silence her, and she knew it.
“Going from woman to woman may be immoral, but as long as the women concerned are willing, it’s not a crime,” she retorted. “And drinking too much is a vice practiced by half the men in London, at one time or another in their lives. I daresay, it is the same in Paris or Rome or anywhere else.”
“Why on earth are you defending him?” Verena said in surprise. “You saw what he did to that poor young woman. She might be of … no virtue … but she didn’t deserve that. I thought your charity work was preciselyconcerned with protecting women of her sort, at least from disease and attack.”
“It is.” Claudine felt the heat burn in her face. “And I’m not defending him. If he did that to her, intentionally, then he deserves to be put in prison. But we—”
Wallace lost his temper. He turned toward her with his eyes blazing. “There are no ’buts,’ Claudine,” he said between clenched jaws. “These highly respectable young men, known to all of us here for years, saw him do it and tried their best to prevent him. What happened is not open to question.”
“Three of them?” she responded recklessly, knowing she would pay for it later. “All younger than Mr. Tregarron, and sober, and they couldn’t stop him? He must have superhuman strength. I hope if they find him they get at least six policemen to capture him. Otherwise one of them may end up dead, too, like poor Winnie Briggs.”
“Who is Winnie Briggs?” Martin Crostwick asked with a blank look on his face.
“The girl Tregarron murdered!” Eppy snapped at him.
“The girl Tregarron attacked in a drunken rage,” Lambert Foxley corrected her. He shot an irritated glance at Claudine. “Perhaps we should not preempt ajury by leaping to conclusions. Although I don’t see an alternative one, myself,” he added. “The sooner the issue is decided, the better it will be for all of us. If I have a word with the appropriate authorities, perhaps we can avoid the necessity of having to appear in court ourselves. A sworn testimony should be sufficient, if it is clear enough that we all agree as to the facts.”
“An excellent solution,” Martin Crostwick agreed. “Get the matter over with.”
The bell rang to warn that the intermission was nearly over, and without further comment—apart from general observations as to how pleasant it was to have met—they returned to their boxes.
The rest of the evening passed by Claudine. Her mind raced, searching desperately for a way to stop Lambert Foxley from essentially ending the pursuit of truth before it even began, which is what would happen if he “had a word” with the authorities. Squeaky Robinson had refused to help. What could she do alone? She certainly could not find Dai Tregarron and warn him. She could not even look in the places Squeaky could have, or ask the people he knew. But she could ask the women who came and went at the clinic if they knew anything of Cecil Crostwick or Creighton Foxley. AndErnest Halversgate, she supposed, though he seemed more a spectator than a participant in the seamier sides of life. She would hate doing it. It was an unfair pressure to question the injured who came for help, but it was the last option she had left.
And she might learn something of Winnie Briggs that could prove useful, even if it were no more than the name of a prior acquaintance. Anything that kept open the questions surrounding her death would be worth it.
Blast Squeaky Robinson for his stubbornness!
Maybe she could give it one more try? If she went to see him with specific ideas, that might persuade him!
“No,” Squeaky said even before she had finished speaking. He looked down at his ledgers, which were spread out on the desk in front of him. “We could use more money for supplies—medical supplies,” he emphasized.
“We have plenty,” she replied. “At least until mid-January.”
“Not if we get a lot of patients in, and people
“Going from woman to woman may be immoral, but as long as the women concerned are willing, it’s not a crime,” she retorted. “And drinking too much is a vice practiced by half the men in London, at one time or another in their lives. I daresay, it is the same in Paris or Rome or anywhere else.”
“Why on earth are you defending him?” Verena said in surprise. “You saw what he did to that poor young woman. She might be of … no virtue … but she didn’t deserve that. I thought your charity work was preciselyconcerned with protecting women of her sort, at least from disease and attack.”
“It is.” Claudine felt the heat burn in her face. “And I’m not defending him. If he did that to her, intentionally, then he deserves to be put in prison. But we—”
Wallace lost his temper. He turned toward her with his eyes blazing. “There are no ’buts,’ Claudine,” he said between clenched jaws. “These highly respectable young men, known to all of us here for years, saw him do it and tried their best to prevent him. What happened is not open to question.”
“Three of them?” she responded recklessly, knowing she would pay for it later. “All younger than Mr. Tregarron, and sober, and they couldn’t stop him? He must have superhuman strength. I hope if they find him they get at least six policemen to capture him. Otherwise one of them may end up dead, too, like poor Winnie Briggs.”
“Who is Winnie Briggs?” Martin Crostwick asked with a blank look on his face.
“The girl Tregarron murdered!” Eppy snapped at him.
“The girl Tregarron attacked in a drunken rage,” Lambert Foxley corrected her. He shot an irritated glance at Claudine. “Perhaps we should not preempt ajury by leaping to conclusions. Although I don’t see an alternative one, myself,” he added. “The sooner the issue is decided, the better it will be for all of us. If I have a word with the appropriate authorities, perhaps we can avoid the necessity of having to appear in court ourselves. A sworn testimony should be sufficient, if it is clear enough that we all agree as to the facts.”
“An excellent solution,” Martin Crostwick agreed. “Get the matter over with.”
The bell rang to warn that the intermission was nearly over, and without further comment—apart from general observations as to how pleasant it was to have met—they returned to their boxes.
The rest of the evening passed by Claudine. Her mind raced, searching desperately for a way to stop Lambert Foxley from essentially ending the pursuit of truth before it even began, which is what would happen if he “had a word” with the authorities. Squeaky Robinson had refused to help. What could she do alone? She certainly could not find Dai Tregarron and warn him. She could not even look in the places Squeaky could have, or ask the people he knew. But she could ask the women who came and went at the clinic if they knew anything of Cecil Crostwick or Creighton Foxley. AndErnest Halversgate, she supposed, though he seemed more a spectator than a participant in the seamier sides of life. She would hate doing it. It was an unfair pressure to question the injured who came for help, but it was the last option she had left.
And she might learn something of Winnie Briggs that could prove useful, even if it were no more than the name of a prior acquaintance. Anything that kept open the questions surrounding her death would be worth it.
Blast Squeaky Robinson for his stubbornness!
Maybe she could give it one more try? If she went to see him with specific ideas, that might persuade him!
“No,” Squeaky said even before she had finished speaking. He looked down at his ledgers, which were spread out on the desk in front of him. “We could use more money for supplies—medical supplies,” he emphasized.
“We have plenty,” she replied. “At least until mid-January.”
“Not if we get a lot of patients in, and people
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