“Thank you. I should like it very much,” she accepted.

It took him a moment to attract the waiter's attention, then when the man weaved his way through the tables to them, he ordered and paid. When the coffee came it was as steaming and fragrant as the first.

“Perhaps he was a successful gambler?” Drusilla raised her eyebrows.

“Then why disappear?” he countered.

“Oh, yes, I see.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Well.. naughty theater? Peep shows? Some forbidden religion? Seances or black magic?”

He started to laugh. It was wonderful to be able to wander into the realms of the absurd and forget poverty, disease and all the wretchedness he had seen.

“I can't see the man I've discovered so far indulging in anything so frivolous,” he said candidly.

She was laughing too. “Is black magic frivolous?”

“I don't honestly know,” he confessed. “It sounds pretty irrelevant to reality to me, a sort of escape from responsibility and the daily round of duties, particularly for a man who spends his working hours considering the price of corn and other commodities.”

“And leads family prayers,” she added, “for a good wife and five children, and however many servants they have, not to mention goes to church every Sunday and observes the Sabbath with all diligence.”

There was a burst of laughter from the next table, and they both ignored it.

“Did you find out if they eat cold meals only, don't permit singing, whistling, games of any nature, and reading of fiction, taking of sugar in his tea or the eating of sweets or chocolates, in case it causes inappropriate love of luxury? And of course no laughing.”

He groaned. It was not the picture he had formed of Genevieve, but he had not asked. Perhaps Angus was as sober and worthy as that. She had certainly spoken of him in glowing, but rather formal and reverent, words.

“Poor devil,” he said aloud. “If he lived like that, there would be little wonder if he took leave of reality on occasion and did something totally bizarre. It might save his sanity.”

She finished her coffee the second time and sat back.

“Then permit me to discover what I can of such societies, and if anyone I know has met this Angus Stonefield.” Her eyes flickered down and then up again. “And of course there is the other possibility, which seems indelicate to mention, but we are speaking to each other without pretense-I do get so tired of pretense all the time, don't you? He may have met another woman, one who offers him laughter and affection without demanding anything from him at all, except the same in return. He may long for the freedom from the responsibility of children and the sobriety and decorum of family life. Many men find a liberty to express themselves to another woman in a way they cannot to their wives, if nothing else, simply because they do not have to face her every day across the breakfast table. If they make a fool of themselves, they may walk away and never meet again.”

He looked at her where she sat smiling at him, her slender shoulders so feminine and delicate, her thick shining hair, her lively face with its wide eyes, and always the air of composed amusement about her, as if she knew some secret happiness. He could well understand if Angus Stonefield, or any other man, found such a woman irresistible, a blazing, delicious freedom from the restrictions of the domestic round, the wife who was harassed by the duties of household and children, who did not feel it proper to laugh too easily or too loudly, who was conscious of her duty to him, and her dependence, and very probably who also knew him too well, and had expectations of what he should be, and how it was proper for him to behave.

Yes, perhaps Angus Stonefield had done precisely that. And if he had, Monk, for one, would not entirely blame him. On the other hand, he also felt a very sharp spur of envy which took him completely by surprise. Was Drusilla speaking from supposition? Or had she been that exquisite, delightful “other woman” for Stonefield, or for someone else? He would resent it profoundly if she had-which was both painful and absurd, but if he were as honest with himself as he was with others, still real.

“Of course,” he said at last, finishing his coffee also. “ I shall look into that as well.”

Every hour or two brought more cases of fever to the makeshift hospital in Limehouse. The only blessing was that it also brought more volunteers to help with what little practical nursing could be done, and willing hands to help with the endless tasks of emptying, cleaning, laundering what sheets and blankets they had, and changing the soiled straw and fetching in new. Local men came and carried away the bodies of the dead.

“Where do they take them?” Enid Ravensbrook asked as they sat together in the small room where Monk had spoken with Callandra and Hester. It was late afternoon, dark and cold. Three people had died the previous night.

Kristian had been there since the previous evening, and he had taken a short break to go home, wash and change his clothes and get a few hours of sleep before going back to his own hospital. There was little enough he could do at the best of times. There was no known medicine against typhoid, only constant nursing to ease the distress, keep the temperature down and some fluid in the body, and the will of the victim to live.

Callandra looked up with surprise. “I don't know,” she said. “I admit I hadn't thought about it. I suppose to-”she stopped. “No, that's ridiculous.

No undertaker's going to handle fever victims. Anyway, there are too many of them.”

“They've got to be buried,” Enid pointed out, sitting in the rickety chair where Monk had sat. Callandra was on the other, Hester on the floor. “If not undertakers, then who? You can't expect gravediggers to lay out bodies properly and observe the decencies. All they know is to bury coffins. Coffin makers will be the only people profiting out of this.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At least it has got warmer. Or is it just that we have more fuel in the stove?”

“I'm frozen.” Callandra shivered and hugged her arms around herself.

“Hester, have you put more on the fires?”

“No.” Hester shook her head. “I daren't, or we'll run out. We've only got enough for two more days anyway. I meant to speak to Bert about that, and I forgot.”

“I'll ask him next time I see him.” Callandra dismissed it.

“I don't know where he's gone.” Enid was staring at her. She looked very pate except for spots of color in her cheeks. She must be exhausted. She had not been home for two days, just sleeping on the floor in this room when she had the chance. “He went out over two hours ago,” she added. “I asked him about going to the undertaker, but I don't think he heard me.”

Hester glanced at Callandra.

“There must be so many funerals,” Enid went on, speaking more to herself than to either of them. Her face was very pale and there was a gleam of sweat across her brow and upper lip. She looked up. “What graveyard are they putting them in, do you know?” She turned, first to Callandra, then to Hester.

“I don't know,” Callandra said quietly.

“I should find out.” Enid sighed and pushed her hand across her brow, brushing away her falling hair.

“It doesn't matter!” Callandra said, looking past her to Hester.

“Yes it does,” Enid insisted. “People may ask, relations may.”

“They are not burying them separately anymore.” Hester gave the answer Callandra had been avoiding.

“What?” Enid swiveled around. She looked bleached of all color but for a feverish stain on her cheeks, and her eyes were hollow, as though bruised.

“They are in common graves,” Hester explained quietly. “Don't grieve over it.” She reached over and touched Enid's arm very lightly. On the table the candle flickered, almost went out, then burned up again. “The dead won't mind.”