William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

where a stranger could come in unseen. Have you spoken to Squeaky?”
    “Yes. He didn’t see her leave, and he’s been at the front all morning, at least since she was last seen,” he replied. “I’ve got—”
    “I know,” she agreed calmly, her voice reassuring.
    He looked at her pleasant face. It was far from beautiful, but full of strength and—at this moment—a quiet courage.
    “Then, she went out at the back,” he said more steadily. “That means she did it deliberately. She tricked someone into leaving her alone. Why? What on earth would make her do that? Did someone here threaten her? Who have you had in since she came?”
    “An old woman upstairs with a fever,” Claudine replied. “She’s delirious and probably dying. And a young woman with a stab wound and a broken collarbone. All others were just in and out.”
    He stared at her.
    “One of us?” she said with a catch in her voice. She seemed about to add something else, then changed her mind.
    He knew from her face that she was thinking of Margaret, and trying to deny it to herself. He was thinking the same. There had to be some more complex explanation, but just at the moment it did not matter.
    “I’ve got to see if I can find her,” Monk said, although he had no idea where to begin. Should he even tell Hester? There was nothing she could do, except run into danger herself.
    “Where will you look?” Claudine asked him.
    “I don’t know. If she was alone, or escaped from whoever she went with, she’ll probably go back to the places she knows. All I can do is ask.”
    “Can I help?”
    “No … thank you. Just … don’t tell Hester … yet.”
    “I won’t have to,” Claudine said grimly. “She’ll know.”
    Monk left without adding anything more. Once outside in Portpool Lane he walked as rapidly as he could, not even aware of the rain. He would like to have run but it was pointless, and he needed his strength. He could not stop until he found Hattie.
    He asked questions of street peddlers, a seller of matches, another with bootlaces, one with hot chocolate and ham sandwiches. The sandwich man had seen a young woman with pale skin and very fair hair, in company with a woman a little older, brown-haired, going down Leather Lane toward High Holborn, at almost half past nine. They had been on foot, and hurrying.
    It was confusing. Was that Hattie or not? With a woman? Who? It was the best lead he had. Standing in the traffic, people passing him by, the rattle of wheels and clip of hooves on the road, the spray of dirty water from the gutters soaking his legs, he was overwhelmed with the uselessness of it. It might have been Hattie, or equally easily it might not. And she could have been going anywhere in London.
    There was no point in waiting here. He might as well see if anyone else had seen them. He could think as he walked. He might realize something that had eluded him so far.
    But he did not, and in the late afternoon as it was growing dusk, he knew nothing more than half a dozen sightings, which might have been Hattie or any other fair-haired young woman. He decided to take a hansom and go out to Chiswick. At least there she was known, and any sighting would be real. It was just possible she had become homesick and gone back to the one place where she had friends, and which was familiar to her. She might feel safer there, even if in fact she was not.
    The ride seemed interminable. Every dark street looked like every other. Lamps were lit, glaring eyes in the increasing gloom. Everything was full of shadows. The moving carriage lamps were yellow, and there was the hiss of wheels on the wet cobbles even though the rain had stopped.
    Finally Monk reached the Chiswick mall on the edge of the river opposite the Eyot. He leaped out of the hansom, paid the driver, and strode over toward the lights moving down by the stretch of mud and stones left by the low tide. He could hear voices. If it was the police, he would ask for their help.
    As he reached the steps, his stomach was churning, his breath tight in his chest, throat aching.
    One of the men held his lantern higher, and Monk could see thatthere were four of them, grim, wet, feet and ankles caked with river mud. There was a woman’s body on the stones, and the yellow light shone on her face, and on the pale blond hair that was almost silver.
    Monk knew it was Hattie, even before he was close enough to see her features.

CHAPTER
9
    R ATHBONE WAS AT HIS