The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [137]
“You didn’t hold your tongue long enough to give me the chance,” Claudine responded tartly. “But if you can’t work out the answer for yourself, then I’ll tell you. You’ll die of it, that’s what. Exactly the same as the rest of us.”
“Yer’d like that, wouldn’t yer!” he accused her, glaring at her where she stood just inside the door, her head high, hair untidy, hands on her wide hips.
“Of course I wouldn’t like that!” she snapped. “If you were dead I would have to carry all the water myself, instead of just most of it, as I do now. Apart from that, who’d carry you out?”
“Yer a cold and ’eartless woman,” he said miserably. “An’ yer don’ carry most o’ the water, yer carries ’alf, just like I does.”
“Well, carry half that poor woman’s body,” she ordered. “Not the bottom half, the top!”
“Why?”
“Because it’s heavier, of course. Use the wits you were born with, man.”
“Poor woman, is it?” he sneered. “That’s not wot yer called ’er a couple o’ days ago. Nothin’ weren’t bad enough for ’er then, ’cos she made ’er livin’ on ’er back, like most of ’em ’ere. Yer just despises ’er ’cos yer wouldn’t a made an ’a’penny yerself, not even in the dark!”
Hester tensed, ready to stem the onslaught she expected in reply to this insult.
But Claudine remained perfectly calm. “Don’t put words in my mouth, you stupid little man,” she said wearily. “Just pick her up and help me carry her down the stairs. And do it discreetly! She’s not so much dirty laundry to be slung about.”
Squeaky obeyed. “You’ve changed yer tune, ’aven’t yer? So tarts off the street are all right again, as long as they’re dead, eh?” He bent and picked up the wrapped bundle approximately where her shoulders were, and staggered a little under the weight.
“Well there isn’t much point in criticizing the dead, is there?” Claudine challenged him. “Poor soul is God’s problem now.”
Squeaky let out a high-pitched expletive. “She’s my bleedin’ problem if I rips me guts out carryin’ ’er! D’yer put a couple o’ lead bricks in wi’ ’er?”
“For heaven’s sake, man!” Claudine exploded. “Bend your knees! Straighten your back! What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever picked up anything before?” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Here!” She bent down carefully and with surprising grace, keeping her back perfectly straight, and picked up the dead woman’s feet. “Come on!” she ordered.
Squeaky copied her exactly, his face twisted in concentration, then lifted the other end of the corpse. He did it with comparative care, hesitated, transparently doubting within himself whether to thank her or not, and very graciously decided to do so. “Yeah!” he said. “It in’t so ’ard.”
“Oh, get on with it!” Claudine told him impatiently. “What are you waiting for, a round of applause?”
He glared at her and set off backwards down the candlelit corridor towards the stairs.
Hester followed, calling out and warning just as Squeaky reached the top of the stairs and looked like he’d fall backwards down them.
“You fool!” Claudine said in utter exasperation, probably because she had not thought to warn him herself.
“I dunno why we bother wi’ Sutton an’ ’is bleedin’ dogs!” Squeaky said indignantly. “Got a mouth like a rattrap, you ’ave! Catch all the bleedin’ rats in the place, yer would! Mebbe that’s wot’s wrong wi’ yer! Swallowin’ too many bleedin’ rats!”
“Stop complaining and carry this poor woman to her grave,” Claudine responded, apparently unmoved.
Squeaky steadied himself and started backwards down the stairs. Claudine went gently, with considerable regard for his balance and speed, waiting whenever it was necessary, and without further criticism. When they reached the bottom she told Squeaky when to go left, when right, and when he seemed lost, she waited.
Finally they reached the back door and Sutton, who was standing beside it, opened it on to the rain-soaked night. The lamplight gleamed on the stones, and the gutters were awash. Under the eaves two men were waiting, dogs sitting patiently