Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [41]
“I don’t know where he’s gone.” Enid was staring at her. She looked very pale except for spots of color in her cheeks. She must be exhausted. She had not been home for two days, just sleeping on the floor in this room when she had the chance. “He went out over two hours ago,” she added. “I asked him about going to the undertaker, but I don’t think he heard me.”
Hester glanced at Callandra.
“There must be so many funerals,” Enid went on, speaking more to herself than to either of them. Her face was very pale and there was a gleam of sweat across her brow and upper lip. She looked up. “What graveyard are they putting them in, do you know?” She turned, first to Callandra, then to Hester.
“I don’t know,” Callandra said quietly.
“I should find out.” Enid sighed and pushed her hand across her brow, brushing away her falling hair.
“It doesn’t matter!” Callandra said, looking past her to Hester.
“Yes it does,” Enid insisted. “People may ask, relations may.”
“They are not burying them separately anymore.” Hester gave the answer Callandra had been avoiding.
“What?” Enid swiveled around. She looked bleached of all color but for a feverish stain on her cheeks, and her eyes were hollow, as though bruised.
“They are in common graves,” Hester explained quietly. “Don’t grieve over it.” She reached over and touched Enid’s arm very lightly. On the table the candle flickered, almost went out, then burned up again. “The dead won’t mind.”
“What about the living?” Enid protested. “What about when all this is over and they need to grieve, need a place to remember those they lost?”
“There isn’t one,” Hester answered. “It happens in war. All you can say to the family of a soldier is that he died bravely, and if it was in hospital, that there was someone there to care for him. There isn’t anything more.”
“Yes, there is,” Callandra said quickly. “You can tell them he died fighting for a cause, serving his country. Here all you can say is they died because the damnable council would not build sewers, and they were too poor to do it themselves. That’s hardly a comfort to anyone.” She looked across at Enid and frowned. “They also died because they are half starved and cold all winter, half of them have rickets or tuberculosis, or are stunted by some other childhood disease. But you can hardly put on a tombstone, if you had one, that they died of having been born in the wrong time and place. Are you all right? You don’t look well.”
“I have a headache,” Enid confessed. “I thought I was just tired, but I do feel rather worse now than I did before I sat down. I thought I was hot, but perhaps I’m cold. I’m sorry—I sound ridiculous.…”
Hester stood up and crossed the short space between them, bending down in front of Enid, searching her face, her eyes. She reached up her hand and placed it on her brow. It was burning.
“Is it …?” Enid whispered, the question too dreadful to ask.
Hester nodded. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
“But …” Enid began, then realized it was pointless. She clambered to her feet, swayed, and buckled at the knees. Hester and Callandra only just caught her in time to ease her back down into the chair.
“You must go home,” Callandra said firmly. “We can manage here.”
“But I can’t just leave!” Enid argued. “There’s so much to do! I …”
“Yes you can.” Callandra forced a smile; there was tiredness, patience and a deep grief in it. She touched Enid very gently, but without the least indecision. “You will only distract us here, because we can’t look after you as we would wish. Hester will take you.”
“But …” Enid swallowed hard and began to writhe deeply, gasping, and in obvious distress. “I’m sorry … I think I may be sick.”
Callandra looked across and met Hester’s eyes.
“Fetch a pail,” she ordered. “Then go and tell Mary. You’d better find a hansom and bring it back here.”
“Of course.” There was nothing to discuss or with which to take issue. She went into the main room and returned within seconds with a pail, then went to find Mary, who was up at the far end of the room, sponging down a woman who