He put the papers aside and stood up, his face softening in response.

There was a question in his eyes. “You’re late,” he said, not in criticism but in sympathy. “Have you eaten anything?”

“Toast,” she replied with a little shrug. She was untidy and she knew she smelled of vinegar and carbolic, but she wanted him to kiss her anyway. She stood in front of him, hoping she was not obvious. She was sufficiently in love that it would have embarrassed her to be too easily read.

He undid her bonnet and tossed it casually onto the chair, then he put his arms around her and kissed her rather more warmly than she had expected. She responded with a whole heart, then, remembering the lonely and rejected women she had treated during the night, she kept her arms around him and held him more closely.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice demanding, knowing the difference in her.

“Just the women,” she replied. “There was a murder last night. That’s why I’m late. The police came to the house this morning.”

“Why? What would you know about it?” He was puzzled.

She knew what he was imagining: a prostitute beaten and bleeding coming to the house, then returning to her brothel and being beaten again, this time to death. “No. At least not the way you mean,” she answered. “It was a man who was killed, a client, if you can call him that. They think he fought with one of the women and somehow or other she pushed him downstairs. They wanted to know about women who came in cut and bruised as if they had been in a struggle.”

“And you had seen some?” he said.

“Of course. Every night! It’s mostly that and disease. I couldn’t help because I don’t know how they got hurt, or where to find them again.”

He pushed her back a little, looking more closely at her face. “And would you help the police if you could?”