Monk ached to tell him the truth, but he dared not. He was committed to Clement Louvain, and to his own need.
“I’d rather work with my brain than bending my back,” he replied, putting an edge of truculence in his voice that he did not feel.
“There’s not much call for brain work down on the dock,” Durban pointed out. “Least not that’s legal. There’s a lot that’s not, as I’m sure you know. But I wonder if you really know how dangerous that is? You wouldn’t believe the number of dead bodies we pick up out of the water, an’ there’s no one to say how they got in there. I wouldn’t like yours to be one of ’em, Mr. Monk. Just be a little bit careful, eh? Don’t go messing with the likes o’ Little Lil Fosdyke, or the Fat Man, or Mr. Weskit. There’s no room for more opulent receivers than we’ve already got. Do you take my meaning?”
“I’m sure there isn’t,” Monk agreed, hating the lies. “My interest is in running errands and being of service to people who can’t do all their own jobs. I don’t buy or sell goods.”
“Really . . .” Durban said with disbelief. His face was almost unreadable in the near darkness, but his voice was sad, as if he had expected better, fewer lies at least.
Monk remembered with a jarring urgency being in exactly the same position, seeing a man well-dressed, well- spoken, hoping he was in the run-down alley only by chance, and realizing within minutes that he was a thief. He remembered his disappointment. He drew in his breath to explain himself to Durban and then let it out again in a sigh. Not until after he had earned Louvain’s money.
“Yes, really,” he said tartly. “Good night, Inspector.” And he walked away down the street towards the lighted thoroughfare to catch an omnibus, and then another home.
FOUR
Oliver Rathbone sat in the hansom as it moved with relative ease through the London traffic from his own home towards that of Margaret Ballinger. He was going to take her as his guest to an evening concert given by a very fine violinist. It was in aid of a worthy charity, and many people of social importance would attend. He was dressed in the height of elegance, fashionable enough to occasion admiration, and yet not so much as to look as if he cared. A real gentleman did not need to make an effort to please; it was a gift with which he was born.
And yet Rathbone was not at ease. He sat upright rather than relaxing into the padding of the seat. He had plenty of time, but he could not help looking out of the windows to see where he was, watching the yellow glitter of the street lamps reflected on the wet surfaces of the road through the drifts of rain, and note the familiar landmarks.
It had been a hurried invitation, offered to her yesterday somewhat impulsively. He could not remember exactly what the conversation had been, but certainly something to do with the clinic in Portpool Lane, as their conversation so often was. Were anyone else so single-minded it would almost certainly have been tedious, but he still found pleasure in seeing the animation in her face when she spoke of her work there. He even found himself involved with the welfare of certain of the patients she described, anxious for their recovery, upset at the injustices, happy for any success. Such a thing had never happened to him before. He governed his professional life with strict emotional discipline. He engaged his extraordinary skill in the service of those who needed it, by its nature those accused of some crime, but he kept his personal feelings well apart.
But then had anyone a few months ago outlined to him the plan by which Hester obtained the use of Squeaky Robinson’s establishment for the clinic he would have been horrified. Far from joining in, or in any way whatever assisting them, he would have struggled with his conscience as to whether he should actually report them to the police.
He blushed even now, sitting alone in the dark, islanded from the noise and bustle of anonymous traffic outside. He felt the heat well up in his face. No one else but Hester, Margaret, and Squeaky Robinson—and possibly Monk— knew what had taken place. But there had been a sublime kind of justice in it. He did not realize that he was smiling as he recalled Squeaky’s face, his horror at being so brilliantly and completely outmaneuvered. And it was Rathbone, not Hester, who had delivered the ultimatum to him and cornered him so he could not escape. Rathbone was profoundly embarrassed for having allowed himself to be involved in such dealings. He would be mortified if any of his professional colleagues were to know. Yet he was also obscurely proud of it—it had been exquisitely satisfying. That was the most remarkable thing, the incomprehensible thing. How he had changed! One would not have recognized him from the man he had been even a few months ago.
He was at the Ballinger house already, and the hansom was drawing up. He did not feel completely prepared. He had no conversation on his tongue for Mrs. Ballinger. She was a type of woman he had encountered numerous times before. After all, he was an eligible bachelor, and she had an unmarried daughter. Her ambition was so naked as to be beyond embarrassment. Not that there was any society matron in London whose ambition was any different, so attempting to conceal it or place it behind a mask of decency was really irrelevant. It would simply have spared Margaret.
As Rathbone stepped out of the carriage onto the glistening footpath, he felt the cold air on his face. He went up the steps and pulled the doorbell. A moment later the footman opened it and ushered him in and across the hall to the rich, dark withdrawing room, where Mrs. Ballinger was waiting for him.
“Good evening, Sir Oliver,” she said with more guarded enthusiasm than on their earlier encounters, since he had not yet met her expectations regarding her daughter, and he had had more than adequate opportunity. However, the brightness was still there in her eyes, the single-minded concentration. She was a woman who never forgot her purpose.
“Good evening, Mrs. Ballinger,” he replied with a slight smile. “How are you?”
“I am in excellent health, thank you,” she said. “I am most fortunate in that respect, and I thank God for it every day. I see friends and acquaintances around me who suffer from this and that.” She raised her eyebrows. “So wearing, I always think, don’t you? Headaches and shortness of breath, exhaustion, or even palpitations. Such a difficulty, don’t you find?”
He was about to say that he had never suffered such afflictions when he realized the double meaning in her words. She was not really referring to herself, or to concern for the hundreds of women who were so troubled. She was telling him, in her own way, that Margaret was from good stock, not only healthy by nature but not brought up to indulge herself in fancies and complaints.
He bit back the reply that came to his tongue. “Yes,” he agreed. “One should be most grateful for such excellent health. Unfortunately, it is not enjoyed by all. But I am happy for you.”
