She turned to look at him, startled by his voice. “No, I in’t seen ’er since—I dunno—yesterday. Yer tried the laundry? That’s where she is most times.”

“Yes, I have. Where else?” He controlled his rising fear with difficulty. His heart was pounding, his breath ragged already. He was being absurd; she was probably making beds, or rolling bandages, or any of a dozen other tasks.

The woman shrugged. “I dunno.”

Without bothering to press her, since she was clearly useless, he left the scullery and tried the medicine storage room, the linen closets, and then all the bedrooms one by one. He went from the far end of the three old houses joined together by a warren of passages and interlocking rooms, which had once been Squeaky Robinson’s brothel and was now the clinic. Nowhere did he find Hattie Benson, or anyone who had seen her in the last three hours, now three and a half, nearly four. The fear inside him was close to panic.

Hester was not here, nor was Margaret. And he was not sure if he would have asked Margaret, even if she were. He did the next best thing after that and looked for Claudine.

He found her in the medicine room. She was becoming quite proficient in nursing. Hester had said she was intelligent and, more important, deeply interested. Her long, unhappy marriage had eroded her self-belief to an almost crippling level. Curiously, it was her adventure where she had finally seen Arthur Ballinger outside the shops selling pornographic photographs, and from which Squeaky Robinson had eventually rescued her, that had liberated her from that.

Now she stood carefully measuring what was left in the various jars and bottles, and writing it down in a notebook. She was standing straight, and there was a slight smile on her face. She turned as she heard Monk’s footsteps stop. It needed only a glance at his face for her to realize his distress.

“What’s happened?” she asked immediately, putting down the bottle she was holding and closing the notebook. “What is it?”

“Hattie Benson’s gone,” Monk replied. “I’ve been from one end of the building to the other, and asked everybody. No one has seen her since about nine this morning.”

Claudine did not reply for several moments, but it was not because she was dumbfounded. She was clearly calculating what to do next.

“We must think,” she said. “She knew not to go anywhere outside. She would not have run errands for anyone, even a few yards. She was quite clever enough to be frightened. There are no doors to the outside here where a stranger could come in unseen. Have you spoken to Squeaky?”

“Yes. He didn’t see her leave, and he’s been at the front all morning, at least since she was last seen,” he replied. “I’ve got—”

“I know,” she agreed calmly, her voice reassuring.