William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

patients—perhaps ladies of good family, or maybe women who were terrified for their reputations? It looked as if he trusted Dora—and that raised more questions.
    The only way to answer them was to find Dora herself.
    That she accomplished after dark when she was so weary all she longed for was to sit down and relieve the ache in her back and her legs. She was carrying blood-soaked bandages down to the stove to bum them (they were beyond any laundress to reclaim), and she met Dora coming up the stairs, a pile of sheets on her arms. She carried the weight of them as if they were merely handkerchiefs.
    Hester could not afford to wait for a better time or to get up her courage and prepare. She stopped in the middle ofthe stairs, under the lamp, blocking Dora’s way, trying to look as if she had done it unintentionally.
    “I have a friend who is attending the trial,” she said, not as casually as she had wished.
    “Wot?”
    “Sir Herbert,” she replied. “It’s nearly over. They’ll probably bring in the verdict in the next day or two.”
    Dora’s face was guarded. “Oh yeah?”
    “At the moment it looks as if they’ll find him not guilty.” Hester watched her minutely.
    She was rewarded. An expression of relief lit Dora’s eyes and something inside her relaxed. “Oh yeah?” she said again.
    “The trouble is,” Hester went on, still blocking the way. “Nobody knows who did kill Prudence. So the case will still be open.”
    “So what if it is? It weren’t you an’ it weren’t me. An’ looks as if it weren’t Sir ’Erbert.”
    “Do you think it was?”
    “ ’O?—me? No, I don’t reckon as’t was.” There was a fierceness in her voice, as if she had suddenly forgotten to be so careful.
    Hester frowned. “Not even if she knew about the abortions? Which she did. She could have made things pretty hard for him if she threatened to go to the law.”
    Dora was tense again, her huge body balanced carefully as if to make some sudden move, if she could only decide what. She stared at Hester, hovering between confidence in her and total enmity.
    A prickle of sharp physical fear tightened Hester’s body, making her gulp for breath. They were alone on the steps, the only light the small oases of the gas lamps at top and bottom and the one under which they stood. The dark well of the stairs yawned below and the shadows of the landing above.
    She plunged on.
    “I don’t know what proof she had. I don’t know if she was even there—”
    “She weren’t.” Dora cut across her with finality.
    “Wasn’t she?”
    “No—’cos I know ’oo were. ’E wouldn’t be daft enough ter have ’er in. She knew too much.” Her big face puckered. “Damn near as good as a doctor ’erself, she were. Knew more than any of them student doctors. She’d never ’ave believed they was operations for tumors and the like.”
    “But you knew! Did the other nurses?”
    “No—wouldn’t know stones from a broken leg, most of ’em.” There was contempt in her tone as well as a mild tolerance.
    Hester forced herself to smile, although she felt it was a sickly gesture, more a baring of the teeth. She tried to invest her voice with respect.
    “Sir Herbert must have trusted you very deeply.”
    Pride lit Dora’s eyes. “Yeah—’e does. An’e’s right. I’d never betray ’im.”
    Hester stared at her. It was not only pride in her eyes, it was a burning idealism, a devotion and a passionate respect. It transformed her features from their habitual ugliness into something that had its own kind of beauty.
    “He must know how much you respect him for it,” Hester said chokingly. A flood of emotion shook her. She had wept more tears than she could remember over dead women who had not the strength left to fight disease and loss of blood because their bodies were exhausted with bearing child after child. She had seen the hopelessness in their eyes, the weariness, the fear for babies they knew they could not cherish. And she had seen the tiny, starving creatures come into the world ill before they started, sprung from an exhausted womb.
    In the pool of light on the stairs Dora Parsons was waiting, watching her.
    And neither could Hester forget Prudence Barrymore, her eagerness and her passion to heal, her burning vitality.
    “You’re right,” she said aloud in the silence. “Some women need a far better help than the law lets us givethem. You have to admire a man who risks his honor, and his freedom, to do