William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

lucky, the dreams would be different.
    H E WOKE EXHAUSTED THE following morning, his eyes gritty and his head aching. Hester did not even ask him how he was. She looked at him, her face bleak and tender, and words would have been superfluous anyway.
    She got up and went to the kitchen, raked out the ashes, and lit the stove, banking it up to get hot quickly. It was early, and she did not waken Scuff. Today was Sunday. They could stay here together, perhaps even go to church, like a regular family. Scuff liked that because everyone could see them together, see that he belonged.
    She gave Monk piping hot tea and fresh toast with his favorite jam, then sat opposite him at the table. There was no sound in the kitchen, and the only light was from the gas bracket on the wall casting a yellow glow, shadows everywhere.
    When he had said nothing for several minutes, she prompted him.
    “Do you really want to find who killed Parfitt?” she asked quietly, pushing the toast across the table toward him.
    “Yes, of course I do!” he said vehemently, then looked at her face. He knew he had to be more honest; even a half lie to her built a barrierhe could not live with. “No, not entirely. Parfitt was vile, and if it was one of his victims, I’d be happy to let him go. If it was one of the boys, or even two or three of them, I don’t even know if I’ll arrest them. Even if I could prove which ones, I might not try to.”
    She said nothing.
    He took the toast and buttered it.
    “But if it’s the man behind the whole trade, probably behind Phillips as well, then yes, I want to find him. And I want to hang him.”
    Monk fished the note out of his inside pocket where he carried it, carefully, in an envelope. It was both a talisman and a weight dragging him down. He took the note out of the envelope and put it on the table between them, well away from the jam or the teapot. “This was written by a literate person, adult. It’s a strong hand, used to writing.”
    She looked at him, then down at the torn piece of paper. She picked it up and read it. “But you have no idea who wrote it?”
    “No. It’s good-quality paper and perfectly ordinary pencil. The envelope’s mine.”
    She turned the note over in her hands. The silence seemed to stretch until he could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantel over the stove. Her shoulders were stiff; a tiny muscle clenched in her jaw was flickering.
    “Hester?” His voice was quiet and yet filled the room.
    She looked up at him. “The words are Latin. They’re medicines. This is part of a list of things we order regularly for the clinic.”
    He stared at her. This was the last thing he had expected her to say.
    “You recognize the handwriting?” he asked.
    “Claudine’s,” she said. “But she could have given the list to several people.”
    “Margaret,” he replied. “Isn’t she the one who keeps the money, and buys such things?”
    “Yes. But so does Squeaky, sometimes.” Her voice was tight, full of grief.
    He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. He knew what she was afraid of. Squeaky had kept a brothel when they’d firstmet him. He had seemed on the surface to have reformed his ways, under duress, perhaps, but still quite genuinely. He had even taken a kind of pleasure in his respectability. Had it all been an act to cover an even darker side? Had they been too blinded by hope and wish to look at him more closely? How big a descent was it from running a brothel for women to investing in pornography with boys?
    Monk felt a little sick. He knew how much Hester had believed in all the people in the clinic, considered them friends, colleagues, people she trusted with a common passion.
    “I have to ask him,” he said. “I can’t—”
    “No,” she cut across his words. “I will. I won’t let him dupe me, I promise.”
    “Hester …”
    She stood up. “I will. Now—today.”
    “It’s Sunday.”
    “I know.”
    He looked at her stiff, straight back, the way she walked, the very careful manner in which she picked up the plates and put them into the basin to wash, deliberately, as if in a moment’s absence of mind she might grip them so hard she would break one.
    Perhaps he should let her speak to Squeaky. Then she would not feel so powerless, so incapable.
    “I’ll wait outside,” he told her.
    She was standing at the basin, and she turned to give him a swift look, something close to a smile. “I’ve got to leave bread out for Scuff,