William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

However, Bessie was strong, and Hester at least had some experience with moving the dead. After nearly fifteen minutes of desperate effort they succeeded, and Bessie promised not to say anything to the others yet. At least for the time being, Hester had a reprieve, and she scrubbed out the room with hot water and vinegar, all the time knowing it was probably useless.
    At five o’clock Mercy came to tell her that Sutton was back with his dog and traps.
    “Oh—good!” Hester was overwhelmed with relief.
    “Are they that bad?” Mercy said with surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any. There was one little creature in the laundry, but I thought it was a mouse.”
    “Baby rat,” Hester said quickly, with no idea whether it had been one or not. “Get a nest sometimes. I’ll go and see Sutton now. Thank you.” And she hurried away, leaving Mercy on the landing looking startled.
    She found Sutton in the kitchen. Snoot was sitting obediently at his heels, his bright little face full of attention, waiting to begin his job.
    “Thank you for coming so promptly,” Hester said straightaway. “May I show you the laundry, where I think they are?”
    He sensed something wrong. His face puckered in concern. “Yer all right, miss? Yer look rotten poorly yerself. Yer comin’ down wi’ summink? ’ere, sit down. I can find the rats meself. It’s me job. Me an’ Snoot ’ere”—he gestured to the little dog—“we ’ave all we need.”
    “I . . . I know you have.” Hester pushed her hand over her brow. Her head was pounding. “I need to speak to you. I . . .” She gulped and swallowed hard, feeling her stomach knot.
    Sutton took a step toward her. “Wot’s the matter?” he said gently. “Wot ’appened?”
    She felt the tears come to her eyes. She wanted to laugh, and to cry; it was so much worse than anything he was imagining. She wished passionately that she could tell him some quarrel, some domestic tragedy or fear, anything but what was the truth. “Downstairs,” she said. “In the laundry, please?”
    “If yer want,” he conceded, puzzled now, and worried. “C’mon, Snoot.”
    Hester led the way to the laundry, Sutton and the dog behind her. She asked him to close the door, and he obeyed. She left the one candle burning, and sat down on the single hard-backed chair because she felt her legs weak. Sutton leaned against the wooden tub, his face masklike in the flickering light.
    “Yer got me scared for yer,” he said with a frown. “Wot is it? Wot can be that bad, eh?”
    Telling him was a relief so intense it was almost as if it were a solution. “One of our patients is dead,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Someone suffocated her.”
    His face tightened, but there was no horror in it; in fact, she saw almost an easing of the fear. He had expected something worse. “It ’appens.” He pursed his lips. “Yer wanna tell the rozzers or get rid of it quiet? I think gettin’ rid of it quiet’d be better. It in’t a good thing ter do, but ’avin’ the place buzzin’ wi’ bluebottles’d be worse. I could ’elp yer?”
    “She would have died anyway.” She heard her voice wobbling. “You see, that isn’t the real problem . . . I mean, someone suffocating her.”
    “Gawd! Then wot is? If she were goin’ ter die anyway?” He was confused.
    Hester took a deep breath. “I thought she had pneumonia. When I came to wash her and prepare her for the undertaker, I . . . I discovered what was really wrong with her.”
    He frowned. “Wot could be that bad? So she got syphilis, or summink like that? Jus’ keep quiet about it. Lots o’ folk do, an’ some as yer wouldn’t think. We’re all ’uman.”
    “No, I wouldn’t care if it were that.” Suddenly she wondered if she should tell him. What would he do? Would he panic, let everyone know, and run out spreading it everywhere? Would a quarter of England die—again?
    He saw the terror in her. “Yer better tell me, Miss ’Ester,” he said, dropping into sudden, gentle familiarity.
    She knew of nothing else to do. She could not reach Monk, and certainly not Rathbone. Even Callandra was gone. “Plague,” she whispered.
    For a second there was incomprehension in his face, then paralyzing horror. “Jeez! Yer don’t mean . . .” He gestured to his chest, just by the armpit.
    She nodded. “Buboes. The Black Death. Sutton, what am I going to do?” She closed her eyes, praying please God he would not run away and leave