avoid being noticed, and hoping she did not trip on anyone sleeping on the stones of the path or huddled in an unseen doorway.
After speaking with him and seeing his reactions, she was almost certain that Squeaky Robinson ran the brothel where young women like Fanny and Alice were put to work in order to pay off their debts to the usurer. But Squeaky was panicking over something! Was it just the lack of business at the moment? If he were the usurer, surely he could afford to wait until the police either found out who killed Baltimore or were forced to give up.
But what if he was not? What if he was only a partner, and the usurer was pressing him as well? Then who was the usurer, and why was Squeaky so frightened at the mere mention of his existence?
She crossed Portpool Lane and turned left toward Coldbath Square, still walking briskly. There were a few other people about. The lights of a public house shone out across the pavement as someone opened a door. There was a peddler on one corner, a constable on another, looking bored and cold, probably because he was standing still. He was getting in everyone’s way, and he had long since given up hope of discovering anything useful.
Was Squeaky Robinson so frightened because he had somehow lost his partner, the intelligence and driving force behind the enterprise? How? To prison, illness-even death? Was he panicking because he was suddenly alone and he had not the skill to carry on without help? She was convinced, after talking to him, that he was not the usurer. He had not the polish, the confidence, to have ensnared the sort of young women he used. If he were, she could not have rattled him as she had.
What had happened to the usurer? A warm rush of hope surged up inside her, and she quickened her step. It hardly mattered why he had gone, or where, if it left Squeaky unable to continue. His fear might be why he had turned violent and either half killed Fanny and Alice himself, or more probably had someone like the would-be butler do it. But his rule would be short-lived. No more women would be ensnared, and if the usurer was gone then he could not enforce repayment, not in law, surely? Oliver Rathbone might be able to help after all!
She got back to Coldbath Square to find Margaret pacing the floor waiting for her. Her face lit the moment Hester was in through the door.
“I’m so relieved to see you!” she said, rushing forward. “Are you all right?”
Hester smiled with a pleasure that surprised her. She really did like Margaret very much. “Yes, thank you. Only cold,” she answered frankly. “But I would love a cup of tea, to get the taste of that place out of my mouth.” She took off her shawl and hung it up on one of the pegs as Margaret went to the stove.
“What did you learn?” Margaret asked even while she was checking that the kettle was full and moving it onto the hob. She kept glancing at Hester, and her face was eager, her eyes wide and bright.
“I think the woman at Abel Smith’s told me correctly,” Hester answered, fetching two mugs from the cupboard. “That is the place where they cater to more individual interests.” She said it with heavy distaste at the euphemism, and saw her own feelings reflected in Margaret’s expression. “I met Squeaky Robinson…”
“What was he like?” Margaret stopped even pretending to watch the kettle. Her voice was sharp with anticipation.
“Very nervous indeed,” Hester replied succinctly. “In fact, I would say positively frightened.” She put the mugs on the table.
Margaret was astonished. “Why? Was Baltimore killed there, do you suppose?”
Hester had been so occupied with the thought of Squeaky Robinson’s partner, and the possibility of his being absent permanently, and therefore the usury business collapsing, that she had not seriously considered the thought that Squeaky’s fear might be primarily of the police rather than of financial ruin. But the rope was an infinitely worse prospect than poverty, even to the greediest man alive.
“I suppose he could have been,” she said a trifle reluctantly, explaining what her hope had been.
“Perhaps it was the usurer who killed him?” Margaret suggested, but there was more will than belief in her face. “Maybe he couldn’t pay, and someone lost his temper. It could have been as much an accident as anything. After all, it isn’t in their interest to kill a client, is it? It can’t be good for business. It isn’t as if anyone had to go there. There are plenty of other places, even if they would be in different parts of the city.”
“And they left the body at Abel Smith’s, just as he said,” Hester agreed. “Yes, that sounds possible.” She could not keep the slight disappointment out of her voice. Also, it might have helped Monk if Baltimore’s death had had something to do with land fraud on the railway. It would have tied the present to the past and vindicated his belief that Arrol Dundas had been innocent. Except, of course, it would increase Monk’s sense of guilt that he had been unable to prove it at the time.
“Should we tell Constable Hart?” Margaret asked hopefully. “That would solve the murder and get rid of the police.” The kettle started to whistle behind her. “And get rid of the driving force behind the usury at the same time!” She turned to the kettle and scalded the teapot, then put in the leaves, then the boiling water.
“Not yet,” Hester said cautiously. “I would like to know a little more about Mr. Baltimore first, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. But how?” Margaret carried the teapot over to the table and set it down beside the milk and the mugs. “Can I help? I might be able to scrape an acquaintance with someone of whom I could ask questions… or you could. I wouldn’t know what to say.” There was the very faintest color in her cheeks, and she did not quite meet Hester’s eyes. “We might be able to take something useful to Sir Oliver if we could prove a connection.” She spoke very casually, and Hester smiled, knowing exactly how she felt and why she was compelled to mask it, even from her closest friend, or perhaps especially from her.
“That would be a good idea,” she agreed. “I’ll write to Livia Baltimore and ask if I can call upon her tomorrow evening with further information about her father’s death. If I send the letter with a messenger, I’ll have a reply long before I need to go.”
Margaret looked startled. “What are you going to tell her? Not that her father was at Portpool Lane, surely?”
“Well, not the reason, anyway.” Hester smiled with a downward twist of her mouth and reached for the teapot.
Hester sent the letter early in the morning, paying a messenger to take it to the Baltimore house in Royal Square, and before lunch the answer was returned that Miss Baltimore would be delighted to receive her that afternoon, and awaited her call with pleasure.
Meanwhile, Margaret had made discreet enquiries and arranged for herself and Hester to visit with her brother- in-law, who was acquainted with business matters and could tell them what was publicly known of Baltimore and Sons, and perhaps a certain amount of that which was rather more privately believed. An appointment was made for the following evening.
In the middle of the afternoon Hester left Fitzroy Street wearing a pale blue skirt and jacket, and a hat-a piece of apparel she loathed-and carrying a parasol against the bright, fitful sun. She had been given the parasol as a gift and she had never even unrolled it. Nevertheless it lent an air of respectability, suggesting young ladies who had time and care to consider guarding their complexions from the sun.
She took an omnibus from the Tottenham Court Road, and was happy to walk the last few hundred yards to the front door in Royal Square. She was admitted immediately and conducted to a small sitting room clearly kept for the ladies of the house to receive their guests. It was furnished in a very feminine manner. The windows were draped with curtains in a clear, soft yellow, the chairs were well padded and pastel-shaded cushions made them look particularly inviting. There was a tapestry frame in one corner and a basket of colored silks and wools beside it. The screen in front of the fireplace was painted with flowers, and on the round table in the center of the room a huge china bowl of white and yellow tulips gave off a light, pleasing perfume.
Livia Baltimore was waiting for her expectantly. She was dressed in the obligatory black of mourning, and it made her fair skin look drained of all color. The moment Hester was in the room Livia stood up, coming forward from the chair where she had been sitting, her book put down with a marker to keep the place.
“How kind of you to come, Mrs. Monk. I was hoping that with all your work for the distressed you would not forget me. I am sure you would like tea?” Without waiting for an answer she nodded to the parlor maid to confirm the instructions.
“Please sit down.” She indicated one of the chairs as the door closed and she resumed her own seat. “You look very well. I hope you are?”
It would probably be polite to talk about a variety of subjects, as was usually done. None of them mattered; it was simply a way of becoming acquainted. It was not what one said but the manner in which one said it that
