Page 34 of Blood on the Water (William Monk 19)

He quarreled with Claudine over the portions, and was amazed to come out of it second best. He had had no idea she had such spirit. It was disconcerting, and yet he was also oddly pleased, as if a protégée of his had developed a sudden talent.

One of the most unfortunate was a particularly recalcitrant young woman named Amy.

“Describe the people you saw at this party,” Claudine asked her. “How did they speak? How were they dressed? It’s your business to size up what money people have and whether they’ll spend it or not.”

“More’n I got, that’s for sure!” Amy responded. “Yer should ’ave seen some o’ their dresses.”

“Not good enough!” Squeaky snapped.

“I dunno,” she said tartly, glaring back at him. “Wot’s it ter you, anyway? They’re all dead now, in’t they? Yer can’t buy an’ sell ’em anymore.”

“No, nor they can’t eat a nice hot dinner,” Squeaky retaliated. “Like you can’t neither.”

“You said …” she started.

Squeaky rose in his seat. He was taller than one might have expected, seeing him slouched in the chair.

She glanced at him, her face pallid with fear.

Claudine stood up also. “There is no point in hitting her, Mr. Robinson,” she said coldly.

Squeaky was amazed and angered. He had had no intention of hitting the stupid girl. How could Claudine have thought that of him? It was unjust … and hurtful.

Claudine turned to Amy and regarded her coldly. “If you have nothing else to tell us then you had better leave. You should set about earning your dinner, you’ll get none here. You can go out through the kitchen into the back alley. I’ll take you.”

Amy rose to her feet sullenly and edged around the table, keeping as far from Squeaky as possible. She followed Claudine into the passage and—after many twists and turns—through the kitchen door. She knew she was there by the rich, delicate aroma of frying potatoes and onions that wafted toward her. The crackle and spit of a frying pan suggested someone was making sausages as well. She stopped abruptly.

“What is it?” Claudine asked. “The back door out is at the other side.”

Amy turned round to face her. “I might know summink about ’oo were on that boat—names, like.”

Claudine put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and turned her back toward the door. “Then come back when you’re sure you do.”

“D’yer ’ave that every day?” Amy sniffed and gestured toward the kitchen stove.

“No,” Claudine answered unequivocally. “On you go!”

“I ’membered summink!” Amy protested.

“Did you? What was it, then?”

Amy drew in a deep breath, studied Claudine’s face for a moment, and decided she had better give value for money, now, specifically, for fried sausages, onions, and mash.

“That party were planned least a couple o’ weeks before it ’appened,” she answered with the firmness of truth rather than the flair of invention. “All the guest list wrote up, an’ everything. Least, special guests, people wot should be got special girls for, an’ like that. If yer gonna do it right, yer gotter know wot kind o’ girls different folks go fer.”

“I see,” Claudine replied, as if she did see. “And who would know that information?”

“Big Bessie, o’ course! ’Oo’d yer think? That’s worth an extra sausage, in’t it?”

Claudine considered for a split second. “Yes, I think it is. So Big Bessie would know anyone that was important early. Asked by whom?”

“Eh?”

“By whom were they invited? Who was paying for it?”

“Geez! Ow the ’ell do I know? I got me sausage? Or are yer a liar, an’ all?”

“You have your sausage. You don’t yet have your pudding.”