Execution Dock Page 0,74

anyone alone in their last hours.

The woman inside was far from dying. Claudine had indeed made it look dramatic. There were still bloodstained clothes and bandages lying in a basin and padding sitting on the small table, needles and silk for stitching wounds, and a carafe of water.

The woman looked frightened, lying in the bed with her head propped on pillows and her injured arm lying swathed in bandages beside her, although she had good color in her cheeks, and none of the hollow-eyed stare of the desperately injured.

"Hello," Hester said softly, closing the door behind her. "My name is Mrs. Monk. I've come to look at your wound, and see what I can do for you. What's your name?"

"Mina," the woman said hoarsely, fear choking her voice.

Hester felt a strong twinge of guilt, but did not allow it to alter her intent. She pulled up the hard-backed chair until she was close enough to the bed to work comfortably, then began as gently as she could to unwind the bandages and examine the wound, without taking off the final gauze, which would certainly start it bleeding again. Claudine had done a very good job of cleaning it and stitching the raw edges together. The jagged knife slash was not as deep or as dangerous as Mina had been allowed to believe.

Hester began to talk casually, as if merely to take Mina's mind from what she was doing. It was a rule of the clinic never to ask patients for details they were unwilling to give, unless it was necessary for the treatment of whatever was wrong with them. Sometimes the conditions of where they lived mattered very much, especially if it was mainly on the streets with no bed, no shelter, no water, and only such food as they could beg. Then they would keep them in until they were considerably better. One or two had even remained here as permanent help, paid with lodging and food. Often the sudden new and respectable occupation was a benefit beyond price.

After the usual account of her circumstances, in answer to a question from Hester, Mina went on to describe certain aspects of her daily life, including some dangerous clients past and present.

"And you really know Jericho Phillips?" Hester said in awe.

"Yeah, I know 'im," Mina replied with a smile. It was oddly attractive, in spite of a chipped front tooth, no doubt also sustained in a fight. "'E weren't that bad, at least for business."

"Your business, or his?" Hester asked with a smile.

"Mine!" Mina said indignantly. "I in't got nothin' ter do wif 'is."

Hester refused to allow her imagination to picture it. She concentrated on examining the wound. Most of the bleeding had stopped; it only seeped through the stitches, but it looked raw and painful. She kept talking, both to probe for information, and to keep Mina's mind off the pain as she cleaned away the dried blood and closed the edges of the flesh a little more, cutting away bloodied gauze. "I suppose you've seen a side of him nobody else has," she remarked.

"Oh, I in't the only one." Mina found that amusing. "I just mebbe know'd 'im longer. But I got more sense'n ter say so. Don't like bein' reminded o' the past, 'e don't. Rotten poor, 'e were. Always cold an 'ungry, an' knocked about summink wicked. 'Is ma were a bad one. Temper like one o' them rats wot comes out o' the sewers sometimes. Fight anyone."

"What about his father?" Hester asked.

Mina laughed. "Came off some ship, an' then got right back on it," she answered drily, keeping her eyes tightly closed in case she accidentally caught sight of the wound. "Lived down by the river, almost in the water, 'e did. Always cold, poor little sod. Now 'e goes barmy if 'e 'ears anythin' drippin'."

"But he lives in a boat!" Hester protested.

"Yeah. Daft, in't it?" Mina agreed. "I knew a feller once 'oo were scared stiff o' rats. Dreamed about 'em, 'e did. Woke up sweatin' like a pig. 'Ear 'im screamin' sometimes. Send yer blood cold, it would. Made 'isself keep a rat in a cage, right there in 'is room. Could 'ear the bleedin' thing scrapin' its silly little feet an' squeakin'." She shivered convulsively without realizing it, moving her arm so that Hester momentarily held the scissors away.

"Do you think that's what Jericho Phillips does, with the water?" she asked curiously. She imagined a man forcing himself to live with his haunting