William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online

the pungency of whiskey and the sharper clean tang of herbs. Automatically her eye went to the bed where she had left Fanny. She saw the dark tangle of her hair and the mound of her body under the blankets.
    “She’s all right, poor little bitch,” Bessie said with anger rumbling in her voice. “Can’t get a word out of ’er ’oo done that to ’er, mind. Don’ understand that. If it were me, I’d be cursin’’im up an’ down ter everyone wot’d listen—an’ them wot wouldn’t!” She shook her head.
    “Only a bit o’ licorice,” she said in answer to Hester’s original question. “An’ a spot o’ whiskey ter ’ide the taste, like. Pity that. Waste o’ good whiskey. Not that there’s any other sort, mind!” She grinned, showing gap teeth.
    “Did you throw it away?” Hester asked anxiously.
    Bessie gave her a sideways look. “ ’Course I did, bless yer! Wouldn’t wanna give anyone cold tea, would I?” She stared back with mock innocence, and Hester could not help at least half wishing Jessop had drunk it. Surely, Bessie would not cause him anything worse than an acute discomfort and possibly embarrassment. Would she?
    She went over and looked at Fanny, who was still frightened and in considerable pain. It took half an hour to take off the bandages and look at the wound to make sure it was not infected, rebandage it, then persuade her to take a little broth. She was barely finished when the street door opened with a gush of chilly, damp air, and she turned to see a woman of uncertain age standing only just inside. She was plainly dressed, like a good lady’s maid, and her face was pinched hard with disapproval. Even her nose was wrinkled, though it was impossible to tell if it was the odor of lye and carbolic or fierce disgust that consumed her.
    “Yes?” Hester said enquiringly. “Can I help you?”
    “Is this a . . . a place where you take in injured women who are . . . are . . .” She stopped, apparently unable to say the word in her mind.
    “Prostitutes,” Hester said for her, with a touch of asperity. “Yes, it is. Are you injured?”
    The woman blushed scarlet with mortification, then the blood drained out, leaving her face gray. She swiveled on her heel and went out of the still-open door.
    Bessie stifled a laugh.
    The next moment another young woman stood in the entrance, very different in appearance. Her complexion was extremely fair, her yellow hair thick. She had pale lashes and brows, but a healthy color in her face, which was too bland of feature to be pretty but had an openness and a balance about it which was immediately pleasing. She appeared nervous and was obviously controlling deep emotions, but there was no sign of injury or physical pain in her. The quality of her clothes, which, even though they were of unrelieved black, made it quite obvious she spent a considerable amount of money on them, and her bearing—head high, eyes direct—said that she was not a woman of the streets, however successful. It occurred to Hester with a jolt of embarrassment that probably the first woman had indeed been her maid, and there very much against her will. Perhaps she should not have made the remark she made.
    She put down the dish and spoon with which she had been feeding Fanny, and went toward the visitor. “Good evening. Can I help you?”
    “Are you in charge here?” the young woman asked. Her voice was low and a trifle hoarse, as if her feelings were held in so tightly the effort had half closed her throat, but her diction was perfect.
    “Yes,” Hester replied. “My name is Hester Monk. What can I do for you?”
    “I am Livia Baltimore.” She took a deep breath. “I understand this place . . .” Studiously, she avoided looking around her. “This is a refuge where women of the streets come if they are injured? I beg your pardon if I am mistaken. I do not mean to insult you, but my maid informed me that this is the correct place.” Her fists were clenched by her