Dawn came clear and quite mild, and by eight o’clock Hester was eating toast and drinking a cup of fresh tea when the street door opened and a constable was silhouetted against the sunlight. Without asking, he came in.

“Mrs. Monk?” His tone was heavy and a little sharp. The police hardly ever came to the house. They were not welcome, and had been told so in unmistakable terms. Largely they respected what was done there, and were happy enough, if they wished to speak to any of the women, to wait and do it in some other place. What could have brought him there this morning, and at eight o’clock?

Hester put down her mug and stood. “Yes?” She had seen him several times on the street. “What is it, Constable Hart?”

He closed the door behind him and took off his helmet. In the light his face looked tired, not merely from a sleepless night on duty, but from an indefinable weariness within. Something had bruised him, disturbed him.

“You’ad any women in ’ere last night that were knocked about, cut mebbe, or beat bad?” he asked. He glanced at the teapot on the table, swallowed, and looked back at Hester.

“We do most nights,” she replied. “Stabs, broken bones, bruises, disease. In bad weather the women are sometimes just cold. You know that!”

He took a deep breath and sighed, pushing his hand through his receding hair. “Someone in a real fight, Mrs. Monk. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t ’ave to. Jus’ tell me, eh?”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” She evaded the answer for a moment. “Or toast?”

He hesitated. His exhaustion was plain in his face. “Yeah… ta,” he accepted, sitting down opposite her.

Hester reached for the teapot and poured a second mug. “Toast?”

He nodded.

“Jam?” she offered.

His eyes went to the table. His face relaxed in a rueful smile. “You got black currant!” he noticed, his voice soft.

“You’d like some?” It was a rhetorical question. The answer was obvious. Margaret was still asleep, and making the toast would give Hester a little more time to think, so she was happy to do it.