Read William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning for Free Online Page A

one passed me, ’cept the quack an’ the maid,” Paddy repeated with irritation. “I ‘ad me eyes peeled all bleedin’ night—just waitin’ me chance—an’ it never came. The ’ouse where the quack went ‘ad all its lights on an’ the door open and closed, open and closed—I didn’t dare go past. Then the ruddy girl with ’er man. No one went past me—I’d swear to that on me life, I would. An’ Mr. Monk can do any damn thing ’e can think of—it won’t change it. ’Oever scragged that poor woman, ’e was already in the ‘ouse, that’s for certain positive. An’ good luck to you findin’ ’im, ‘cos I can’t ’elp yer. Now take one o’ them fish and pay me twice wot it’s worth, and get out of ’ere. You’re holdin’ up trade terrible, you are.”
    Evan took the fish and handed over three shillings. Chinese Paddy was a contact worth keeping favor with.
    “Already in the house.” The words rang in his head. Of course he would have to check with the courting maid as well, but if she could be persuaded, on pain of his telling her mistress if she was reluctant, then Chinese Paddy was right—whoever killed Octavia Haslett was someone who already lived there, no stranger caught in the act of burglary but a premeditated murderer who disguised his act afterwards.
    Evan turned sideways to push his way between a high fishmonger’s cart and a coster’s barrow and out into the street.
    He could imagine Monk’s face when he learned—and Runcorn’s. This was a completely different thing, a very dangerous and very ugly thing.

2
    H
ESTER LATTERLY
straightened up from the fire she had been sweeping and stoking and looked at the long, cramped ward of the infirmary. The narrow beds were a few feet apart from each other and set down both sides of the dim room with its high, smoke-darkened ceiling and sparse windows. Adults and children lay huddled under the gray blankets in all conditions of illness and distress.
    At least there was enough coal and she could keep the place tolerably warm, even though the dust and fine ash from it seemed to get into everything. The women in the beds closest to the fire were too hot, and kept complaining about the grit getting into their bandages, and Hester was forever dusting the table in the center of the room and the few wooden chairs where patients well enough occasionally sat. This was Dr. Pomeroy’s ward, and he was a surgeon, so all the cases were either awaiting operations or recovering from them—or, in over half the instances, not recovering but in some stage of hospital fever or gangrene.
    At the far end a child began to cry again. He was only five and had a tubercular abscess in the joint of his shoulder. He had been there three months already, waiting to have it operated on, and each time he had been taken along to the theater, his legs shaking, his teeth gritted, his young face white with fear, he had sat in the anteroom for over two hours, only to be told some other case had been treated today and he was to return to his bed.
    To Hester’s fury, Dr. Pomeroy had never explained either to the child or to her why this had been done. But then Pomeroy regarded nurses in the same light as most other doctors did: they were necessary only to do the menial tasks—washing, sweeping, scrubbing, disposing of soiled bandages, and rolling, storing and passing out new ones. The most senior were also to keep discipline, particularly moral discipline, among the patients well enough to misbehave or become disorderly.
    Hester straightened her skirt and smoothed her apron, more from habit than for any purpose, and hurried down to the child. She could not ease his pain—he had already been given all he should have for that, she had seen to it—but she could at least offer him the comfort of arms around him and a gentle word.
    He was curled up on his left side with his aching right shoulder high, crying softly into the pillow. It was a desolate, hopeless sound as if he