The description he had given fitted one of the women who had been in the courtroom with Margaret and her mother. Or any other woman in London with pretty and slightly crooked teeth, and enough money to buy good gloves. But Margaret’s sister was the one who would help her, and her father, by taking Hattie Benson away to—where? Had Margaret’s sister known it was to her death, or had she imagined it would be simply a house where Hattie could be kept until it was too late to testify?

It took Hester the rest of the day—and more money than she could really spare in cab fares, sandwiches, cups of tea, and petty bribes—before she found as many of the answers as she was going to so long after the event. Two women, answering the descriptions of Hattie and Gwen, or Celia, had taken a hansom from near St. Bartholomew’s to Avonhill Street in Fulham, just short of Chiswick, almost half an hour after Margaret had shown Hattie out of the door of the clinic in Portpool Lane.

Another hour of tedious questions and invented excuses, and by the time it was growing dark, Hester had found the house where Hattie had been for a few hours.

“Yeah,” the woman said grudgingly after Hester questioned her. She wiped her wet hands on her skirt. “Wot’s it ter you, then? This is a respectable ’ouse, an’ there ain’t no ’oring goes on ’ere. It were a right lady as brought ’er ’ere an’ said as she’d be stayin’ fer a few days.”

“But she didn’t stay for a few days, did she?” Hester pressed. “She was gone in a matter of hours.”

“So she changed ’er mind. She still were paid fer, so why should I care?”

“Who did she go with?” Hester felt her throat tight, her hands clammy.

“Said ’is name were Cardew. Didn’t see ’is face, but real nice-spoken, ’e were.”

Hester thanked her and turned to leave, stumbling against the doorpost but barely feeling the bruise to her hand.

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE,” Monk said gently as they sat in front of the fire late that evening, the clock nearing midnight. Hester was exhausted, and still cold in spite of the warmth of the room. “Why would Margaret help Rupert Cardew in anything?”

“I don’t know,” she said miserably. “Maybe he lied to her?” She knew as soon as she had said it that it didn’t make sense. She looked up and saw it in Monk’s eyes. “Maybe Hattie lied, and she didn’t steal the cravat at all. Perhaps Rupert paid her to say she did. Then she lost her nerve and wasn’t going to go through with it.”