William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

Margaret. Hester watched as she opened it and her face filled with joy, her eyes brimming. She read it twice, regardless of her tears, then looked across at Hester, whose note was still unopened.
    “It’s Oliver,” she said, gulping. “He brought the food himself.” Involuntarily she glanced at the courtyard. “He was right outside the door.” She did not offer any further comment; they both knew the effort it must have cost him, and the victory.
    Hester tore hers open as well, and read:
    My dearest Hester,
    The thing you will care most about is that Monk is well, but he looks exhausted, and his fear for your welfare is eating him alive. He is working night and day to find the crew of the
Maude Idris
who were paid off before the ship reached the Pool of London, but we fear they may already be dead, or else have gone back to sea in new ships.
    However, we have succeeded in saving the life of the thief, Gould, with a verdict of not guilty because of reasonable doubt, and thus justice is served without the terror of the truth being known.
    When I last saw Monk, after the trial, I did not yet know that I would find the courage to deliver this myself, or I could have brought you a letter from him. But you will already know all that he would have written.
    My admiration for you was always greater than I told you, but now it grows beyond my ability to measure. I shall be proud if you still wish to consider me a friend.
    Yours as always,
Oliver
    She smiled, folding it up to put into her pocket, then looked up at Margaret. “I told you he would,” she said with infinite satisfaction.
    They spent the day scrubbing everything they could reach. Rathbone had thoughtfully included carbolic among the things he had left. By suppertime they were exhausted, but every room was clean and the chemical’s sharp, stinging odor was everywhere. At any other time it would have been offensive; now they stood in the kitchen and inhaled it with pleasure.
    That night they all slept—except Bessie, who now and again walked the corridors just to make certain there was still no one worse or complaining of new symptoms.
    In the morning there was a crisp, hard frost, and the light was sharp with pale sun. It was November 11, twenty-one days since Clement Louvain had summoned Monk to find his ivory and see the dead body of Hodge.
    “Yer beat it!” Sutton said with a huge grin. “Yer beat the plague, Miss ’Ester. I’ll take yer ’ome!”
    “We beat it,” she corrected him, grinning back at him. She lifted her hands tentatively, wanting to touch him, shake his hand, something. Then she abandoned conventions, even the fear of embarrassing him, and did what she wished. She threw her arms around him and hugged him.
    He stood frozen for a moment, then responded, gently at first, as if she might break, then strongly with sheer joy.
    Claudine came into the room, gasped, then whisked around and took hold of Flo, behind her, and hugged her too, almost bumping into Margaret.
    There was a knock on the door and Sutton stepped over and threw it open, blinking in amazement when he saw a smartly dressed man with fair hair and a long, intelligent face, at the moment filled with overwhelming emotion.
    “Oliver!” Hester said in disbelief.
    Rathbone looked questioningly from one to another of them, then solely at Margaret.
    “Come in,” Margaret invited him. “Have breakfast with us. It’s perfectly all right.” Then she smiled hugely as well. “We’ve beaten it!”
    He did not hesitate an instant; he strode in and took her in his arms, hugging her just as all the others had, in a bewilderment of happiness.
    Finally he turned to Hester. “You haven’t been home for over a week. I’ll take you now.” It was not a question.
    She smiled at him, shaking her head. “Thank you, Oliver, but—”
    “No,” he cut across her. “Margaret will stay here now; you must go home. Even if you don’t think you deserve it, Monk does.”
    “I’ll go home,” she said meekly. “I’ll just go with Sutton, if you don’t mind.”
    He hesitated only an instant. “Of course I don’t mind,” he replied. “Mr. Sutton deserves that honor.”
    So Hester walked home beside Sutton, pulling the rat cart, smiling all the way. Snoot sat upright in the front, quivering with excitement at all the new sights and smells, and the infinite possibility of ratting ahead of him.
    Sutton put down the cart in Fitzroy Street and turned to Hester.
    “Thank you,” she