William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page A

us he was a philanthropist walking the back streets and alleys trying to save the souls of fallen women!”
    He lifted his head and very gently pushed back the hair that had fallen across her brow. “Unlikely . . . but I suppose it’s possible. We believe what we need to . . . at least for as long as we can.”
    She rested her head against his chin. “I know. But I can’t excuse persecuting a lot of women who are wretched enough anyway, or the pimps who will only take it out on them. It won’t change anything.”
    “Someone killed him,” he said reasonably. “They can’t ignore that.”
    “I know!” She took a deep breath. “I know.”

CHAPTER TWO
    Hester had foreseen that the area around Coldbath Square would suffer an added diligence from police harrying women who were either prostitutes or who could not prove their legitimate occupations, but when it happened she was still taken aback by the reality. The very next evening in the house she saw immediate evidence of it. Margaret was not in; she was mixing with her more natural society, endeavoring to elicit further donations of money toward the rent of the house and the cost of bandages and medicines necessary to treat those who came to it. There were also other expenses to be met, such as fuel for the stove, and carbolic and vinegar for cleaning, and, of course, food.
    The first woman to come to the house was not injured but ill. She had an intermittent fever which Hester judged to be a symptom of venereal disease, but there was little she could do for her beyond offering comfort and an infusion of herbs to lower her temperature and give her some sense of relief.
    “Are you hungry?” Hester asked, passing her the steaming mug. “I have bread and a little cheese, if you like.”
    The woman shook her head. “No, ta. I’ll just ’ave the medicine.”
    Hester looked at her wan face and hunched shoulders. She was probably not more than twenty-five or twenty-six, but she was weary, and sleeplessness, poor food, and disease had robbed her of all energy.
    “Would you like to stay here for the night?” Hester offered. It was not really what the house was for, but in the absence of those in greater need, why should this woman not use one of the beds?
    A spark flared for a moment in the woman’s eyes. “Wot’ll it cost?” she said suspiciously.
    “Nothing.”
    “Can I go in the morning, then?”
    “You can go any time you wish, but morning would be good.”
    “Yeah, ta. That’d be fine.” She still did not quite believe it. Her mouth pulled tight. “In’t no point out there,” she said grimly. “No trade. Rozzers all over the bleedin’ place—like flies on a dead rat, they are. In’t nothin’ fer no one, even them wot’s still clean.” She meant free from disease, not like herself.
    There was nothing for Hester to say. The truth would be a condescension this woman did not need. It would not give hope, only separate her from any sense of being understood.
    “It’s that bleedin’ toff wot was snuffed last night,” the woman went on miserably. “Stupid cow! W’y anyone’d want ter go an’ do a thing like that fer, I dunno!” She took a sip of the herbs and twisted her mouth at the bitter taste.
    “Sugar’ll probably make it worse,” Hester said. “But you can have some if you’d like.”
    “Nah, ta.” She shook her head. “I’ll get used ter it.”
    “Maybe they’ll find out who it was, and things will get back to normal,” Hester suggested. “What are you called?” It was not quite the same thing as asking her name. A name was a matter of identity; this was merely something to use in making her personal.
    “Betty,” was the reply, after a longer draft of the herbal infusion.
    “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a piece of bread and cheese? Or toast?”
    “Yeah . . . toast’d be good. Ta.”
    Hester made two pieces and put them on a plate with cheese. Betty waited while Hester took one piece herself, then she took the