William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

workin’ too ’ard, like most times.”
    Monk looked at him. There was nothing in the man’s face or his demeanor to ease Monk’s growing alarm.
    “Wot I got ter tell yer in’t a few moments’ worth,” Sutton went on. “So yer’d best sit down an’ listen. There in’t nothing yer can do ’ceptin’ keep yer ’ead, and then ’old yer tongue.”
    Monk suddenly found his legs were weak and he felt a rush of panic well up inside him. He was glad to sit down.
    Sutton sat in the other chair. “Thank yer,” he said as if Monk had invited him. He did not tease out the suspense. “One o’ the women wot was brought inter the clinic died today. When Miss ’Ester come ter wash ’er fer the undertaker, she seed what she really died of, which weren’t pneumonia like she thought.” He stopped, his eyes shadowed, his face intensely serious.
    Monk leapt to the conclusion that was most familiar to him. “Murdered?” He leaned forward to stand up. He should go there immediately. Helping Gould would have to wait. He could afford a few days.
    “Sit down, Mr. Monk,” Sutton said in a low, very clear voice. “The trouble in’t nothin’ ter do wi’ murder. It’s far more ’orrible than that. An’ yer gotta act right, or yer could bring down a disaster like the world in’t seen in five ’undred years.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?” Monk demanded. Was the man mad? He looked perfectly sane; the gravity in him was saner than in a score of men who governed the fates of businesses and societies. “What is it?”
    “Plague,” Sutton answered, his eyes fixed on Monk. “Not yer cholera or yer pox, or any o’ them diseases. It’s the real thing—the Black Death.”
    Monk could not grasp what Sutton had said. It had no reality; it was just huge words, too big to mean anything.
    “That’s why nobody’s goin’ in there, an’ nobody’s comin’ out,” Sutton went on quietly. “They gotta keep it closed, no matter wot.”
    “You did!” Monk said instantly.
    “I kept away from Miss ’Ester an’ the woman wot nursed the dead one, an’ I in’t comin’ out again arter this.”
    “I’m still going in,” Monk insisted. Hester was there without him. She was facing something worse than any human nightmare. How could he possibly stay out here, safe, doing nothing? “She’ll need help. Anyway, how could you stop people from leaving? I mean, the sheer practicality? You have to tell the authorities! Get doctors—”
    “There in’t nothin’ a doctor can do fer the Black Death.” Sutton sat almost motionless. His face was impassive, beyond emotion. It was as if the horror of it had drained everything out of him. “If it takes yer, it takes yer, an’ if it leaves yer, it leaves yer. In’t no use tellin’ the authorities. In’t nothin’ they can do. An’ wot d’yer think’d ’appen then, eh?”
    The hideousness of it was very slowly becoming real. In his mind, Monk could see exactly what this strange, composed man was saying. “How will you stop people from leaving?” he asked.
    “Dogs,” Sutton said with a slight movement of his shoulders. “I got friends with pit bulls. They’re guardin’ all the outsides. I ’ope nobody runs fer it, but so ’elp me, they’ll set the dogs on ’em if they do. Better one torn ter bits than lettin’ ’er spread it over all the land, all over the world, mebbe.”
    “What if they tell people?”
    “We told ’em it’s cholera an’ they don’ know different.”
    Monk tried not to think of what his own words meant. “I must still go and help. I can’t leave her alone there. I won’t.”
    “Yer gotter . . .” Sutton began.
    “I won’t come out again!”
    Sutton’s face softened. “I know yer won’t. Not as I’d let yer, any road. But yer can be more ’elp out ’ere. There’s things as need doin’.”
    “Getting food, coal, medicine. I know that. Anyone can do those things—”
    “Course they can,” Sutton agreed. “An’ I’ll see as they do. But in’t yer thought where the plague come from? Where’d that poor woman get it, then?”
    Monk felt the sweat break out on his skin.
    “We gotter find out,” Sutton said wearily. “An’ there in’t nobody else as can do that without settin’ the ’ole o’ London on fire wi’ terror. She come from somewhere, poor creature. Where’d she get it, eh? ’Oo else ’as it? Ye’re a man as knows ’ow ter ask questions, an’ get answers as other people can’t.