“Betty,” was the reply, after a longer draft of the herbal infusion.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a piece of bread and cheese? Or toast?”

“Yeah… toast’d be good. Ta.”

Hester made two pieces and put them on a plate with cheese. Betty waited while Hester took one piece herself, then she took the other. Her hand closed around it with satisfaction, almost urgency.

“Reckon ’is family’s real put out,” she went on after a moment or two. “ ’Em rozzers is buzzin’ around like the devil’s arter ’em. Poor bastards. They in’t bad, most o’ the time. Knows we gotter make a livin’, an’ the men wot comes ’ere does it ’cos they wanter. In’t nobody else’s business, really.” She ate over half the toast before speaking again. “S’pose they come arter summink wot their wives don’ give ’em. Never could work that out, but thank God fer it, I say.”

Hester stood up and made more toast, skewering the bread on a fork and holding it to the open door of the stove till the heat of the coals scorched it crisp and brown. She returned with another good slice of cheese and gave it to Betty, who took it in wordless gratitude.

Hester was half curious. She had been involved in too many cases with Monk not to try reasoning as second nature, but she was also concerned for the disruption to the neighborhood. “Why would any woman kill a client?” she asked. “Surely she would realize it had to end like this?”

Betty shrugged. “ ’Oo knows? Even soused out of ’er mind, yer’d think she’d ’ave’ad more sense, wouldn’t yer?” She bit into the toast and cheese and spoke with her mouth full. “Bring the wrath o’ God down on all of us, stupid bitch.” But there was more resignation in her voice than anger, and she turned her full attention to the food and said no more.