William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

dunno.” Nell shook her head. “She shouldn’t be out on the street. In’t fer ’er sort, poor bitch!”
    There was nothing useful to say. A hundred different circumstances took women into prostitution, often only to supplement a too-meager income from something else. But it all stemmed from the eternal struggle for money.
    Nell looked at her. “You keep a still tongue, don’t yer! Ta, missus. I’ll be seein’ yer again, I ’spec’.” She squinted a little at Hester, regarding her with wry kindness. “If I can ’elp yer sometime . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, shrugging very slightly. Nodding to Margaret, she went out as well, closing the door quietly behind her.
    Hester caught Margaret’s eye and saw the flash of humor and pity in her expression. There was no need for words; they had already said all there was to say. They were there to heal, not to preach to women whose lives they only partially understood. At first Margaret had wanted to change things, to speak what she saw as truth, guided by her own beliefs. Gradually she had begun to realize how little she knew of her own hungers, except that to be tied in a convenient marriage where the emotion was no more than a mutual respect and courtesy would be a denial of everything inside her. It might seem comfortable to begin with, but as time passed and she stifled the dreams within her, she would come to feel her husband was her jailer, and then despise herself for her own dishonesty. The choice was hers; no one else was to blame.
    She made it, and stepped into the unknown, aware that she was closing doors she might later regret, and which after that could never be opened again. She did not often wonder what she had given away, but there had been long nights with few patients when she and Hester talked frankly, and even touched on the prices of different kinds of loneliness, those that were perceived by others and those that were masked in marriage and family. All choice was risk, but for Margaret, as for Hester, accommodation to half-truths was impossible.
    “For his sake, I can’t do that!” Margaret had said with a self-conscious laugh. “Poor man deserves better than that. I’d despise myself for it, and him for letting me.” Then she had gone for a bucket and water to scrub the floor, as she did now, and together they cleared up and put away the unused bandages and ointments, then took turns in snatching a little sleep.
    Two other women came in before morning. The first needed two stitches in her leg, which Hester did quickly and efficiently. The second was cold and angry and badly bruised. A mug of hot tea, again mildly laced with brandy and a little tincture of arnica, and she felt ready to return to her room and face the coming day, probably most of it asleep.
    Dawn came clear and quite mild, and by eight o’clock Hester was eating toast and drinking a cup of fresh tea when the street door opened and a constable was silhouetted against the sunlight. Without asking, he came in.
    “Mrs. Monk?” His tone was heavy and a little sharp. The police hardly ever came to the house. They were not welcome, and had been told so in unmistakable terms. Largely they respected what was done there, and were happy enough, if they wished to speak to any of the women, to wait and do it in some other place. What could have brought him there this morning, and at eight o’clock?
    Hester put down her mug and stood. “Yes?” She had seen him several times on the street. “What is it, Constable Hart?”
    He closed the door behind him and took off his helmet. In the light his face looked tired, not merely from a sleepless night on duty, but from an indefinable weariness within. Something had bruised him, disturbed him.
    “You’ad any women in ’ere last night that were knocked about, cut mebbe, or beat bad?” he asked. He glanced at the teapot on the table, swallowed, and looked back at Hester.
    “We do most nights,” she replied. “Stabs, broken bones, bruises, disease. In bad weather the women are sometimes just cold. You know that!”
    He took a deep breath and sighed, pushing his hand through his receding hair. “Someone in a real fight, Mrs. Monk. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t ’ave to. Jus’ tell me, eh?”
    “Would you like a cup of tea?” She evaded the answer for a moment. “Or toast?”
    He hesitated. His exhaustion was plain in his face. “Yeah . . . ta,” he accepted, sitting down opposite her.
    Hester reached for the