Cain His Brother by Anne Perry Page A

remain here alone and unarmed. He walked rapidly, head down and collar up, back towards the West India Dock Road and regular street lamps and a hansom back home again. He was stupid to have come here in good clothes. He'd never get the smell out of them. Another hole in his memory! He should have thought of that before he set out! It was not only the gaping voids in his life-an entire childhood, youth and early manhood which were a mystery to him, his triumphs and failures, his loves, if there had been any which were of lasting value-it was the stupid little pieces of practical knowledge he had forgotten, the mistakes which were like splinters under the skin every day.
     
    The cabby had been almost correct in his information about the fever in Limehouse. It was not the respiratory disease of typhus, but the intestinal typhoid, which raged through the tenements and rookeries, carried from one inadequate and overflowing midden to the next.
    Hester Latterly had been a nurse serving with Florence Nightingale in the Scutari hospital in the Crimea and on the battlefield. She was more than used to disease, cold, filth and the sight of suffering. She could not count the deaths she had seen from injury or fever. But still the plight of the poor and the sick in Limehouse touched her, until the only way she could bear it and shut out the nightmares was to work with her close friend and Monk's patroness, Lady Callandra Daviot, and Dr. Kristian Beck to do all she could, both to relieve the distress in whatever small way was possible and to fight for some alleviation of the conditions which made these diseases endemic.
    On the day that Monk was searching the streets for someone who had seen Angus Stonefield, Hester was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor of a warehouse which Enid Ravensbrook, another woman of wealth and compassion, had obtained, at least temporarily, so that it might be used as a fever hospital after the order of the military hospital in Scutari. Hester had a feeling that the water she was using was as full of infection as any of the patients, but she had added plenty of vinegar and hoped it might serve the purpose. Dr. Beck had also obtained half a dozen open braziers in which they were going to burn tobacco leaves, a practice much followed in the navy to fumigate between decks and help to fight against yellow fever.
    Callandra had purchased several bottles of gin, which were firmly locked in the medicine cabinet and which could be used to clean pans, cups and any instruments. Since they had no others who were nurses by trade, there was a diminished chance of it being drunk.
    Hester had just finished the last yard of floor and stood up, easing her back from its stiffness by bending back and forth a few times, when Callandra came in. She was a broad-hipped woman well into middle-age. Her hair was habitually untidy, but today it had exceeded even its usual wildness. It poked and looped in every direction, several of its pins threatening to fall out completely. Even in her youth she could not have been thought beautiful, but there was such intelligence and humor in her face it had a unique charm.
    “Finished?” she asked cheerfully. “Excellent. I'm afraid we're going to need every foot of space we can find. And, of course, blankets.” She surveyed the room for a moment, then proceeded to pace the floor out carefully, measuring precisely how many people might lie on it without touching each other. “I would like to get pallets,” she went on, her back to Hester. “And pans or buckets of some type. Typhoid is such a beastly disease. So much waste to dispose of, and heaven only knows how we are going to do that.” She was now at the far end of the space and almost inaudible to Hester. She turned and started to pace the width. “There isn't a midden or a cesspit within miles of here that isn't overflowing already.”
    “Has Dr. Beck spoken to the local council of authority yet?” Hester asked, picking up her