hester said quietly.

There was no response. Her breathing was so much impaired that there was no sound to it at all, no laboring.

“Ruth,” she said again, this time putting her hand out to touch her through the bedclothes. “You need to sit up a bit, or you’ll feel worse.”

There was still no response.

Hester felt for the pulse in her neck. There was nothing, and her skin was quite cool. She felt again, pushing harder for the pulse. Ruth had seemed to be recovering; she had certainly been quite well enough to quarrel with Mercy, and with Flo again after that.

But there was definitely no pulse even in the jugular vein, and no breath from her nose or lips when Hester moved the candle closer, then held the back of her polished watch almost touching her. Ruth Clark was dead.

She straightened up and stood still, surprised at how deeply it affected her. It was not that she had liked the woman; Ruth had been graceless, arrogant, and devoid of any sense of gratitude to those who helped her. It was that she had been so intensely alive that one could not forget or ignore her, one could not be unaware of her passions, the sheer force of her existence. Now, without any warning, she had ceased to be.

Why had she died so suddenly, without any warning of deterioration? Was Hester at fault? Had there been something she should have seen, and perhaps treated? If she had liked Ruth more would she have taken better care of her, seen the symptoms instead of the abrasive character?

She looked down at the calm, dead face and wondered what she had been like before she became ill, when she was happy and believed she was loved, or at least wanted. Had she been kinder then, and warm, a gentler woman than she had been at the clinic? How many people could keep the best of themselves if they had been rejected as she had?

She reached forward to fold the hands in some kind of repose. It was a small act of decency, as if someone cared. It was only when she touched the fingers that she felt the torn nails, and she picked up the candle again to look more closely. Then she set it on the table and examined the other hand. Those nails were torn also. They were new tears, because the ragged pieces were still there; the other nails were perfect, those of a woman who cares for her hands.

Unease rippled through her, not quite fear yet. She looked at the face again. There was a slight trickle of blood on her lower lip, only the faintest smear, and a trace of mucus on her nose. With the fever and chest congestion she had had, that was hardly surprising. Could she have choked somehow?

She parted the lips slightly and saw the bitten flesh inside, as if it had been pressed close and hard on her teeth. Now the fear was real. It needed disproving. She seized the pillow and jerked it out from under Ruth’s head. Clean. She turned it over. There on the underside was blood and mucus.

Slowly she forced herself to open the eyelids one at a time and look. The tiny pinpoints of blood were there too, the little hemorrhages that turned her stomach sick with misery and fear. Ruth Clark had been suffocated, the pillow swift and tight over her face, with someone’s weight pressing down on it.

Who? And for heaven’s sake, why? There had been quarrels, but they were trivial, stupid! Why murder?

She backed away slowly and closed the door, leaning against it as if she needed it to hold her up. What should she do? Call the police?

If she did that they would almost certainly suspect Flo because Ruth had accused her of being a thief. But Mercy Louvain had quarreled with Ruth too, and so had Claudine Burroughs. That was no proof of anything except that Ruth was a very difficult and ungrateful woman.

Would they close the clinic? What would happen to the sick women then? It was exactly the sort of thing the authorities would use as an excuse to finish all their work here. But even if somehow she could persuade them not to, who would come here after this? A place where sick, helpless women were murdered in their beds. Word would spread like fire, vicious and frightening, destroying, causing panic.

If only Monk were not busy now with a case he had to solve, he could have come in, so discreetly that no one but Margaret need have known. But Margaret was not here right now. There was no use asking Bessie; she would have no idea what to do, and only be frightened to no purpose.

---