“Yes, I do see,” Hester said a trifle shakily. A whole new world of misery had yawned open in front of her. Not that she had been unaware of homosexuality. She had been an army nurse. But the use of children to exert a power no adult relationship would tolerate, even one purchased with money, or to gratify a hunger for the thrills of danger, was a new thought, and extremely ugly. The idea of children kept and hired out for such a purpose was sickening.

“I need to destroy Mr. Phillips, Squeaky,” she said very softly. “I don't think I can do it without your help. We have to find out who else we can ask to assist us. I imagine Mr. Sutton will be one, and possibly Scuff. Who else can you think of?”

A succession of emotions crossed Squeaky's face: first incredulity, then horror and an intense desire to escape, lastly a kind of amazement at flattery, and the beginning of a daring impulse.

She waited him out.

He cleared his throat, giving himself time. “Well.” He coughed slightly. “There's a couple I know of, I s'pose. But they in't very…” He fished for the right word, and failed to find it. “… nice,” he finished lamely.

“Good.” She did not hesitate. “Nice people aren't going to be any help at all. Nice people don't even believe in creatures like Jericho Phillips, let alone have the slightest idea how to catch them. He probably eats nice people for breakfast, skewered on a fork.”

He smiled mirthlessly, but not without a certain surprised satisfaction.

There was a knock on the door, and without waiting for an answer, Claudine Burroughs came in with a tray of tea. She set it down on the tabletop, a fraction closer to Hester than to Squeaky. The pot was steaming gently, the fragrance of it inviting.

Claudine was a tall woman, roughly the same height as Squeaky, so he always stood a trifle more stiffly when beside her, to add the extra half-inch. She was narrow-shouldered and broad-hipped, handsome enough in her youth, but years of loneliness in an unsatisfying marriage had drawn many of the lines downward in her face. Only since coming to Portpool Lane, searching for some charitable work to do, had she found a genuine and vital purpose.

“Thank you,” Hester said with the sudden realization of how welcome the tea was. She wondered if Claudine had any idea of yesterday's desperate disappointment, or if she was simply aware that Hester was tired, even at this hour of the morning. She was weary inside, confused and beaten, which was an even deeper thing.

Claudine was still standing motionlessly, waiting for something.

Squeaky moved in his chair, impatiently, implying that Claudine had interrupted. Hester turned to look at her, and realized that she was uncomfortably aware of his annoyance. Perhaps she did know about yesterday's conclusion.

“I'd like to help,” Claudine said awkwardly, her face pink, her eyes unable to look at them. And yet she would not leave. She waited there in acute embarrassment, determined to be part of whatever they were doing, to give her own contribution, regardless of the cost.

“Yer can't,” Squeaky said flatly. “Ye're a lady, ye're not part o’ the folks wot we need ter be talking ter. Very kind o’ yer, but yer wouldn't be no use. Thank yer fer the tea.” He probably meant it kindly, but to drop from being part of the plan to fetching the tea was like a slap across her face.

Claudine stood her ground, but she struggled for words. Her face was so pink Hester felt as if her cheeks must be burning.

“We haven't any plans yet,” Hester said quickly “We don't even know where to start. We need to go over everything again, but with more care. And part of the trouble is that the people who testified before are now going to be very afraid. Phillips isn't in prison any longer, and he'll be dangerous.”

“Then we will have to be very careful, too,” Claudine replied, staring at Hester and ignoring Squeaky. “We will have to question them so they do not realize the importance of what they are saying until they have said it, and cannot retreat. The man Phillips is very terrible, and he must be put away.” At last she looked at Squeaky. “I am glad you are going to help. I respect you for it, Mr. Robinson.” She turned abruptly and walked to the door, then she looked back at Hester, doubt in her eyes. “I shall be available to do anything I can to help. Please do not forget that.” Before either of them could reply, she went out, shutting the latch firmly behind her.

“Yer in't goin’ ter use ‘er!” Squeaky protested, leaning forward across the desk, his eyes wide. “What can she do? She couldn't find ‘er way from one end o’ the street ter the other. An’ she in't got no right ter respect me. I didn't tell ‘er I was goin’ ter do anything at all with wot ‘e…” He stopped, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Are you saying you won't do anything, Squeaky?” Hester asked with a very faint smile.

“Well… well, I in't exactly… no, I in't. All the same…”

“All the same, she led you into saying it and then cut off your retreat,” she explained for him.

“Yeah!” He was aggrieved. Then he gave a slow smile, wily and half-amused, perhaps even appreciative. “She did, din't she!” He sniffed. “But I still say she wouldn't be safe in the street.”

“She doesn't want to be safe.” Hester lost all trace of the smile. “She wants to help, to belong, and you can't belong if you don't take the rough with the smooth. She knows that, Squeaky. We aren't going to shut her out.”

He shook his head. “Yer in't got no idea,” he said sadly. “That Rathbone's got yer ter rights: all ‘eart an’ no brains, you are, Gawd ‘elp us! Ow the ‘ell am I goin’ ter look after you an’ ‘er both-daft old thing she is, an’ all?”

Hester considered telling him very thoroughly to speak with more respect, and decided against it. This was almost a form of affection, and that was beyond price. She poured the tea carefully, his first. “It will be hard,” she agreed. “But you'll manage it. Now let us get started.”

The choice of whom to see first was not difficult, nor was it hard to find him and know what to say. Hester was happy to do it alone. Squeaky would be more usefully employed in seeking out his dubious friends.

Sutton was a rat catcher by trade, and proud of being called upon for his services by some of the best households in London. He numbered duchesses among his clients. He was also not too proud to attend to the needs of more humble establishments, and had rid the Portpool Lane clinic of rats at one of the most desperate times in Hester's life. They had been friends in terrible adversity, and indeed Sutton and his terrier, Snoot, had almost perished in the sewers with Monk only a matter of months ago.

Hester always dressed very plainly to go to the clinic, so she did not have any difficulty passing almost unnoticed along the narrow streets to Sutton's house, where she learned from his housekeeper the address where he had gone for the day's business. She found him at his frequent lunchtime haunt, a public house by the name of “The Grinning Rat.” It was much like any other, except for the sign that creaked slightly in the wind as it swung outside. The rat in the picture had a look of devilish glee on its painted face. It was dressed in green, and it stood upright on its hind legs, smiling with all its teeth bared.

Hester could not help smiling back before she went inside, trying to look as if she belonged there. She was immediately enveloped in sound. Men were laughing and chattering, there was a clink of glass and pewter, and the scuffle of feet on the sawdust-covered floor, and somewhere in the cellars, barrels being rolled. A dog barked excitedly. There was no point in asking for Sutton; she must simply look.

It took her several minutes to push her way through unyielding bodies of men intent on slaking thirst and enjoying the latest piece of news. She forced her way between two very corpulent bakers, flour still on their sleeves and aprons, and nearly fell into the lap of a neat, slender man sitting by himself eating a cheese and pickle sandwich. There was a tankard of cider in front of him, and a small brown-and-white dog at his feet.