"Best young," she went on. "Teach 'em your ways before they get taught wrong by someone else. Come into the parlor Mr.... ?"

For some reason he did not want to give his own name. He did not want any part of his true self connected with this business.

"Meachem," he answered, giving her the first surname that came into his head. "Horace Meachem." He must make sure he remembered it! "Thank you."

She opened the door wide enough to allow him in. The thin woman who had been scrubbing the step shot him a look of withering contempt. He wished he could have told her the truth, but it was a luxury beyond him.

The hallway was bare and painted gray. A st.i.tched sampler with several mistakes proclaimed: "The eye of G.o.d is upon you." He hoped it was. Maybe there would be more justice in eternity than there was here.

He was led to a parlor decorated in red and a world away from the hall in comfort. She invited him to sit down and sat decorously opposite him, rearranging her bombazine skirts with fat, wrinkled hands. Then she reached for the bell and pulled it sharply.

"I'll have several girls brought for you," she said cheerfully. "You can take your pick. Very glad of a place, they'll be, and the price'U go towards carin' for more abandoned waifs, so we can give "em a start in life ... that's no more than a Christian duty."

He loathed what he was about to do. The words would barely come off his tongue.

"I'd like nice-looking girls. At least one will be a parlormaid, in time."

"O' course you would, sir," she agreed. "An' nice-lookin' is wot I'll provide. We don' send 'omely girls for that sort o' position. They goes for scullery maids an' the like, or ter wash pots or such."

"I heard you even took in disfigured girls," he said relentlessly. He wished he could take the girls she would bring. G.o.d knows what would happen to them. Perhaps the uglier ones would be better off... eventually.

"Oh ... well ..." She prevaricated, her sharp, cold eyes weighing how much he might know. He was a customer, and he looked from his clothes as if he might have money. She did not want to offend him. "I don't know 'oo told you that."

He met her gaze squarely, allowing a slightly supercilious curl to his mouth. "I made my enquiries. I don't come blind."

"Well, it's only charitable," she excused herself. "Got ter take 'em all in. Don't keep 'em, mind. If they're bad enough, put 'em in ter work in the mills or someplace like that, w'ere they won't be seen."

He looked skeptical. "Really?"

" 'Course. Wot else can I do wif 'em? Can't carry no pa.s.sengers 'ere."

The bell was answered by a child of about ten, and the woman sent her off to fetch three girls she named.

"Now, Mr. Meacham," she resumed. "Let's talk money. This place don't run on fresh air. An' like you said, I gotta feed the useless ones as well as the ones wot'U find places."

"Let's see them first," he argued. He could not bear to think of the wretched children who would be paraded in front of him, like farm animals for him to bid on; he knew he could take none of them. "How long have you been here?"

"Thirty years. I know me job, Mr. Meacham, never you fear."

"That's what I heard. But I want to be sure what I'm getting. I don't want any unpleasant surprises ... when it's too late to bring them back."

"You won't!" she said sharply, narrowing her eyes. "Wot you 'eard, then? Someone blackenin' me name?"

"I heard you took in some pretty badly deformed girls in the past... real freaks." He hated using the word.

"When was that, then?" she demanded. " 'Oo said that?"

"Long time ago ... more than twenty years," he replied.

"So I did, then," she agreed reluctantly. "But it was then-faces wot was twisted up. See it as quick as look at 'em, yer did. Didn't fool n.o.body fer an instant."

"Why did you take them?" he pressed, although he knew the answer.

" 'Cos I were paid!" she snapped. "Wot jer think? But it were all legal! An' I don't cheat no one. No one can say as I did. Sold 'em for exactly wot they was-ugly and stupid- both. I were quite plain about it."

"No one has said you weren't," he replied coldly. "So far as I am aware. I should still like to know what happened to the Jackson girls. I am acquainted with their only living relative, who might be... obliged... if they were located." He rubbed his fingers together suggestively at the word obliged. obliged.

"Ah ..." She was obviously considering her possible advantage in the matter. She glanced at his polished boots, his beautiful jacket, and lastly at his face with its keen, hard lines, and judged him to be a man with a sharp eye to money and a much less discriminating one to principle-like herself. "When they was old enough ter work, I sent 'em ter the kitchens at the pub."

"Coopers Arms?" he said hopefully.

"Yeah. But they din't keep 'em. Too ugly even fer 'im. I dunno wot e' did wi' them, but you could ask 'im."

"How long ago is that? Ten years?"

"Ten years?" she said scornfully. "Yer think I'm made o' money? Fifteen years, an' I waited even then. They was six an' eight. That's plenty old ter fetch fer yerself. I'd 'a sent 'em sooner if they 'adn't bin so daft. Thought they might grow out of it an' 'ave a better chance." She prided herself on her charity.

"Thank you." He stood up, straightening his coat.

Her face fell. "Wot abaht them girls? Yer'll not find better anyw'ere, nor at a better price!"

"I've changed my mind," he said with an icy smile. "I've decided I'd like plain girls after all. Thank you for your time."

She swore at him with a string of language he had not heard since his last visit to the slums of the Devil's Acre. He walked out of the door with a positive swagger, until he saw the girls lined up in the pa.s.sage, scrubbed clean, their hair tied back, their thin faces alight with hope. Then instead he felt sick.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "You're fine. I've just changed my mind." And he hurried away before he could think of it anymore.

It was close enough to noon that he could comfortably walk up to the Coopers Arms and order luncheon and casually make enquiries about the Jackson girls. Could it, after all, be so ridiculously easy that they were still in the immediate neighborhood? It was foolish to hope, and he was not even sure if he wanted to. It might easily bring Martha Jackson more distress. But it was not his job to foresee that and make decisions for her.

Was it?

He had knowledge she could not have. In telling her or not telling her, he was in effect making the decision.

He walked briskly in the bright sunlight up Putney High Street. It was full of people, mostly going about their business of buying or selling, haggling over prices, shouting their wares. Some were begging, as always. Some were standing and gossiping, women with heavy baskets, trailing children, men with barrows spilling out vegetables or bales of cloth, sacks of sticks or coal, bags of flour. The flower girl stood on a street comer with bunches of violets, another with matches. A one-legged soldier offered bootlaces. Two small boys swept the crossings clean of horse droppings. The wail of a rag and bone man drifted across, calling his wares. A brewer's dray lumbered by.

Newspaper boys called out the headlines. A running pat-terer found himself a spot, and a gathering audience, and launched into a bawdy version of Killian Melville's double life as a perverted woman who dressed as a man to deceive the world. It made Monk so angry he wanted to seize the man by the lapels and shout at him that he was a vicious, ignorant little swine who made his living on other people's misery and that he had no idea what he was talking about. And if he did not keep his mouth shut in the affair, Monk would personally shut it for him.

He strode by with his fists clenched and his jaw so tight his teeth ached. Every muscle in him was knotted with rage at the injustice. Melville was dead. That was more tragedy than enough. This was monstrous.

Why was he walking past?

He stopped abruptly, swung around, and marched back to the patterer. He did seize him by the lapels, to his amazement, and said exactly what he had wished to, which gathered twice the previous audience and much ribald laughter. He left the man breathless with indignation and astonishment, and resumed his way feeling relieved of much immediate tension.

The Coopers Arms was a very ordinary public house, and at this time of the day, crowded with people. The smells of sawdust, ale and human sweat and dirt were pungent, and the babble of voices a.s.sailed him the moment he pushed open the doors. The barman was busy, and he had to wait several minutes before purchasing a mug of stout and ordering pork pie, pickles and boiled red cabbage.

He found himself a seat at one of the tables, deliberately joining with other people. He chose a group who looked like local small tradesmen, neat, comfortable, slightly shabby, tucking into their food with relish. They looked at him guardedly but not in an unfriendly manner. He was a stranger and might prove a diversion from their day-to-day affairs. And Monk wanted to talk.

"Good day, gentlemen," he said with a smile, taking his seat. "Thank you for your hospitality." He was referring to the fact that they had moved up to make room for him.

"Not from 'round 'ere," one of them observed.

"Other side of the river," Monk replied. "Bloomsbury way."

"Wot brings you down 'ere, then?" another asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and picking up a thick roll of bread stuffed with ham. "Sellin', are yer? Or buyin'?"

"Neither," Monk answered, sipping his stout. His meal had not yet come. Looking at the food already on the table, he was remarkably hungry. It seemed like a long day already. "Probably on a pointless errand. Did any of you know a Samuel Jackson, lived here about twenty years ago?"

The third member, who had not yet spoken, pushed his cap back on his head and looked at Monk curiously. "Yeah, I knew 'im. Decent feller, 'e were. Poor devil. Died. Din't yer know that?"

"Yes, yes, I did know. I was wondering what became of his family," Monk continued.

The man guffawed with laughter, but there was a hard edge to it and his eyes were angry. "Little late, in't yer? Why d'yer wanna know fer now? 'Oo cares after all this time?"

"His sister," Monk replied truthfully. "She cared all the time but was in no position to employ anyone to find out"

"So wot's changed?" the man said, yanking his cap forward again.

A smiling girl brought Monk his meal and he thanked her and gave her threepence for herself. The man at the table frowned. Monk was setting a precedent they would not be able to follow.

"Thank you," Monk said graciously, still looking at the girl. "Do you have scullery maids in the kitchen?"

"Yes sir, three o' them," she said willingly. Any gentleman who tipped her threepence deserved a little courtesy. And he was certainly handsome looking, in a grim sort of way. Quite appealing, really, a bit mysterious. "An' two kitchen maids, an' o' course a cook ... sir. Was yer wantin' ter speak ter anyone?"

"Do you have a girl with a deformed mouth?"

"A wot?"

"A twisted mouth, a funny lip?"

She looked puzzled. "No sir."

"Never mind. Thank you for answering me." It was foolish to have hoped. The woman at Buxton House had said the publican had got rid of the girls. It might not even be the same publican now. It was fifteen years ago.

The girl smiled and left and Monk began his meal.

"Yer really mean it, don't yer?" one of the men said in surprise. "You'll not find 'em now, yer know? They put people like that away inter places w'ere they can't upset folk ... they'll be cleanin' up arter folk somewhere, if they're still alive. They wasn't only ugly, yer know; they was simple as well. I saw 'em w'en they was 'ere. There's summink about 'avin' yer face twisted as bothers folk more 'n if it were yer body or yer 'ands. One of 'em looked like she were sneerin' at yer, an the other like she was barin' 'er teeth. Couldn't 'elp it, o' course, but strangers don' know that."

Monk should have kept quiet. Instead he found himself asking, "Where might they be sent to, exactly?"

The man gulped down his ale. "ExacTy? Gawd knows! Any places as'd 'ave 'em, poor little things. Pity fer Sam. 'E loved them little girls."

There was only one more avenue Monk should try, then duty was satisfied.

"What about his widow? Do you know what happened to her?"

"Dolly Jackson? I dunno." He looked around the table. "D'you know, Ted? D'you know, Alf ?"

Ted shrugged and picked up his tankard.

"She left Putney. I know that," Alf said decisively. "Went north, I 'eard. Up city way. Lookin' fer a soft billet, I shouldn't wonder. She were pretty enough ter please any man, long as she didn't 'ave them two little one's wif 'er."

"That's a downright cruel thing ter say!" Ted criticized.

Alf's face showed resignation. "It's true. Poor Sam. Turnin' over in 'is grave, I shouldn't wonder."

As Monk had foreseen, the public house had changed hands, and the present landlord, with the best will in the world to oblige, had no idea whatever what had happened to two little girls fifteen years ago, nor could he make any helpful suggestions. Monk had acquitted his obligations, and he left with thanks.

The obvious course was to tell Martha Jackson that he had done what he could and further pursuance was fruitless. He would not tell her his fears, only phrase things in such a manner she would not wish to waste his time on something which could not succeed.

He arrived in Tavistock Square early in the afternoon and was admitted by Martha herself. The moment she recognized him, her face filled with eagerness, hope that he had come for her battling with fear that it was only to see Hester again and dread that he had something discouraging to tell her after all.

He wished he could free himself from caring about it. It was just another case-and one which he had known from the beginning could only end this way, or worse. And yet the feeling was sharp inside him, not only for Hester but for Martha herself, and above all for Sam Jackson's children.

"I'm sorry, Miss Jackson," he said quickly. He should not keep her in even a moment's false hope. "I traced them as far as working in a public house kitchen in Putney, the Coopers Arms. But after that no one knows where they went, except it was to another job. They weren't abandoned." They might very well have been abandoned, but there was nothing to be served by telling her that.

The stiffness relaxed out of her body and her shoulders drooped. She blinked, for an instant fighting tears. Only then did he realize how much she had truly hoped, in spite of all his warnings. He felt painfully helpless. He tried to think of anything to say or do to ease her distress, and there was nothing.

She gulped once and swallowed.

"Thank you, Mr. Monk. It was very good of you to try for me." She blinked several times more, then turned away, her voice thick with unreleased weeping. "I'm sure you'd like to see Miss Latterly. Please ..." She did not finish, but led him wordlessly across the hall and up the stairs towards the sitting room which she and Hester shared. She opened the door and stood back for him to enter, retreating immediately.

Hester put down her book. He noticed it was on Indian history. She stood up, coming towards him, searching his face.

"You couldn't find them," she said softly. It was not a question, but her eyes were full of disappointment she could not hide.

He hated having let her down, even though she had never expected the impossible. He realized with a jolt how much her feelings mattered to him, and he resented it. It made him dependent upon her and hideously vulnerable. That was something he had tried all his life to avoid. It had not even happened in a way he could have foreseen and over which he had control. It should have been some gentlewoman in love with him, over whom he could exercise a decent influence and whose effect upon him he could control.

"Of course I couldn't find them!" he said sharply. "I told you that in the beginning. I tried hard, I questioned everyone who had anything to do with it, but there was never any reasonable chance of success. Dammit, it was twenty years ago. What did you expect?" He took a breath, looking at the pain in her eyes. "You were irresponsible leading Martha to hope," he went on.

"I didn't!" she retorted with a sudden flare of temper. "I always said there was very little chance. She can't help hoping. Wouldn't you? No-perhaps you wouldn't. Sometimes I think you don't understand ordinary feelings at all. You haven't got any." She turned away, her body rigid.

It was so untrue it was monstrous. As usual, she was being utterly unjust. He was about to say so when there was a heavy footstep in the corridor outside. A moment later, after the merest hesitation, the door opened and Athol Sheldon stood in the threshold. He was dressed in a smart checked jacket of a Norfolk style and his face was pink with fresh air and exertion. Apparently he had just arrived. As usual, he was oblivious of the emotions of those he had interrupted.

"Good afternoon, Miss Latterly. How are you this delightful day? Good afternoon, Mr. Monk. How are you, sir?" Apparently the expressions on their faces told him nothing. "Gabriel seems a little disturbed today." He frowned slightly. "If I may say so, Miss Latterly, I think you should not have told him the news about Melville. It has distressed him unnecessarily. And, of course, poor Perdita should never have had to learn of such depravity. That was a grave misjudgment on your part, and I am disappointed in you."

The blood rushed in a tide up Hester's face. Monk's emotion changed instantly from anger with her to a rage with Athol he could barely control. He made the effort only because he did not wish to speak without thinking and possibly make the matter worse for her. To his amazement, he found himself shaking.

"Mistaken or not," Hester said between her teeth, "it is my judgment that Lieutenant Sheldon should be treated as an adult and told whatever he wishes to know. He was interested in the Melville case and concerned for both justice and the human tragedy involved."

"And what about Mrs. Sheldon?" Athol demanded, staring at Hester angrily. "Have you given the slightest thought to her feelings, with your zeal to press what you see as your duty to my brother? Have you for an instant thought what irreparable damage you might be doing to her?" His eyes widened. "What about her innocence, her susceptibilities, even her ability to continue as the charming and gentle creature she is and for which he married her... eh?"

"It is not possible to protect anyone from the tragedies and misfortunes of life forever, Mr. Sheldon," she replied stiffly. "I don't think Mrs. Sheldon wishes to be locked away. She would be denying the chance to grow up, or to be any use to anyone. No person with a whit of courage wishes to remain a child forever...."

His face was mottled with purple and his eyes were now brilliant with outrage.

"Miss Latterly, you exceed yourself! You have shown much spirit and initiative in going to the Crimea to nurse soldiers, and I am sure much worthy devotion to duty, as you perceive it, but I am afraid you are not suitable for nursing in the home of a gentleman. You have picked up too much of the manner and beliefs of army life. It is most unfortunate, but I must recommend to my brother that you be released as soon as I can find someone to replace you."

Hester was white-faced. For a moment she looked almost as if she might be about to crumple.