William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

whether it had helped or not, but she knew of nothing else to try.
    Alice sank into a restless sleep, and when Margaret came in at nearly nine o’clock her optimism over raising more funds vanished the moment Hester told her of the night’s happenings.
    “That’s monstrous!” she said furiously. “You mean someone out there is lending money to respectable women in financial trouble, and then demanding they pay it back by working in a brothel that caters to men who like to use women they think are decent . . . to . . . God knows what!”
    “And now with police all over the place they can’t get the trade to pay off, so they are getting beaten,” Hester finished for her. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Fanny is probably another of them, only she’s too frightened to tell us.” She remembered Kitty, who had also spoken well and carried herself with pride. “Heaven knows how many more there are.”
    “What are we going to do?” Margaret demanded. There was no doubt in her that they would do something. She expected no less from Hester; it was written plainly in her face and in her brave, candid stare.
    Hester did not want to let her down, or any of these women who trusted her to be able to do what they could not. But those reasons were trivial. Above them all was the evil Hester so easily imagined could have happened to hundreds of women she knew—or to herself, had chance been only a little different.
    “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Not yet. But I will.” She would ask Monk. He was clever, imaginative, and he never gave up. A very slight warmth opened up inside her at the certainty of his help. He would hate this with exactly the same passion as she did. “I will,” she repeated.

CHAPTER THREE
    Before Hester returned from Coldbath Square on the morning after Alice’s attack, Monk received a new client in Fitzroy Street. She came into the room with the air of tension and tightly controlled nervousness that almost all his clients showed. He estimated her to be about twenty-three, and not beautiful, although her bearing was so filled with grace and vitality it was a moment or two before he realized it. She was dressed in a dark skirt and matching jacket fitted to her waist, and the cloth of it was obviously discreetly expensive, it sat so perfectly. She was carrying a bag much larger than a reticule, about a foot or more square.
    “Mr. Monk?” she asked, but only as a formality. There was an air of purpose about her which made it plain she was there because she knew who he was. “My name is Katrina Harcus. I believe you undertake enquiries for people, privately. Is that correct?”
    “How do you do, Miss Harcus,” he replied, gesturing to one of the two large, comfortable chairs on either side of the fireplace. There was a fire burning today. It was spring, but still chilly early in the morning and in the evening, particularly for anyone sitting still, and who might be in a state of some distress. “You are quite correct. Please sit down and tell me what I may do to help you.”
    She accepted, setting the bag at her feet. From its shape he guessed it might contain documents of some sort, which already marked her as unusual. Most women who came to him did so about personal matters rather than business: jewelry lost, a servant who had occasioned their suspicion, a prospective son—or daughter-in-law—about whom they wished to know more, but without betraying themselves by asking any of their own acquaintances.
    He sat down opposite her.
    She cleared her throat as if to dispel her nervousness, then began to speak in a low, clear voice. “I am about to become engaged to marry a Mr. Michael Dalgarno.” She could not help smiling as she said his name, and there was a brightness in her eyes which made her feelings obvious. However, she hurried on without waiting for Monk’s acknowledgment or congratulations. “He is a partner in a large company building railways.” Here her face tightened and Monk was aware of increased anxiety in her. He was accustomed to watching people minutely, the angle of the head, the hands knotted together or at ease, the shadows in a face, anything that told him what emotions people were concealing behind their words.
    He did not interrupt her.
    She took a deep breath and let it out silently. “This is very difficult, Mr. Monk. I need to speak in confidence, as I would were you my legal adviser.” She looked at him steadily. She had very fine eyes, golden