William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

Miss ’Ester says as yer the cleverest man, an’ the cussedest, as she ever met. She right?”
    Monk buried his head in his hands, his mind whirling, ideas beating against him, bruising in their violence. Hester was alone in the clinic with the most terrible disease ever known to man. He would never see her again. He could do nothing to help her. He could not even remember now what were the last words they had said to each other! Did she know how much he loved her, as his wife, his friend, the one person without whom he had no purpose and no joy, the one whose belief in him made everything matter, whose approval was a reward in itself, whose happiness created his?
    And the whole of Europe could be decimated with disease. Corpses everywhere, the land itself rotting. History books told how the whole world had changed. The old way of life had perished and a new order had been made—it had had to be.
    “Is she right?” Sutton asked again.
    Monk lifted his head. Did Sutton know that in those words he had made it impossible for Monk to refuse? Yes, almost certainly he did.
    “Yes,” he answered. “What do you know about the woman who died?”
    “ ’Er name were Ruth Clark, an’ she were brung in by a shipowner called Louvain. ’e said she were the mistress of a friend of ’is, which is mebbe true an’ mebbe not.”
    “Louvain?” Monk’s body froze, his mind whirling.
    “Yeah.” Sutton stood up. “I ’ave ter go. I can’t see yer again. Yer just gotta do yer best.” He seemed about to add something, but could not think of words to convey it.
    “I know,” Monk said quickly. “Tell Hester . . .”
    “Don’t matter now,” Sutton replied simply. “If she don’t know it, words in’t gonna ’elp. Find where it come from. An’ do it soft, like—very, very soft.”
    “I understand.” Monk rose to his feet also, surprised that the room did not sway around him. He followed Sutton and his dog to the door. “Good-bye!”
    Sutton went out into the street, rain drifting in the lamplight and glistening on the pavement. “Good night,” he replied, then turned and walked with a peculiar ease, almost a grace of step, into the darkness, the dog still at his heels.
    Monk closed the door and went back into the room. It seemed airless and unnaturally silent. He sat down very slowly. His body was shaking. He must control his thoughts. Thought was the only way of keeping command of himself.
    Ruth Clark had died of plague. Clement Louvain had brought her to the clinic. Where from? Who was she? He had said she was the cast-off mistress of a friend. Was that true? Was she his own mistress? He knew she was ill, but had he any idea with what?
    Where had she contracted a disease like that? Not in London. The
Maude Idris
had just come back from Africa. Had she come on it? Was that how the plague had got here? Did Louvain know that, or guess? And he had taken her to Hester!
    For a moment red fury swept over Monk so it almost blinded him. His body trembled and his nails dug into the flesh of his hands till they drew blood.
    He must control himself! He had no idea whether Louvain had known what was wrong with her. Why should he? The woman was sick. That was all Hester had known, and Hester was a nurse who had cared for her day and night.
    He started to walk back and forth. Should he go to Louvain and tell him? Should he at least tell him that Ruth was dead? If Louvain had known she had the plague, he would be expecting it. Would he panic now? Might he cause the very terror they were afraid of? But then if he had not known, and she had been his mistress, would he be distressed? Hardly, or he would have gotten a nurse in to care for her, not sent her to a clinic for street women to be looked after by strangers. Far better to keep her death silent. Let him find out in time.
    Then another thought struck him. What if Gould had been telling the exact truth, and Hodge had been dead, without a mark on him except the slight bruises of a fall, and his head had been beaten in afterwards, because he had died of plague? Was it not a murder, but the concealment of a death which could end up killing half the world?
    Half the world? Wasn’t that a ridiculous exaggeration? Nightmare, hysteria rather than reality? What did the history books say?
    Back in 1348 England had been a rural community, ignorant and isolated compared with today. If people traveled at all it was by foot or on horseback. Knowledge of medicine was rudimentary and