THE FOLLOWING MORNING HESTER was at the clinic early, again asking questions, ascertaining as closely as possible what time Hattie had left. It was a still, heavy day, with rain threatening as she stood outside the door on the street and looked right and left. People were passing, as always. Which of them would do so every morning? Who had regular errands, trips to the baker or the laundry, jobs to go to?

It was too late for the Reid Brewery workers; they would have started hours ago. Factories or shops had been open for a couple of hours at least. Was there a peddler? None that she could see.

She tightened her shawl around her and walked down to Leather Lane and then turned north. A hundred yards away there was a running patterer telling the news in his singsong voice. She interrupted him, to his displeasure, and asked him if he had seen Hattie, describing her as accurately as possible. He knew nothing.

She retraced her steps and went south, almost as far as High Holborn, but no one had seen a young woman answering Hattie’s description.

Discouraged that it was now too many days ago, she went back up to Leather Lane, along Portpool Lane again into the shadow of the brewery and all the way along to Gray’s Inn Road at the other end. She walked north and was almost level with St. Bartholomew’s Church when she saw a peddler selling sandwiches. She stopped and bought one, not because she was hungry but in order to engage him in conversation. It must have been desperately boring standing all day, virtually alone, just exchanging a word or two with strangers, hoping to sell them something, needing to.

She ate the sandwich with pleasure. It was actually very good, and she told him so.

He smiled, gap-toothed, and thanked her.

“I work just down the road.” She indicated with her hand, still clutching the last of the sandwich. “Portpool Lane.”

“I know who you are,” he replied.

She was surprised. “Do you?” She was half convinced he had mistaken her for someone else.

“Yeah! Yer takes in street women wot are sick, or beat up.”

She had no idea from his expression whether he thought that was good or bad. But there was no point in denying it.

“That’s right. I’m looking for one now who left Tuesday of last week and is now missing. She’s still pretty sick, and I’m worried about her.” Hester was not sure how much of the truth she should tell. Panic was rising inside her, and she had to force it down, refuse to follow the fears of what would happen if she failed. Perhaps she was almost as afraid of what knowledge success would bring, things she would not be able to ignore.