William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

interrupted wryly. “Trade, which is new society, comes from the genteel upper working classes with social ambitions—like Runcorn. Their morals are usually very strict. It’s the older money, which is sure of itself, which flouts convention and is more likely to need abortions—or to feel unable to cope with above a certain number of children.”
    “Poor women are even less able to manage,” Monk said with a frown.
    “Of course,” she agreed. “But can you see them affording Sir Herbert’s prices? They’ll go to the women in the back streets, or try to do it themselves.”
    A look of irritation crossed his face—at his own stupidity, not hers. He stood by the mantel shelf, his foot on the fender.
    “So how would a society lady find herself an abortionist?” he demanded.
    “Word of mouth, I suppose,” she said thoughtfully. “But who would she dare ask?”
    He remained silent, watching her and waiting.
    She continued, thinking aloud. “Someone her husband would not know—or her father, if she is unmarried—or possibly her mother also. Where does she go alone without causing comment?” She sat down in the high chair and rested her chin on her hands. “Her dressmaker—her milliner,” she answered herself. “She might trust a friend, but unlikely. It is the sort of thing you don’t want your friends to know—it is their opinion you are guarding against.”
    “Then those are the people we must try,” he said swiftly. “But what can I do? I’m not standing here waiting for you!”
    “You are trying the milliners and dressmakers,” she replied with decision, rising to her feet. “I am going to try the hospital. Someone there must know. He was assisted, even if it was by a different nurse each time. If I read Prudence’sletters again for dates and names”—she straightened her skirts—“I may be able to trace it back to particular people. She left initials. One of them may be prepared to testify as to the middle man … or woman.”
    “You can’t do that—it’s too dangerous,” he said instantly. “Besides, they won’t tell you anything.”
    She looked at him with disgust. “I’m not going to ask them outright, for Heaven’s sake. And we haven’t got time to be squeamish. Oliver will be able to protract the trial not more than another day or two at the very best.”
    Protests rose to his lips and died unspoken.
    “What time do milliners open?” he asked. “And what in God’s name am I going to go into a milliner’s for?”
    “Hats,” she said bluntly, clasping her reticule, ready to leave.
    He glared at her.
    “For your sister, your mother, your aunt. Anybody you like.”
    “And what am I going to do with two dozen women’s hats? And if you give me an impertinent answer …”
    “You don’t have to buy any! Just say you will consider it and then …” She stopped.
    “Ask if they can guide me to a good abortionist,” he finished.
    She raised her chin sharply.
    “Something like that.”
    He gave her a filthy look, then opened the door for her to leave. It was now quarter to seven. On the step she turned to meet his eyes in a long, steady gaze, then smiled a little, just turning up the corners of her mouth. It was a gesture of courage rather than humor or hope.
    He watched her leave without the sense of despair he ought to have felt, considering how totally absurd their venture was.
    His first attempt was ghastly. The establishment opened for business at ten o’clock, although the flowermakers, stitchers, ribboners, and pressers had been there sinceseven. A middle-aged woman with a hard, watchful face welcomed him in and inquired if she might be of service.
    He asked to see a hat suitable for his sister, avoiding looking at the displays of any manner of hats in straw, felt, linen, feather, flowers, ribbons, and lace stacked in several corners of the room and along shelves to the sides.
    With a supercilious air she asked him to describe his sister and the type of occasion for which the hat was required.
    He made an attempt to tell her of Beth’s features and general aspect.
    “Her coloring, sir,” she said with ill-concealed weariness. “Is she dark like yourself, or fair? Does she have large eyes? Is she tall or small?”
    He seized on something definite, cursing Hester for having sent him on this idiot’s venture.
    “Light brown hair, large blue eyes,” he replied hastily. “About your height.”
    “And the occasion, sir?”
    “Church.”
    “I