William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

repeated.
    “ ’Ow do I know?” the peddler said indignantly. “ ’Er teeth were just like … teeth! Kind o’ good, come ter think of it.”
    Hester felt her heart racing. “Little bit crooked at the front, but nice?”
    “Yeah. That’s right. Yer know ’er? She one o’ yours, then?”
    “Perhaps.” Was he right, or had she put the idea into his mind and he was simply trying to please her, and get rid of her questions? “Thank you.” She finished the sandwich and thanked him again, then walked quickly toward the place he had pointed to for the hansom cabs.
    The description he had given fitted one of the women who had been in the courtroom with Margaret and her mother. Or any other woman in London with pretty and slightly crooked teeth, and enough money to buy good gloves. But Margaret’s sister was the one who would help her, and her father, by taking Hattie Benson away to—where? Had Margaret’s sister known it was to her death, or had she imagined it would be simply a house where Hattie could be kept until it was too late to testify?
    It took Hester the rest of the day—and more money than she could really spare in cab fares, sandwiches, cups of tea, and petty bribes—before she found as many of the answers as she was going to so long after the event. Two women, answering the descriptions of Hattie and Gwen, or Celia, had taken a hansom from near St. Bartholomew’s to Avonhill Street in Fulham, just short of Chiswick, almost half an hour after Margaret had shown Hattie out of the door of the clinic in Portpool Lane.
    Another hour of tedious questions and invented excuses, and by the time it was growing dark, Hester had found the house where Hattie had been for a few hours.
    “Yeah,” the woman said grudgingly after Hester questioned her. She wiped her wet hands on her skirt. “Wot’s it ter you, then? This is a respectable ’ouse, an’ there ain’t no ’oring goes on ’ere. It were a right lady as brought ’er ’ere an’ said as she’d be stayin’ fer a few days.”
    “But she didn’t stay for a few days, did she?” Hester pressed. “She was gone in a matter of hours.”
    “So she changed ’er mind. She still were paid fer, so why should I care?”
    “Who did she go with?” Hester felt her throat tight, her hands clammy.
    “Said ’is name were Cardew. Didn’t see ’is face, but real nice-spoken, ’e were.”
    Hester thanked her and turned to leave, stumbling against the doorpost but barely feeling the bruise to her hand.
    “T HAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE,” Monk said gently as they sat in front of the fire late that evening, the clock nearing midnight. Hester was exhausted, and still cold in spite of the warmth of the room. “Why would Margaret help Rupert Cardew in anything?”
    “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “Maybe he lied to her?” She knew as soon as she had said it that it didn’t make sense. She looked up and saw it in Monk’s eyes. “Maybe Hattie lied, and she didn’t steal the cravat at all. Perhaps Rupert paid her to say she did. Then she lost her nerve and wasn’t going to go through with it.”
    “That explains why he would kill her, if he killed Parfitt in the first place,” he agreed. “But why would Margaret take her to the door? Wouldn’t Margaret want to keep her there, and have her take back her story?”
    “Perhaps Hattie was afraid to do that. Maybe she just wanted to escape, and say nothing at all.”
    Monk nodded slowly. “That’s possible. She couldn’t face you—or me—so she ran away. As far as defending Ballinger is concerned, her failure to appear comes to much the same result. Her first story would be disbelieved. So Margaret helps her, and then probably her sister Gwen. It sounds more like her than like Celia. Hattie goes to a house where she believes she’ll be safe. But Rupert finds her anyway. How?”
    “Perhaps she’s been there before.” Hester buried her head in her hands. “William, what have we done?”

CHAPTER
12
    R ATHBONE RODE HOME IN a hansom sometime after Margaret had left the courtroom with her mother. It had been another good day. When Winchester had first presented his case, Rathbone had feared that there would be no effective defense. Now he was more than hopeful; he knew there was a real and very considerable likelihood that the jury would have a reasonable doubt as to Ballinger’s guilt.
    Although, the irony of it was that the picture that emerged of Parfitt was so repellent that