William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

deluding yourself. I understand that you found Rupert charming, but I’m afraid he is a thoroughly dissolute young man. If you could see him as he really is, I cannot believe that you would have such pity for him. It belongs far more to his victims.”
    “Like Mickey Parfitt?” Hester snapped back. “I cannot agree with you.” She turned briefly to Squeaky Robinson. “However, Lady Rathbone is quite correct about the funds. In the meantime we shall spend only as necessary, and then with due caution.” She swept past Margaret on the way out, without inquiring whether it was she or Squeaky whom Margaret had come to see, disliking herself for her anger, and unable to control it.
    She went first to the kitchen for a mug of tea, then back upstairs into the first room along the corridor. In it was Phoebe Weller, a woman somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, with lovely auburn hair, a lush body, and a face disfigured by the scars of pox.
    “How are you, Phoebe?” Hester said conversationally.
    Phoebe was lying back in the bed, her eyes half closed, a tiny smile on her face. She was not in a half coma, as a casual observer might have thought, but was half-asleep, dreaming that she might always sleep alone, in a clean bed, and need do nothing hard or dangerous to assure the next cup of hot tea or slice of bread and jam.
    She woke up when she heard Hester saying her name. “Oh … I don’t think as I’m well yet,” she whispered.
    “Probably not,” Hester agreed, tongue in cheek. “Would a fresh cup of tea help?”
    Phoebe opened her eyes and sat up smartly, ignoring the bruised leg and wrenched ankle and the heavily dressed wound on her leg that had brought her here. “Ye’re right, an’ all, so ’elp me, it would.”
    Hester passed it to her, and she took the tea with both hands.
    Hester sat down in the chair next to the bed and made herself comfortable, smoothing her gray skirts, as if she meant to stay.
    “I’m gonna get better!” Phoebe said. “I just need another few days.”
    “I’m sure you are,” Hester agreed amiably. “You’ve worked in one or two different places, haven’t you?”
    “Yeah …” The answer was guarded.
    “In some of the posh areas, Chelsea way, and farther up the river?”
    “Yeah …”
    “Ever heard anything about Rupert Cardew, Lord Cardew’s son? I need to know, Phoebe, and I need the truth.”
    Phoebe stared at her.
    “Just a friendly warning,” Hester went on. “I don’t care what the truth is, good or bad, but if you lie to me and I catch you, next time someone beats you, you’ll be in the street, and the cabs’ll run over you before I stretch out a hand to help. Do you understand? The truth is what I need.”
    Phoebe considered it, clearly weighing one possibility against the other.
    Hester waited.
    “Wot d’yer wanna know?” Phoebe said at last.
    “Do you know girls who’ve slept with him, for money?”
    “Course, fer money,” Phoebe said patiently. “Don’t matter if ’e’s ’andsome as the devil ’isself, an’ kind, an’ makes yer laugh, a girl’s still ter eat, and there’s yer protectors wot needs their share.”
    “Do you know anyone who slept with Rupert Cardew?”
    “Yeah! Told yer! Dunnit meself, couple o’ times.”
    Hester squashed the flicker of revulsion. It was stupid. What had she imagined Rupert had done that he knew the street women so well, even cared enough to give money to someone helping them?
    “What is his character like?” she said.
    “Cripes! Yer in’t thinkin’ o’—”
    “No, I’m not,” Hester assured her tartly. “But if I were?”
    “Yer in’t!”
    “I told you. But why not?”
    “ ’Cos ’e’s funny, makes yer laugh till yer burst yer stays, an’ ’e in’t never mean about payin’, but ’e’s got a temper like a cornered rat, ’e ’as.”
    “Did he hit you?” Hester felt cold, and there was a churning in the pit of her stomach.
    Phoebe opened her eyes wide. “Me? No! But ’e beat the shit out o’ Joe Biggins fer crossin’ ’im up. Not only ’im. Spoiled, I reckon. In’t used ter bein’ told no by anyone, an’ din’t take it kindly. I ’eard say ’e near killed some bleedin’ pimp wot got on the wrong side of ’im. Dunno wot about. Beat one other poor sod once, jus’ another bleedin’ punter wot got up ’is nose. Paid ’im a lot o’ money not ter make a fuss.”
    “Why? Do you know?”
    Phoebe shrugged pale, smooth shoulders. “No. Could a