Time Scout by Robert Asprin & Linda Evans

They finally escaped Billingsgate’s scaly stench and set out. Malcolm did a surprisingly brisk business selling eels and pies as they entered the cramped streets of Wapping. Of Malcolm’s colorful patter, however, Margo didn’t understand one word in four.

”Give yer plates of meat a treat,” he called out, “rest a bit, I’ve eels to eat!” Then, another block onward, “Yer trouble and strife givin’ you worries? Tike ‘ome lot eels, thankee and tip o’ the titfer t’ you, mate.” Then, to a hollow-cheeked lad who eyed the cart longingly, “Wot, no bees ‘n’ ‘oney? Rough days but I gots mouths ter feed meself.”

He hushed her. “Not until later in the year. August.” Margo shivered and eyed ill-kempt women, wondering which of them might fall victim to the notorious serial murderer. It was an unsettling thought. Kit Carson’s brutal assessment of her chances in this slum rang in her ears. All right, she grudged him, you’ve got a point.

Malcolm sold a few eels, mostly to sleepy women whose clothing still reeked of their previous night’s customers. Everywhere the stench of human waste, cheap gin, and rot rose like a miasma from the ground.

”Are all the women in Whitechapel prostitutes?” Margo whispered

Malcolm shook his head “Not all.” Then in a cautious whisper, “There are some eighty-thousand whores in London, most trying to stave off starvation.” Margo understood that statement now in a way that would have been impossible two hours previously.

”Do they stay prostitutes?”

”Some yes, many no. Many take to the `gay life, as prostitution was known, only long enough to find a better-paying job. Northwest of here, up in Spitalfields for instance, a woman can get work in the garment district sweat shops. If she doesn’t have too many mouths to feed, she might eke out a living without going back on the streets.”