"For a lady of my acquaintance who would rather not be seen in this neighborhood until it is absolutely necessary."
"So she sent you, did she?" She smiled with a mixture of satisfaction, amusement, and contempt. "Well, maybe Mrs. Anderson'll see you an' maybe not. I'll ask 'er." And she turned and walked slowly toward the back of the room and through a paint-peeled door.
Monk waited. Another fly came in and buzzed lazily around, settling on the blood-spotted counter.
The woman came back and wordlessly held the door open. Monk accepted the invitation and went through. The room beyond was a large kitchen opening onto a yard with coal scuttles, bins overflowing with rubbish, several broken boxes, and a cracked sink full of rainwater. A tomcat slunk across the yard, his body low like a leopard's, a dead rat in his mouth.
Inside the kitchen was chaotic. Bloodstained linen filled one of the two stone sinks by the wall to the right, and the thick, warm smell of blood hung in the air. To the left was a wooden dresser with plates, bowls, knives, scissors, and skewers heaped haphazardly on it. Several bottles of gin lay around, some open, some still sealed.
In the center of the room was a wooden table, dark with repeated soaking of blood. Dried blood made black lines in the cracks and there were splashes of it on the floor. A girl with an ashen face sat in a rocking chair, hugging herself and weeping.
Two dogs lay by the dead ashes of the fire. One scratched itself, grunting with each movement of its leg.
Mrs. Anderson was a large woman with sleeves rolled up to show immense forearms. Her fingernails were chipped and dark with immovable dirt.
" 'Allo," she said cheerfully, pushing her fair gold hair out of her eyes. She cannot have been more than thirty-five at the most. "Need a spot of 'elp do yer, dearie? Well there ain't nothin' I can do for yer, now is there? She'll 'ave to come in 'ere 'erself, sooner or later. 'Ow far gorn is she?"
Monk felt a wave of anger so violent it actually nauseated him. He was forced to breathe deeply for several seconds to regain his composure. With a flood of memory so vivid the sounds and smells returned to him, the thick sweetness of blood, the sounds of a girl whimpering in pain and terror, rats' feet scuttering across a stained floor. He had been in back-street abortionists like this before, God knew how many times, or whether in connection with some woman bled to death, poisoned by septicemia, or simply the knowledge of the crime and the extortionate money.
And yet he also knew of the white-faced women, exhausted by bearing child after child, unable to feed them, selling them as babies for a few shillings to pay for food for the rest.
He wanted to smash something, hurl it to pieces and hear the splintering and cracking as it shattered, but after the instant satisfaction everything else would be the same. If he could weep perhaps he could ease the weight which was choking inside him.
"Well?" the woman said wearily. "Are yer gonna tell me or not? I can't do nothing for 'er if yer just stand there like an idiot! 'Ow far gorn is she? Or doncher know?"
"Four months," Monk blurted.
The woman shook her head. "Left it a bit, ain't yer? Still… I spec' I can do summink. Gets dangerous, but I s'pose 'avin it'd be worse."
The girl in the chair whimpered softly, bright blood seeping into the blanket around her and dripping through its thin folds onto the floor. Monk pulled his wits together. He was here for a purpose. Indulgence in his own emotions would solve nothing and not help convict Herbert Stanhope.
"Here?" he asked, although he knew the answer.
"No-out in the street," she said sarcastically. "Of course 'ere, yer fool! Where d'yer think? I don't go to people's houses. Tf yer want summink fancy yer'll 'ave to see if yer can bribe some surgeon-although I dunno where yer'll find one. It's an 'anging crime, or it used ter be. Now it's just jail-and ruin."
"You don't seem worried," he retorted.
"I'm safe enough," she said with dry humor. "Them as comes ter me is desperate, or they wouldn't be 'ere. And I don't charge too much. The fact they're 'ere makes 'em as guilty as me. Anyway, it's a public service as I give-'oo 'round here is gonna turn me in?" She gestured to indicate the whole street and its environs. "Even the rozzers don't bother me if I keep discreet, like. An' I do. So you mind 'ow yer go. I wouldn't wancher ter 'ave an accident…" Her face was still smiling, but her eyes were hard, and the threat was unmistakable.
"How do I find one of these surgeons that do abortions?" he asked, watching her intently. "The lady I'm asking for can afford to pay."
"Not sure as I'd tell yer if I knew-which I don't. Ladies as can pay that sort 'ave their own ways o' findin' 'em."
