Death of a Stranger Read Free Page B

made it, and stepped into the unknown, aware that she was closing doors she might later regret, and which after that could never be opened again. She did not often wonder what she had given away, but there had been long nights with few patients when she and Hester talked frankly, and even touched on the prices of different kinds of loneliness, those that were perceived by others and those that were masked in marriage and family. All choice was risk, but for Margaret, as for Hester, accommodation to half-truths was impossible.
    “For his sake, I can’t do that!” Margaret had said with a self-conscious laugh. “Poor man deserves better than that. I’d despise myself for it, and him for letting me.” Then she had gone for a bucket and water to scrub the floor, as she did now, and together they cleared up and put away the unused bandages and ointments, then took turns in snatching a little sleep.
    Two other women came in before morning. The first needed two stitches in her leg, which Hester did quickly and efficiently. The second was cold and angry and badly bruised. A mug of hot tea, again mildly laced with brandy and a little tincture of arnica, and she felt ready to return to her room and face the coming day, probably most of it asleep.
    Dawn came clear and quite mild, and by eight o’clock Hester was eating toast and drinking a cup of fresh tea when the street door opened and a constable was silhouetted against the sunlight. Without asking, he came in.
    “Mrs. Monk?” His tone was heavy and a little sharp. The police hardly ever came to the house. They were not welcome, and had been told so in unmistakable terms. Largely they respected what was done there, and were happy enough, if they wished to speak to any of the women, to wait and do it in some other place. What could have brought him there this morning, and at eight o’clock?
    Hester put down her mug and stood. “Yes?” She had seen him several times on the street. “What is it, Constable Hart?”
    He closed the door behind him and took off his helmet. In the light his face looked tired, not merely from a sleepless night on duty, but from an indefinable weariness within. Something had bruised him, disturbed him.
    “You’ad any women in ’ere last night that were knocked about, cut mebbe, or beat bad?” he asked. He glanced at the teapot on the table, swallowed, and looked back at Hester.
    “We do most nights,” she replied. “Stabs, broken bones, bruises, disease. In bad weather the women are sometimes just cold. You know that!”
    He took a deep breath and sighed, pushing his hand through his receding hair. “Someone in a real fight, Mrs. Monk. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t ’ave to. Jus’ tell me, eh?”
    “Would you like a cup of tea?” She evaded the answer for a moment. “Or toast?”
    He hesitated. His exhaustion was plain in his face. “Yeah… ta,” he accepted, sitting down opposite her.
    Hester reached for the teapot and poured a second mug. “Toast?”
    He nodded.
    “Jam?” she offered.
    His eyes went to the table. His face relaxed in a rueful smile. “You got black currant!” he noticed, his voice soft.
    “You’d like some?” It was a rhetorical question. The answer was obvious. Margaret was still asleep, and making the toast would give Hester a little more time to think, so she was happy to do it.
    She came back to the table with two slices, and buttered one for herself and one for him, then pushed the jam over to him. He took a liberal spoonful, put it on the toast and ate it with evident appreciation.
    “You’ad someone,” he said after several moments, looking at her almost with apology.
    “I had three,” she replied. “At about a quarter to one, or about then. One later, three o’clock or so, and another an hour after that.”
    “All in fights?”
    “Looked like it. I didn’t ask. I never do. Why?”
    Hester waited, watching him. There were hollows under his eyes as if he had lost too many nights’ sleep,