William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

times, or whether in connection with some woman bled to death, poisoned by septicemia, or simply the knowledge of the crime and the extortionate money.
    And yet he also knew of the white-faced women, exhausted by bearing child after child, unable to feed them, selling them as babies for a few shillings to pay for food for the rest.
    He wanted to smash something, hurl it to pieces and hear the splintering and cracking as it shattered, but after the instant satisfaction everything else would be the same. If he could weep perhaps he could ease the weight which was choking inside him.
    “Well?” the woman said wearily. “Are yer gonna tell me or not? I can’t do nothing for ’er if yer just stand there like an idiot! ’Ow far gorn is she? Or doncher know?”
    “Four months,” Monk blurted.
    The woman shook her head. “Left it a bit, ain’t yer? Still … I spec’ I can do summink. Gets dangerous, but I s’pose ’avin it’d be worse.”
    The girl in the chair whimpered softly, bright blood seeping into the blanket around her and dripping through its thin folds onto the floor. Monk pulled his wits together. He was here for a purpose. Indulgence in his own emotions would solve nothing and not help convict Herbert Stanhope.
    “Here?” he asked, although he knew the answer.
    “No—out in the street,” she said sarcastically. “Of course ’ere, yer fool! Where d’yer think? I don’t go to people’s houses. If yer want summink fancy yer’ll ’ave to see if yer can bribe some surgeon—although I dunno where yer’ll find one. It’s an ’anging crime, or it used ter be. Now it’s just jail—and ruin.”
    “You don’t seem worried,” he retorted.
    “I’m safe enough,” she said with dry humor. “Them as comes ter me is desperate, or they wouldn’t be ’ere. And I don’t charge too much. The fact they’re ’ere makes ’em as guilty as me. Anyway, it’s a public service as I give—’oo ’round here is gonna turn me in?” She gestured to indicate the whole street and its environs. “Even the rozzers don’t bother me if I keep discreet, like. An’ I do. So you mind ’ow yer go. I wouldn’t wancher ter ’ave an accident….” Her face was still smiling, but her eyes were hard, and the threat was unmistakable.
    “How do I find one of these surgeons that do abortions?” he asked, watching her intently. “The lady I’m asking for can afford to pay.”
    “Not sure as I’d tell yer if I knew—which I don’t. Ladies as can pay that sort ’ave their own ways o’ findin’ ’em.”
    “I see.” He believed her. He had no reason except instinct, but for once, even with thought, he had confidence in his own judgment. This sickening rage was familiar, and the helplessness. He could see in his mind confused and bitter widowers, frightened at being faced suddenly with looking after a dozen children by themselves, not knowing, not understanding what had happened or why. Their wives had faced the growing burden of incessant childbearing without speaking of it. They had gone to the abortionist secretly and alone. They had bled to death without even sharing the reason; it was private, shameful, women’s business. The husband had never stretched his imagination beyond his own physical pleasures. Children were a natural thing—and what women were made for. Now he was bereaved, frightened, angry, and totally bemused.
    And Monk could see just as clearly young girls, not yet sixteen, ashen-faced, sick with fear of the abortionist and her instruments, her gin bottle, and the shame of it, just like the girl in the chair now; and yet knowing even this was still better than the ruin of becoming a fallen woman. And what waited for a bastard child of a destitute mother? Death was better—death before birth, in some filthy back kitchen with a woman who smiled at you, was gentle according toher abilities, took all the money you could scrape together, and kept her mouth shut. He wished so fiercely it hurt him that he could do something for this child here now, weeping quietly and bleeding. But what was there?
    “I’ll try to find a surgeon,” Monk said with ironic honesty.
    “Please yerself,” the woman answered, apparently without rancor. “But yer lady friend won’t thank yer if yer spread it all over the city among ’er fine friends. Keepin’ it quiet is wot it’s all for, in’it?”
    “I’ll be discreet,” Monk answered, suddenly longing to be outside this place. It seemed to