Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [29]
She stood up. “How close will they let me come?”
“Borrer a shawl from one o’ yer patients an’ keep yer eyes down, an’ yer can come right up close wi’ me.”
“I’ll go and speak to Miss Ballinger.”
But it was Claudine she met just outside the kitchen door. She began to explain that she was going to be away for a few hours. The books would have to wait. She was happy enough to stretch out the task as long as she could.
“I heard,” Claudine said gravely, her face puckered into lines of concern. She was unaware of it, but her anger was so fierce that her sense of social class had temporarily ceased to register. “It’s monstrous. If people are being injured by hasty work, we must do what we can to fight it.” Unconsciously she had included herself in the battle. “We can manage perfectly well here. There’s nothing to do but the laundry and the cleaning, and if we can’t manage that, then we need to learn. Just be careful!” This last warning was given with a frown of admonition, as if Claudine were somehow responsible for Hester’s safety.
Hester smiled. “I will,” she promised, aware for the first time that Claudine had become fonder of her than perhaps she herself knew. “Sutton will look after me.”
Claudine grunted. She was not going to admit to trusting Sutton; that would be a step too far.
In spite of there being little wind, it was fiercely cold outside. The narrow streets seemed to hold the ice of the night. Footsteps sounded loud on the stones, and the brittle crack of puddles was sharp in the close air. This was the time of year when people who slept huddled in doorways could be found frozen to death at first light.
She walked beside Sutton, Snoot trotting at their heels, until they came to Farringdon Road and the first omnibus stop. The horses were rough-coated for winter and steamed gently as they stood while passengers climbed off and on. Hester and Sutton went up the winding steps to the upper level, since they were going to the end of the line. Snoot sat on Sutton’s knee, and she envied him the warmth of the little dog’s body.
They talked most of the way because she asked him about the rivers under London. He was enthusiastic to tell her, his face lighting up as he described the hidden streams such as the Walbrook, Tyburn, Counter’s Creek, Stamford Brook, Effra, and most of all the Fleet, whose waters once ran red from the tanneries. He talked of springs such as St. Chad’s, St. Agnes’, St. Bride’s, St. Pancras’ Wells, and Holywell. All had been reputed as sacred at one time or another, and some became spas, like Hampstead Wells and Sadler’s Wells. He knew the underground courses and bridges, some of which were believed to date back to Roman times.
“Walbrook’s as far up as yer could get a boat when the Romans was ’ere,” he said with triumph.
He animatedly recounted earlier travels, including the danger of highwaymen, until they reached their stop.
They alighted into a busy street, workmen crowding around a peddler selling sandwiches and hot pies. They were obliged to slip out over the gutter onto the cobbles to pass them, and were nearly run down by a cartload of vegetables pulled by a horse whose breath was steam in the air.
At the corner half a dozen men huddled around a brazier, talking and laughing, tin mugs of tea in their hands.
“Not sure as I like so much change,” Sutton said dubiously. “Still, can’t be ’elped.”
Hester did not argue. They had only a few yards further to go before she saw the vast crater of the new tunnel. It would carry not only the sewer but