William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

something . . .”
    Margaret was too aware of acute unease to take the time to respond to that last remark. Why would Hester send anyone with a message unless there were something seriously wrong?
    “Thank you,” she said curtly, and went out almost at a run, leaving her mother standing in the middle of the bedroom. She went through the upstairs door to the servants’ quarters and down the staircase to the housekeeper’s sitting room. She expected to see Squeaky Robinson there, and was startled when the man standing on the mat in front of the fire was not he. And yet he was someone she had seen before, she simply could not remember when. He was lean, with squarish shoulders and a very weary face which at this moment looked marked by a deep and irrevocable sadness.
    “Evenin’, miss,” he said as she closed the door behind her. “I got a message as I gotter tell yer, an’ it’s fer you an’ nob’dy else, no matter wot. I admit as I’d a told yer just wot I ’as ter, but Miss ’Ester said as I gotter tell yer the truth, an’ swear yer in Gawd’s name as yer’ll tell no one else.”
    Margaret felt a flicker of fear tighten in her throat. “What is it?” Now she remembered who he was: Sutton, the rat catcher. “What’s happened? Is Hester all right?”
    “In a manner o’ speakin’, yes she is,” he answered. “But in another manner, nobody in’t all right. I gotter tell yer, miss, an’ yer gotter tell no one else, or yer could kill ’em all.” His eyes were intent on hers, and there was a fear in him which now gripped her also, so hard she could scarcely draw in her breath.
    “What is it? I swear—I swear anything you like, just tell me!”
    “Ruth Clark died, miss, but it weren’t pneumonia like yer all thought. It were the plague.”
    “The plague?” Margaret said incredulously. “You mean like London in 1665, before the great fire?”
    “No, miss, I mean like in 1348, the Black Death wot killed near ’alf o’ the world.”
    She thought for a hysterical instant that he was making some stupid joke, then she saw the truth in his eyes and knew that he meant it. The room swam around her. Before she realized it the chair caught her awkwardly as she fell into it and gripped the arms to keep herself from fainting completely.
    “I’m sorry, miss,” Sutton apologized. “I only told yer ’cos I ’ave ter. Yer can’t go back there, an’ Miss ’Ester can’t come out.”
    She lifted up her head and the room steadied. “Don’t be absurd. I’ve got to go back in. I can’t leave Hester to cope with that on her own!”
    “There in’t no copin’, miss,” he said very quietly. “In’t much we can do ’ceptin’ see as they ’as food an’ water, coal, potash, an’ a spot o’ brandy. An’ that nob’dy else goes in nor guesses why. That’s about the biggest thing, ’cos if they does, sure as night an’ day, someone’ll stir ’em up ter go an’ mob the place an’ set a light ter it. Fire’s ’bout the only thing ter make sure o’ the plague, an’ they knows that. Was the great fire o’ London ’as killed the pneumonic in 1666, but yer can’t set fire ter the ’ole o’ England.”
    She stared at him, wanting to disbelieve, trying to—and failing.
    “Yer more use to ’er outside,” he said with sudden gentleness. “She’s gonna need all the ’elp out ’ere as she can find. An’ there in’t nob’dy but you. Mr. Monk’s got all ’is work cut out ter find where the plague come from in the first place.”
    “Louvain!” she said quickly. “Clement Louvain brought her in.”
    “Yeah, ’e knows. But ’e’s gotter do all ’e can ter find it an’ stop the others wot got it. I’m goin’ back in ter ’elp wi’ things inside.”
    “You aren’t a nurse!” she protested.
    His face tightened. “In’t much I can do fer that, but there’ll be bodies ter get out an’ find burial fer, wi’out nob’dy seein’ wot they died of. An’ we gotter keep ’em wot’s there from leavin’ . . .”
    “How can you do that if they insist? You can’t keep them at gunpoint!”
    “No, miss, men wi’ dogs is much better. Sleep wi’ one eye open; ’em dogs ’ear a footstep softer’n a snowflake landin’. Give ’em the word an’ they’ll tear yer ter bits. Rip yer throat out, ’em pit bulls will, if they ’ave ter.”
    “Who? What men?”
    “Friends o’ mine,” he said more gently. “They won’t ’urt nob’dy if they don’t ’ave ter.