William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

insult.
    But Claudine remained perfectly calm. “Don’t put words in my mouth, you stupid little man,” she said wearily. “Just pick her up and help me carry her down the stairs. And do it discreetly! She’s not so much dirty laundry to be slung about.”
    Squeaky obeyed. “You’ve changed yer tune, ’aven’t yer? So tarts off the street are all right again, as long as they’re dead, eh?” He bent and picked up the wrapped bundle approximately where her shoulders were, and staggered a little under the weight.
    “Well there isn’t much point in criticizing the dead, is there?” Claudine challenged him. “Poor soul is God’s problem now.”
    Squeaky let out a high-pitched expletive. “She’s my bleedin’ problem if I rips me guts out carryin’ ’er! D’yer put a couple o’ lead bricks in wi’ ’er?”
    “For heaven’s sake, man!” Claudine exploded. “Bend your knees! Straighten your back! What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever picked up anything before?” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Here!” She bent down carefully and with surprising grace, keeping her back perfectly straight, and picked up the dead woman’s feet. “Come on!” she ordered.
    Squeaky copied her exactly, his face twisted in concentration, then lifted the other end of the corpse. He did it with comparative care, hesitated, transparently doubting within himself whether to thank her or not, and very graciously decided to do so. “Yeah!” he said. “It in’t so ’ard.”
    “Oh, get on with it!” Claudine told him impatiently. “What are you waiting for, a round of applause?”
    He glared at her and set off backwards down the candlelit corridor towards the stairs.
    Hester followed, calling out and warning just as Squeaky reached the top of the stairs and looked like he’d fall backwards down them.
    “You fool!” Claudine said in utter exasperation, probably because she had not thought to warn him herself.
    “I dunno why we bother wi’ Sutton an’ ’is bleedin’ dogs!” Squeaky said indignantly. “Got a mouth like a rattrap, you ’ave! Catch all the bleedin’ rats in the place, yer would! Mebbe that’s wot’s wrong wi’ yer! Swallowin’ too many bleedin’ rats!”
    “Stop complaining and carry this poor woman to her grave,” Claudine responded, apparently unmoved.
    Squeaky steadied himself and started backwards down the stairs. Claudine went gently, with considerable regard for his balance and speed, waiting whenever it was necessary, and without further criticism. When they reached the bottom she told Squeaky when to go left, when right, and when he seemed lost, she waited.
    Finally they reached the back door and Sutton, who was standing beside it, opened it on to the rain-soaked night. The lamplight gleamed on the stones, and the gutters were awash. Under the eaves two men were waiting, dogs sitting patiently at their heels. Two more detached themselves from the shadows, ready to come forward for the body when the door was closed. The rat cart would be waiting at the curb, but it was out of sight.
    Squeaky let go of the body with relief and then Claudine let go of her end in turn. To everyone’s amazement she stood quite still, in the rain, her head bowed.
    “May the Good Lord have mercy on her soul and remember only what was good in her,” she said quietly. “Amen.” She jerked her head up. “What are you staring at?”
    Squeaky glowered at her, his body hunched and tight, shivering in the cold.
    “Amen!” he replied, then splashed back over the cobbles to the kitchen door, scattering water everywhere, Claudine immediately behind him.
    Hester smiled, thanking them both, just as Bessie appeared, announcing her arrival to take over for a while. Hester excused herself and went upstairs again to find a quiet place and snatch a few hours of sleep, sinking into oblivion with immeasurable gratitude.
    She awoke what seemed only a few minutes later, but it must actually have been several hours, because the thin, winter daylight came in through the window. Flo was standing beside her, her long, freckled face filled with misery.
    Hester dragged herself into consciousness and forced herself to sit up. The air was cold and her head ached. “What is it, Flo?” she asked.
    “I went ter waken Miss Mercy,” Flo replied. “She looks ’orrible pale, an’ I can’t get ’er ter waken proper.”
    “She’s probably exhausted,” Hester answered, pulling the bedclothes around herself.