Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [82]
Winchester nodded slowly. “You’d better be right, Monk. And don’t imagine Ballinger won’t fight you in every way he can think of. He won’t go down easily. Rathbone will fight for him, and you don’t need me to tell you he’s a very clever man, and far more ruthless than his charming manner would lead you to believe.”
“I know.”
“Yes, of course you do. But don’t allow yourself to forget it simply because you believe Ballinger is guilty and therefore you are fighting a just cause.”
Monk looked steadily at Winchester’s curious long-nosed face, with its subtle wit, and wondered if Ballinger had already started to fight, and whether Winchester knew it.
“It will be personal,” Winchester warned. “Your reputation—perhaps your wife’s?”
Monk felt his muscles clench. “I know.”
“Are you prepared for it? He may call her to the stand, with reference to Rupert Cardew.”
“Yes. She will be prepared this time.”
Winchester offered his hand. “Then, we’ll get him, Mr. Monk. Deo volente.”
Monk rose to his feet. “Yes—God willing,” he echoed, and took Winchester’s outstretched hand.
WINCHESTER’S MENTION OF HATTIE Benson sent Monk straight to the clinic at Portpool Lane, just to assure himself that she was still safe and well, and that her courage had not failed her.
He was met in the outer hallway by a grim-looking Squeaky Robinson.
“She isn’t here,” Squeaky said flatly.
Monk’s stomach lurched, and he found it hard to catch his breath. “What happened? Where is she?”
“No need to look like I hit you,” Squeaky said reproachfully. “She’s gone to help buy some more surgical stuff. Dunno where, ’cos she had to look for it. Heard of some doctor what was selling old stuff.”
“I’m not looking for Hester!” Monk said, almost choking in relief. “I want the young woman I brought here a week or so back. Where is she?”
Squeaky looked Monk up and down, from his shiny leather boots to his elegant coat wet on the shoulders, and then he sighed. “Down in the laundry washing sheets like she should be. I ain’t bringing her up here, ’cos I’m told not to, so you’d better go down there and find her!” Thus dismissing Monk, he sat down to study his figures again.
Monk thanked him, a trifle sarcastically, and went along the narrow passage and down a couple of flights of steps, through the kitchen, and into the laundry beyond. A lean, dark young woman with freckles was poking a wooden pole into the huge copper, moving the sheets around. The pot was belching steam, and the air was thick with it.
“Where’s Hattie?” Monk asked.
“Dunno,” the young woman replied without turning away from the task.
Monk took a pace toward her and spoke more sharply. “That won’t do! If you want to stay here and be looked after, you’ll tell me where she is!”
She stopped poking and let the long pole slip onto the floor. She turned and looked at him indignantly, her hair damp, streaked onto her face, her skin pink. “I dunno where she is, an’ yer can call me everything you want, an’ I still dunno. She were s’posed ter be ’ere, ’cos it were ’er turn ter ’elp, an’ she in’t! So you go an’ bleedin’ find ’er!”
Monk turned on his heel and strode out of the room, taking the steps up again two at a time. Back in the scullery he found a young woman with a red face, peeling potatoes. He could smell the sharp astringency of onions, and there were strings of them hanging from the ceiling beams.
“Have you seen Hattie Benson?” he demanded.
She turned to look at him, startled by his voice. “No, I in’t seen ’er since—I dunno—yesterday. Yer tried the laundry? That’s where she is most times.”
“Yes, I have. Where else?” He controlled his rising fear with difficulty. His heart was pounding, his breath ragged already. He was being absurd; she was probably making beds, or rolling bandages, or any of a dozen other tasks.
The woman shrugged. “I dunno.”
Without bothering to press her, since she was clearly useless, he left the scullery and tried the medicine storage room, the linen closets, and then all the bedrooms one by one. He went from the far end of the three old houses joined together