William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

of her own fall from grace without anyone else’s notice of it.
    “Those are bad bruises on your neck.” Hester looked at them more closely. It appeared as if someone had held her by the throat, and there was a deep graze across the front of her breastbone, as though a hard fingernail had scored it deliberately. “Is that blood yours?” Hester asked, indicating the splatters across the front of Kitty’s bodice.
    Kitty gave a shuddering sigh. “No. No! I . . . I reckon I caught his nose when I hit him back. It’s not mine. I’ll be all right. Nell’s bleeding. You should see to that. And Lizzie broke her wrist, or somebody did.” She spoke generously, but she was still shivering, and Hester was certain she was far from well enough to leave. She would have liked to know what bruises were hidden under her clothes, or what beatings she had endured in the past, but she did not ask questions. It was one of the rules; they had all agreed that no one pressed for personal information or repeated what they overheard or deduced. The whole purpose of the house was simply to offer such medical help as lay within their skill, or that of Mr. Lockhart, who called by every so often and could be reached easily enough in an emergency. He had failed his medical exams at the very end of his training through a weakness for drink rather than ignorance or inability. He was happy enough to help in return for company, a little kindness, and the feeling that he belonged somewhere.
    He liked to talk, to share food he had been given rather than paid for, and when he was short of funds he slept on one of the beds.
    Margaret offered Kitty a hot whiskey and water, and Hester turned to look at Nell’s deep gash.
    “That’ll have to be stitched,” she advised.
    Nell winced. She had experienced Hester’s needlework before.
    “Otherwise it will take a long time to heal,” Hester warned.
    Nell pulled a face. “If yer stitchin’s still like yer stitched me ’and, they’d throw yer out of a bleedin’ sweatshop,” she said good-humoredly. “All it wants is buttons on it!” She drew in her breath between her teeth as Hester pulled the cloth away from the wound and it started to bleed again. “Jeez!” Nell said, her face white. “Be careful, can’t yer? Yer got ’ands like a damn navvy!”
    Hester was accustomed to the mild abuse and knew it was only Nell’s way of covering her fear and her pain. This was the fourth time she had been there in the month and a half since the house had been open.
    “Yer’d think since yer’d looked arter soldiers in the Crimea wi’ Florence Nightingale an’ all, yer’d be a bit gentler, wouldn’t yer?” Nell went on. “I bet yer snuffed as many o’ our boys as the fightin’ ever did. ’Oo paid yer then? The Russkies?” She looked at the needle Margaret had threaded with gut for Hester. Her face went gray and she swiveled her head to avoid seeing the point go through her flesh.
    “Keep looking at the door,” Hester advised. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
    “That supposed ter make me feel better?” Nell demanded. “Yer got that bleedin’ fat leech comin’ in ’ere again.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Jessop!” Nell said with stinging contempt as the street door closed again and a large, portly man in a frock coat and brocade waistcoat stood just inside, stamping his feet as if to force water off them, although in fact it was a perfectly dry night.
    “Good evening, Mrs. Monk,” he said unctuously. “Miss Ballinger.” His eyes flickered over the other three women, his lips slightly curled. He made no comment, but in his face was his superiority, his comfortable amusement, the ripple of interest in them which he resented, and would have denied hotly. He looked Hester up and down. “You are a very inconvenient woman to find, ma’am. I don’t care for having to walk the streets at this time of night in order to meet with you. I can tell you that with total honesty.”
    Hester made a very careful stitch in Nell’s arm. “I hope you tell me everything with total honesty, Mr. Jessop,” she said coldly and without looking up at him.
    Nell shifted slightly and sniggered, then turned it into a yell as she felt the thread of gut pulling through her flesh.
    “For goodness sake be quiet, woman!” Jessop snapped, but his eyes followed the needle with fascination. “Be grateful that you are being assisted. It is more than most decent folk would do for you.” He forced his