Death of a Stranger

chapter NINE
When Hester returned home and found a message from Monk that he had gone to Liverpool hoping to find proof of Dalgarno's guilt in the fraud, she understood exactly why he had done so. In his place she would have done the same. Still, she felt a great emptiness in the house, and within herself also. She had not been able to help him in this case, and for all the superficial explanation and understanding, she knew there were deep and intense feelings he had not shared with her, and most of them were painful.

Perhaps she had been so absorbed in the problems facing Coldbath Square that she had not insisted he tell her in the way that he had needed her to. He could not speak easily of the truth because it trespassed on that part of his life that hurt him, and in which he was afraid he had been so much less than the man he was now.

Why did he still not trust her to be generous of spirit, to hold back willingly and genuinely from needing to know that which was better buried? Did part of him still think she was critical, self-righteous, all the cold and pinched things of which he used to accuse her, before either of them would acknowledge that they were in love?

Or had she somehow failed to let him know that she had accused him of arrogance, cynicism, and opportunism only because she was afraid of her own vulnerability? She had been looking for something comfortable, a man she could love while retaining her inner independence. A love which would be agreeable, safe, never take from her more than she wished to give, never cause her pain that was as great as the laughter and the joy.

He had pulled back for the same reasons!

He had pursued women who were soft and compliant, pretty, who did not challenge him or hurt him or demand of him all he had to give, and more, who did not strip away the pretenses and the shields to reach his heart.

When he was back she would do better-stop playing games of accommodation, politeness, skirting around the truth. She would get back to the passion of honesty they had had in the beginning, things shared with such intensity that touch, words, even silence, was like an act of love.

But for now she must occupy herself, and do something about the women who owed money to the usurer and were being beaten because they could not pay. She was almost certain that Squeaky Robinson was the culprit. But until she had spoken to him again and probed a good deal deeper, her suspicions were not enough. He was afraid of something. It would be very helpful to know what it was.

It was a warm day outside. She barely needed a shawl, let alone a coat, and the streets were crowded as far as the Tottenham Court Road, where she looked for a hansom.

She thought of buying a peppermint water from a peddler-it looked inviting-but then she thought better of spending the money. She passed a newsboy and her eye caught an article on the war in America. Guiltily she hesitated in her step long enough to read at least the beginning, remembering with vivid horror being caught up in that war's first fearful battle. It seemed that the Union forces had been profoundly embarrassed that many of the guns bristling out of miles of Confederate fortifications were actually only painted logs of wood. The cannoneers had retired south some considerable time before.

She smiled at the irony of it and hurried on, finding a hansom at the next corner.

She went into the house in Coldbath Square, really only to tell Bessie where she intended to be, so that if she was needed she could be sent for, and also so that someone would know where she had gone. It was the nearest she could come to any kind of security. Not that she thought Squeaky Robinson was any threat to her. He had no reason to wish her harm-they were ostensibly on the same side, at least he thought they were. Still, it was a kind of precaution.

Bessie was highly dubious about it. She stood with her arms folded, her lips pursed. "Well, all I can say is if yer in't back 'ere safe an' sound in two hours-an' I can tell the time-then I'm goin' fer Constable 'Art! An' I'll not mince me words! I'll let'im know w'ere yer are an' wot's goin' on. I swear! An' 'e'll come right arter yer! Likes yer, 'e does!" She said that fiercely, as if it were a threat in itself. But that Bessie would speak willingly to a policeman at all, let alone confide in him and ask his help, was eloquent witness to the gravity with which she viewed Hester's undertaking.

Satisfied that she had made her point, Hester thanked her, and wrapped her shawl over her head in spite of the sun, and set out for Portpool Lane.

Squeaky received her stiffly, sitting upright in his chair behind the desk. A tray of tea sat in the only space clear of papers. He had spectacles perched on the end of his long nose, and there were ink stains on his fingers. He seemed profoundly unhappy. His hair stood on end as if he had been continually running his fingers through it.

"What do you want?" he said abruptly. "I haven't got anything to tell you. I haven't seen Jessop."

"I have," Hester said quickly, sitting down on the chair opposite him and arranging her skirts more elegantly, as if she meant to stay for some time. "He is still greedy for more money... which we don't have."

"Nobody has money!" Squeaky said resentfully. "I certainly don't, so there's no use looking to me. Times are hard. You of all people ought to know that."

"Why me?" Hester asked innocently.

" 'Cos you know there's hardly a soul on the streets!" he said savagely. "Toffs are starting to go other places for their pleasure. We're all going to end up in the workhouse, an' that's a fact!" It was an exaggeration. He would steal long before he allowed such a disaster to happen, but there was an underlying note of panic in his voice which was real.

"I know it's serious," she said gravely. "Political pressure is still keeping the police all over the place, although no one expects them to find out now who killed Baltimore."

A curious expression flickered over his face, a kind of suppressed fury. Why? If he knew who it was, why did he not inform, secretly of course, and get the whole thing over with? Then he and everyone else could get back to normality.

There was only one possible answer to that-because it implicated him in some way, or at least his house. Did he protect his women, even at the cost of business? She found that very hard to believe. He used women until they were of no value anymore, then discarded them, as all pimps did. They were property.

But his were particularly valuable property, not easily replaced. He could not go out and get them; they had to walk into this trap.

"They won't find out," he sneered, but there was rising tension underneath it, and he watched her every bit as closely as she did him. "If they'd had any idea at all they'd have sewn it up by now," he went on. "They're here to please some bleedin' toff's feelings of outrage 'cos a tart dared to hit back." There was hatred in his eyes, but for whom she could not tell.

What had happened to the woman who had killed Baltimore, if it was a woman? Or had she simply struck him, and perhaps screamed, and someone like the would-be butler at the door had actually killed him? Perhaps even unintentionally, in a fight at the top of the stairs, Baltimore had lost his balance and fallen.

"Somebody must be sheltering her," she said aloud, then stopped, seeing the instant denial in his face. "You think not?"

He wiped his expression blank. "How'd I know? Mebbe."

"You'd make it your business to know," she replied, her eyes never leaving his. "Do you wish to be thought incompetent-stupid?" she added for clarity in case he misunderstood.

He flushed with anger-or possibly a kind of embarrassment?

"You've a reputation to keep up," she continued.

"What do you want?" he snapped, his voice high with barely controlled tension. "I can't stop Jessop, I told you that. If you want someone to go an' beat a little consideration into'im, it'll cost you. I don't care whether you've got money or not, you'll get nothin' for nothin'."

It was not just greed driving him, it was fear as well; she could see it and hear it, almost feel it in the room. Fear of what? Not the police; they were nowhere near any kind of solution. She knew that from Constable Hart. Fear of the silent man who loaned money to young women and then blackmailed them into prostitution? A man who would do that must be a cruel and possibly dangerous partner. Was he threatening Squeaky if he did not produce the usual income in spite of the circumstances?

She smiled slowly. The idea of the would-be butler's giving Jessop a couple of black eyes and a thoroughly good fright was very appealing. She could be tempted.

Squeaky was watching her as a cat does a mouse.

"Five pounds," he said.

It was, relatively speaking, a modest enough sum. Margaret would be able to come by it. Why was Squeaky offering to do such a thing for only five pounds? Was the partner really so demanding? He was a usurer. Money was his stock-in-trade. Was Squeaky down to so little that five pounds made a difference?

"For you, in your position?" she asked.

"Me!" he snapped. "He's..." Then the derision vanished from his face and he conceded everything. "Me," he repeated.

It was a second or two before she realized what he was saying, then it came in a flood of understanding-he was alone. For some reason the partner was no longer there. That was his panic-the fact that he did not know how to run the business by himself.

The wild idea gained at Marielle Courtney's house hardened into close to a certainty. Nolan Baltimore had been Squeaky's partner, and his death, murder or accident, had left Squeaky without anyone to run the usury side of the business.

He needed a new partner, someone with access to the sort of young women who might get into debt, the polished manner to earn their confidence, and the business acumen to loan them money and insist on its repayment in this way.

An even wilder idea came almost unbidden into her mind. It was outrageous, but it just might work. If it did, if she could persuade him, it could solve their own problem. It would not reveal who killed Baltimore, or get the police out of the area, but she found to her surprise that she did not care greatly. If Baltimore had been the usurer, and also a client of his own appalling trade, then she could not mourn his death.

"I will consider your offer, Mr. Robinson," she said with aplomb. She rose to her feet. Now that she had thought of a plan, she was in a fever to put it to the test.

He looked vaguely hopeful. Was that for the money or the prospect of seeing Jessop severely frightened? Either would do. "Let me know," he said with a very faint smile.

"I will," she promised. "Good day, Mr. Robinson."

Hester had to wait until the evening before she could put her idea to Margaret. After the initial business of the house was over, Alice and Fanny were resting fairly easily. The two were actually talking to one another; Hester heard the occasional soft giggle. Hester sat down with Margaret to a cup of tea, and she could contain herself no longer.

Margaret stared at her wide-eyed with disbelief. "He'll never do it! Never!"

"Well, he might not," Hester admitted, reaching for the butter and jam for her toast. "But it could work, don't you think-if he would?"

"If... do you think..." Margaret could scarcely admit the possibility, but she was glowing with excitement, her cheeks pink.

"Will you come with me to try?" Hester asked.

Margaret hesitated. Her eagerness was plain in her face, also her fear of embarrassment, and of failure. She might be thought too forward, and invite a rebuff which would hurt more than she would find easy to accept.

Hester waited.

"Yes," Margaret agreed, then took a deep breath as if to retract it, and let it out in a sigh and picked up her tea.

"Good." Hester smiled at her. "We'll go tomorrow morning. I shall meet you at Vere Street at nine o'clock." She gave Margaret no chance to change her mind. She stood up and, carrying her toast with her, went to speak to Fanny as if the whole matter were settled and there could be nothing more to discuss.

The morning was bright and chilly again, and Hester dressed smartly in a plain dark blue dress and coat. She took a hansom to Vere Street to be there just before nine. She knew Margaret would be on time, and trembling with tension. She cared for her feelings, but apart from that, she did not wish to give her any opportunity to retreat.

Actually, Margaret was late, and Hester had begun to pace up and down the pavement anxiously. At last the hansom drew up and Margaret, beautifully dressed, scrambled out with less grace than usual.

"I'm sorry!" she said hastily after paying the driver. "The traffic was terrible. Somebody clashed wheels and broke an axle in Trafalgar Square, and they started shouting at each other. What a mess. Are we..."

"Yes," Hester replied, too relieved to be angry. "We are! Come on!" And she took Margaret by the arm and entered Rathbone's chambers.

They were too early, as Hester expected they would be. She was immensely relieved simply to find that Rathbone was not due in court that morning, and if they waited, there was an excellent chance he would be able to see them after his first client, who was due at half past nine, exactly the time the clerk expected Rathbone himself.

As it transpired, they were invited to go into his office shortly after ten o'clock, but Hester had the feeling that had Margaret not been with her he might have kept her waiting longer.

Rathbone came forward to greet them, hesitating an instant as to which of them he should speak to first. It was so slight Hester barely saw it, but she knew him far better than Margaret did, and she had not mistaken it. He addressed Hester, because of their long friendship, but he had wanted to go to Margaret.

"Hester, how pleasant to see you," he said with a smile. "Even if I am perfectly sure that at this time in the morning you must have come on business, no doubt to do with your house in Coldbath Square." He turned to Margaret. "Good morning, Miss Ballinger." There was the very faintest flush on his cheeks. "I am glad you were able to come also, although I am afraid I have not yet thought of any way in which your usurer can be stopped by the law. And believe me, I have tried."

Margaret smiled back at him, meeting his eyes with candor, and then suddenly realizing how bold she was and moderating her gaze. "I am sure you have done all that could be..." she started, then stopped. "We have thought about it a great deal also, and certain events have changed matters considerably. Hester will tell you; it is her idea... although I do heartily agree."

Rathbone turned to Hester with his eyebrows raised and a distinct look of apprehension in his face as he invited them to be seated. He turned to Hester. "Well?"

She knew time was limited and she must not waste words or choose the wrong ones. There would be little opportunity to retrieve a mistake. She was prepared to risk a touch of overstatement. If she was wrong she could apologize later. She plunged in.

"I know who the usurer is... was," she stated with assurance. "It was a partnership, one man who found the young women and lent them the money, the other who actually ran the brothel and did the day-to-day management of affairs. He collected the repayments and exacted the punishment if they were late. It is the one who did the lending who is dead," she added.

"Then is the business ended?" he asked, doubt in his face. "Will he not find another usurer, or plan that part of it himself?"

"He can't take it over himself," she answered. "He has not the skills, nor has he the opportunity to meet the sort of young women most vulnerable. He is a brothel-keeper, and he looks and sounds like one." She leaned forward a little. "What he needs, desperately at the moment, is someone who appears to be a gentleman but who has business ability and a degree of charm to deceive young women in debt into borrowing from him in the belief that they can repay with money honestly earned." She watched him carefully to make sure she was putting the case clearly and yet not so obviously that he was ahead of her, and would refuse before she had had the opportunity to explain the whole plan.

"I expect he will find one," he said, his face filled with the rueful humor she knew so well. "It would be very pleasant to think that he will not, but not realistic. I'm sorry."

"I agree." She nodded. "If he could not, then we would have no concern."

"I cannot prevent it, Hester," he said gravely. "Nor can I reasonably find out who it will be. I wish I could. Or are you saying that if we are to stop this business we have only a small amount of time in which to act?" He looked genuinely grieved. "I would, if I knew of anything that would help. It is not practical to try closing him down. London is full of prostitution, and probably always will be, like all large cities." There was apology in his eyes, in the line of his mouth. He did not look at Margaret.

"I know that," Hester answered softly. "I am not so idealistic as to aim at changing human nature, Oliver, only at putting Squeaky Robinson out of this particular business."

"Miss Ballinger suggested that you had an idea," he said with care, the slight frown back between his brows.

She could not help a flash of humor. He had been involved in one or two of her plans before and was wise to be wary.

She plunged in. "We must strike before he finds a partner," she said firmly, praying she would phrase her plan in such a way as to make him believe it was not only possible but perfectly moral and reasonable, which would not be easy!

"Strike?" he said warily. He glanced at Margaret.

She smiled with magnificent innocence.

He looked uncomfortable and turned back to Hester.

She took a deep breath. This was the moment. "Before he finds a partner himself," she said, "we must provide one... who will need to examine the books, of course, before he commits himself..."

Rathbone said nothing.

"And will thus have the opportunity to destroy them," she finished.

He looked puzzled. "He won't believe you," he said with grave regret. "Your reputation is too well known, Hester. And unless he is a complete fool, he wouldn't believe Monk either."

"Oh, I know that," she agreed. "But he would believe you, if you did it well enough."

He froze, eyes wide.

There was nothing to do but continue. "If you were to go to him with us, of course, and say you would be interested in investing a little money in such a profitable sideline." She knew she was speaking too quickly. "Providing an examination of the books, the debts still to be collected, and so on, were satisfactory, then you would also be able to provide suitable young women in the future. You come across them often enough in your practice-"

"Hester!" he protested, aghast. "For God's sake..." He swiveled to Margaret. "I apologize, Miss Ballinger, but I couldn't possibly involve myself in usury and prostitution! Not to mention sanctioning the brutal punishment of people unable to pay their debts..."

"Oh, but you wouldn't be!" Margaret said sincerely. "You would only have to go there once." Her eyes did not leave his. "And surely lawyers deal with some very questionable people a lot of the time? You can hardly defend people who haven't at least been charged with a crime, whether they are guilty or not?"

"Yes, but that's..." he protested.

Her smile lit her face with a softness and a warmth which were unmistakable. She could not have hidden her admiration for him then even had she tried, and at the moment she was oblivious of it. "If anyone were to mention it, should they know, you could be perfectly candid afterwards as to why you were there," she said reasonably. "Could anything be more justified than rescuing perfectly honest young women from a life on the streets?"

His face was filled with confusion both intellectual and emotional. Hester, who knew him so well, could see it clearly.

"That's not exactly what you're suggesting," he pointed out reluctantly, looking from one to the other of them. "I need to go to this... Squeaky?"

"Yes... Squeaky Robinson." Hester nodded.

"And offer to be his partner in usury and pimping?" he finished.

"Only offer," Hester said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "Not actually do it."

"The difference between intent and execution would be difficult to prove," he said with a touch of sarcasm.

"To whom?" Hester argued. "Who is going to know, except Squeaky Robinson, who will be in no position to retaliate, and Margaret and I, who will be undyingly grateful. And of course we know exactly where your real morality lies."

"Hester, it is..." he tried again.

"Ingenious and unpleasant," Margaret answered for him. "Of course it is." Her voice conveyed understanding and disappointment. Her eyes were wide, full of gentleness, as if she knew she had expected too much.

Rathbone flushed. He was perfectly well aware that she and Hester worked in Coldbath Square almost every day, regardless of dirt, danger, or risk to their reputations.

"When were you planning on doing this?" he asked tentatively.

"Tonight," Hester replied without hesitation.

Margaret smiled hopefully and said nothing.

"Tonight! I..." Rathbone was momentarily nonplussed. "I..."

"Thank you," Hester murmured.

"Hester!" he protested, but he had already surrendered and all three of them knew it.

Margaret's eyes were gleaming, her cheeks faintly flushed, although no one could have told whether the cause was anticipation of the possible victory tonight or her knowledge that Rathbone had succumbed largely because of her.

Hester stood up, and Rathbone and Margaret did likewise. Time was short, but quite apart from that, it was wise to withdraw before triumph could be turned into defeat by a thoughtless additional remark.

"Thank you very much," Hester said sincerely. "Where would you like to meet us? Coldbath Square might not be the most advisable."

"What about Fitzroy Street?" Margaret suggested. "I can be there at whatever time you wish."

"Then I shall join you at nine o'clock," Rathbone replied. He looked at Hester with a twisted smile. "What does one wear to buy into a brothel?"

She regarded his extremely elegant gray suit and white shirt with its perfectly tied cravat. "I would not change, if I were you. Dressed like that, he will believe you have money and influence."

"How about greed, immorality and perverted tastes?" he asked with a slight curl of his lip.

"You cannot dress for that," she replied with perfect seriousness. "Regrettably."

"Touche," he murmured. "Until nine o'clock. I presume you will tell me then whatever else I am required to know?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Oliver. Good-bye."

He bowed very slightly. "Good-bye."

Hester and Margaret walked away side by side, heads high, without speaking, each lost in her own thoughts. Hester assumed Margaret's were of Rathbone, perhaps driven by emotions rather than reason. Her own were also emotional, the full realization that whether Rathbone knew it or not, he was falling in love with Margaret Ballinger quite as much as he had ever been with Hester herself. She felt a powerful mixture of regret and pleasure, but she knew in a while the pleasure would win.

By the time the hansom stopped in the Farringdon Road at just after half past nine, Hester, Margaret and Rathbone knew exactly what part each was going to play in what they hoped was going to be the downfall of Squeaky Robinson's business. They alighted and walked the short distance in the fitful lamplight along Hatton Wall and across Leather Lane to the darkness of Portpool Lane, under the shadow of the brewery. None of them spoke, each concentrating on what he or she was going to say and how to assume their various roles.

Hester was nervous. It had seemed a brilliant idea when she first thought of it. Now that it was about to become a reality, she could see all the difficulties that she had so eagerly persuaded Margaret, and then Rathbone, did not matter.

She led them through the alley entrance, which was still remarkably clear of rubbish, and up the steps to the door. As usual it was opened by the man in the cast-off butler's suit.

"You again," he said somewhat ungraciously to Hester, then looked beyond her to the other two. His face clouded. " 'Oo are they?" he demanded.

"Friends of mine," she replied confidently. "The gentleman is in a way of business which might interest Mr. Robinson. I am aware of certain"-she hesitated delicately-"requirements, at the moment. You had better tell him I am here."

He was empowered to make decisions; it showed in his face. It was also more than likely that he was fully aware of the problems occasioned by Baltimore's death. It was probably he who had moved the body and left it in Abel Smith's house. He swung the door wide, slight surprise registering in his face. "Then yer'd better come in," he suggested. "But don't take no liberties. I'll find if Mr. Robinson'll see yer."

He left them in the small side room in which Hester had waited before. There was not even space or chairs for all three of them to be seated.

Rathbone looked around him with curiosity and a slight puckering of his nose with distaste.

"Did you come here by yourself, Hester?" he said anxiously.

"Yes, of course I did," she replied. "There's no one to come with me. Don't look like that. I didn't meet with any harm."

"Did Monk know?" he asked.

"No. And you are not going to tell him!" she said hotly. "I will do so myself, when the time is right."

He smiled very slightly. "And when will that be?"

"When the matter is closed," she said. "It is not always a good idea to tell everybody everything, you know. One should keep one's own counsel at times."

He gave her a pointed look.

"Hester is very brave," Margaret said loyally. "Far braver than I am... in some things."

"I hope you have more sense!" he said sharply.

Margaret blushed and looked down, then up again at him quickly. "I do not think you should criticize Hester, Sir Oliver. She does what she has to in order to protect people who have no one else to care for their interests. The fact that in some cases they may have made errors of judgment does not set them apart from the rest of us."

Suddenly he smiled. It was a warm and charming gesture. "You are quite right. I'm not used to women who take such risks. It is my fear for her which speaks. I am very slow to learn that my discomfort may concern her, but it certainly will not stop her."

"Would you wish it to?" Margaret challenged.

He thought for several seconds.

Hester waited, surprisingly interested in what he should reply.

"No," he said at last. "I used to wish it would, but I have learned at least that much."

Margaret smiled back at him, then looked away, conscious of his eyes upon her.

The butler returned. "Yer'd better come," he said, jerking his head toward the corridor and leading them deeper into the warren of passages and stairways.

Squeaky Robinson was sitting in the same room as when Hester had seen him before. Piles of papers were strewn around him, and one gas lamp was lit, throwing a pool of yellow onto the desk. And again there was the tray with tea. He looked tired to the point of exhaustion; his skin was papery with dark smudges under his eyes. Had he been in ordinary trade Hester would have been sorry for him, but she was too aware of Fanny and Alice, and others like them, to allow herself such a feeling.

Squeaky stood up slowly, only glancing at Hester, then his eyes went straight to Rathbone. He barely noticed Margaret at all. Perhaps women were largely invisible to him if he was not inspecting them as goods.

"Good evening, Mr. Robinson," Hester said as calmly as she could. "I have brought this gentleman, whose name you do not need to know as yet, because he is interested in investing money in a business a little out of the ordinary, where he can have a fast and safe return. It will also be desirable if it can escape the attention of the tax inspectors and not have to be explained to certain members of his family with whom he might otherwise have to share it." She indicated Margaret. "And this lady is good with books and figures, always an advisable attribute to have when considering an investment."

Squeaky stood up slowly, his face like that of a man who has walked long across an arid plain and at last thinks he sees water. He stared at Rathbone, taking in his immaculate boots, his perfectly cut suit with its excellent cloth, his cravat as clean as snow, the humor and intelligence in his face.

"How do you do, Mr. Robinson." Rathbone did not offer his hand. "Mrs. Monk tells me that your previous partner in business met with an unfortunate accident, and therefore the position is now vacant. Is she correct?"

Squeaky licked his lips. His indecision was palpable. Whatever answer he made, there was risk attached. On one hand he might give away too much about himself, on the other he might lose Rathbone's interest, and thus the new partner necessary for his survival.

The silence was heavy in the room. The building seemed to sag and creak as if settling itself deeper into unseen mire beneath it.

Rathbone glanced at Hester impatiently and frowned.

Squeaky saw it. "Yes!" he said abruptly. "He died. Suddenly."

"A euphemism, surely?" Rathbone raised his eyebrows. "Was he not murdered?"

"Ah!" Squeaky gulped, his throat jerking. "Yes. Nothing to do with his investment here! A purely private matter. A quarrel... his own... appetites. Most unfortunate."

"I see." Rathbone looked as if he did, although Hester knew he had not the slightest idea. "Well, that will not affect me. I have no desire to avail myself of your services. I mean simply to invest money and reap the reward. But I would prefer to think that you did not have many clients who meet with accidents. It attracts the wrong kind of attention. I am in a position to ride out one term of police presence due to murder, but not two."

"Oh, it won't happen again!" Squeaky assured him. "It's never happened before, and I'll take care of it. The woman's gone, I assure you."

"Good!" Rathbone almost smiled. "Satisfactory so far. But naturally I require to know rather more about your business-for instance, the financial side of it, the incomings and outgoings, the general history-before I commit myself."

"Of course... of course!" Squeaky nodded vigorously. "Anyone would. It needs a careful man."

"I am a careful man," Rathbone said with the barest smile.

Hester had a sudden suspicion that part of him was enjoying playacting the role. There was a casual elegance in the way he stood, and his hands by his sides were relaxed, his fingers loose. She might tease him about this afterwards, when it was all over. He would probably never admit to it.

"It's a good business," Squeaky assured him. "Very profitable, and strictly legal, mind. Just a matter of lending a little money to people who need it. Could almost be viewed as a charity." He saw the look on Rathbone's face and amended his expression. "Well... there's no matter what anyone thinks, is there, 'cos nobody's going to know."

"Not from me," Rathbone replied dryly. "And if you are wise, not from you either."

"Oh, rest easy, sir!" Squeaky nodded vehemently, his eyes wide. "Rest easy!"

"You won't get any money until I do," Rathbone promised him. "How did your deceased partner become involved?"

Hester shot a quick look at him. It did not matter how Baltimore had started in this. In fact, she really no longer cared who had killed him, if it was one of his own victims, and not only for the money but for his appetites as well. A certain kind of justice had already been served.

"Some gentlemen have different tastes," Squeaky said with a wry leer. "He was one of them."

"And you take all such men into your confidence?" Rathbone said with disgust. Hester saw his hand clench by his side. She was afraid now that the answer Squeaky would give would make it far harder for him to remain as an investor. He had pushed too far. Should she say something to help? But what?

"You set up the business with him?" she interrupted. "I daresay it was his idea?"

"No, it was not!" Squeaky said angrily, his voice rising alarmingly in pitch. "It was already a very good concern when he came in." He resented her intrusion.

"That's hard to believe," she said scathingly.

Squeaky pointed his finger at her. "Look, miss, you just keep to your good works in Coldbath and leave the business to them as know about it. I had a very good thing going here before Mr. Baltimore ever came along. I was just unlucky. My partner then, Preece, his name was, was a greedy man. He tried to blackmail one or two of the better-off customers. That's a fool thing to do. Kill the goose that way. Enough's enough." He sliced the air with his stringy hand and its ink-stained fingers. "Anyway, Baltimore got very angry and they set at each other like prizefighters." His lips pursed in a gesture of disgust, but he looked a little pale at the memory. "Preece was a big fat bastard, and he took an attack. Went all colors and fell down on the floor, clutching his chest. Died right there." He looked past Hester, directly at Rathbone. "Heart!" he said savagely. "Too much belly and no brain. His own fault."

Rathbone nodded. "Apparently," he agreed.

Hester saw him relax so very slightly it was barely perceptible. She shot a glance at Margaret in the shadows behind him, and read the relief in her face also.

"Anyway," Squeaky resumed, "I needed someone to take his place, and Baltimore needed the business to continue-in his own interest, like. We were the only ones offering exactly the service he wanted, otherwise he'd have to start all over again, looking from scratch, as it were. Worked out very well all 'round."

"Until he died as well..." Rathbone observed.

"That was his own fault too!" Squeaky said immediately. "He got stupid, and thought just because he had a share in the place that he could go as far as he liked with the girls."

"One of them killed him?" Rathbone said very softly.

"Yeh. But she's gone. Too wild, that one. Pushed him out o' the window. Top story, an' all." He winced. "What a mess! It's all right, though, the police don't even know it happened here." He grinned. "We put the body in old Abel Smith's place, like he fell down the stairs."

"Very tidy," Rathbone observed. "You have a gift for making the best of bad luck."

"Thank you." Squeaky bowed.

Margaret drew in her breath sharply.

"Now all I require is to look at your accounts, if you please," Rathbone asked.

Squeaky hesitated, staring at Rathbone as if to hold his attention while he deliberated. He glanced at Hester, then Margaret in the background, barely moving, then at Rathbone again.

Rathbone understood his meaning instantly. "Miss..." Then he changed his mind. "I cannot enter a business unless I have a financial opinion upon the books, Mr. Robinson-one that I trust." He smiled very slightly, hardly more than an easing of his features. "I do not care to consult my usual bankers in this particular matter."

Squeaky grinned, then nodded slowly, satisfied. He turned and went to a cupboard on the far side of the overcrowded room. Taking a key out of his pocket-although it remained attached to him by a chain-he opened one of the doors. He lifted up a large ledger, relocked the door, and carried the ledger over to the table.

Margaret stepped forward. "I shall require a quiet place to study the figures." She said it coolly, but Hester knew from the tension in her shoulders and the slightly higher pitch of her voice that she was desperately aware that everything hung on this moment. "Alone, and no interruptions, if you please," Margaret added. "Then, if it is satisfactory, you can make the arrangements."

Squeaky regarded her with curiosity. It was perfectly plain that she was nothing he had expected, and he was confused. She did not belong in any preconceived part of his world.

She waited. No one interrupted the silence.

Rathbone moved from one foot to the other. Hester all but held her breath.

"Right," Squeaky said at last. He offered the ledger for Margaret, who took it with very slightly trembling hands and clasped it to her.

"Through there," Squeaky said, pointing to a corner of the room where another doorway was partially concealed by a curtain.

"Thank you," Hester accepted immediately, and to Squeaky's fairly obvious relief, she and Margaret left him alone with Rathbone.

The next room was small and enclosed. The turning up of the gaslight revealed one square, uncurtained window overlooking rooftops almost indistinguishable against the night sky.

There was one chair and a table on rickety legs. Margaret sat down and opened the ledger, and Hester leaned over her shoulder and read with her. It was written in a very neat crabbed hand, all the figures sloping backward a little.

Even at a glance the profits were plain to see, if the entries were honest. But it was the IOUs they needed. Whatever this proved was immaterial. It was not illegal.

Margaret started to turn the pages more hurriedly, then picked up the whole ledger and held it upside down. Nothing fell out.

"They're not here!" she said with a note of desperation.

"Give it a few moments more, as if we had read it all," Hester replied. "Then I'll go and ask for them. I'll say you need to get an idea of the future, as well as the past."

Obediently, Margaret returned her attention to the columns and perfunctorily added them up.

"Baltimore was turning a very nice profit on this," she said bitterly after another few moments. "This looks like Alice's repayments here." She pointed. "Stopping about the time of Baltimore's murder. Actually, there are hardly any repayments after that, only this one."

"Right," Hester said firmly. "That's all I need. I'll go to see Mr. Robinson." She went straight to the door and, without knocking, back into the room where Rathbone and Squeaky were sitting facing each other in what seemed to be earnest conversation. Squeaky looked excited and anxious, leaning forward so the gaslight threw his seamed face into heavy relief, and Rathbone relaxed back in his chair, half smiling.

They both turned as Hester came in.

"What is it?" Squeaky demanded.

Rathbone frowned, his eyes searching hers.

"It all looks very profitable, Mr. Robinson," Hester said smoothly. "There is just one matter to sort out."

"Oh?" Squeaky asked abruptly. "And what's that, then?"

"There has been almost a complete stop in repayments lately-over the last three weeks, to be exact," she answered.

"Of course there has!" Squeaky exploded. "Gawd sakes, woman, there's rozzers on every bleeding footpath! How d'yer think anyone's going to earn anything? Where are your wits at?"

Rathbone stiffened.

"At wanting to see your paper proof that there are still debts owed," Hester answered perfectly levelly, avoiding Rathbone's eyes. "No one wants to buy a business that has nothing coming in on a permanent basis."

Squeaky shot to his feet. "I have!" he said furiously, jabbing his finger in the air. "I've got lots o' money coming still, but nothing's forever! What do you think I need a partner for? When these run out, we gotter get more!" He went back to the cupboard where he had found the ledger and pulled the key from his pocket and opened the door. He poked his hand inside and fished around for a few moments, then withdrew it holding a sheaf of papers. He ignored the wide-open door and came back to Hester, holding them out. "There! All debts!" he said, waving them at her.

"So you say," she agreed, resisting the impulse to snatch at them. "We will add them up, deduct a little for... accidents, and come to a figure to present." She inclined her head at Rathbone, but carefully avoided using his name.

Squeaky still held tight onto the papers.

Hester looked at Rathbone again.

Rathbone pursed his lips and started to stand up.

"All right!" Squeaky thrust the papers at Hester. "But only in that room, mind. They're worth a lot of money."

"Of course," Rathbone agreed. "Or I would not be willing to put my own money into the venture."

Hester took the papers from Squeaky's reluctant fingers and walked straight over to the doorway, expecting any moment to hear Squeaky's footsteps behind her. She reached the door with relief and opened it, then closed it again behind her. Margaret looked up at her, her face pale and tight with tension. She gulped when she saw the papers in Hester's hand, and relaxed a fraction.

Hester looked at them just long enough to be certain that they were the original signed IOUs, not copies of anything in Squeaky's own hand. When she was satisfied that they were, she looked up and nodded to Margaret.

Margaret took them and went to the fireplace. She put a taper to the gas flame in the light, caught fire to it, then, sheltering it with her hand, bent down and set it to the papers, all in absolute silence.

Hester stood with her back against the door, her heart pounding.

The flames caught and flared up. Margaret watched until there was nothing left, then took the tongs and crushed the blackened pieces. She turned around to Hester, a smile of triumph on her face.

Hester picked up the ledger. "Do you want to?" she invited her.

Margaret shook her head. "It's yours," she replied. "But I want to watch."

Hester made a little beckoning gesture, then opened the door with her free hand and went back into the room with Squeaky and Rathbone.

Squeaky looked up. "Well?" he demanded. "Didn't I tell you?"

"You did," Hester agreed, putting the ledger down on the desk in front of him. "There was a lot of money owed. But since I have just burned the IOUs, you will not be able to collect it."

Squeaky stared at her in incomprehension. It was too terrible for him to grasp.

Even Rathbone seemed startled. He had expected her to leave Squeaky to find that out for himself when they were well outside the place. He looked a trifle taken aback.

"You... you fool!" Squeaky screeched as the truth of it dawned on him. "You... you..."

"Not a fool, Mr. Robinson," Hester said calmly, although her hands were sweating and she knew she was trembling. "It was precisely what I intended to do."

"I'm ruined!" Squeaky's face was red, his eyes bulging. He held out his hands as if he were thinking of actually grasping hold of her and strangling her.

She took a step backward just as Rathbone stood up. "No you won't," she said chokingly. "I have an idea how you could use this place... really quite well."

"You what?" Squeaky said with total disbelief. She was monstrous! Beyond credibility.

"I... I have an idea," Hester repeated. "We need new premises, better than we have now, and cheaper..."

"Cheaper?" Squeaky yelled. "You should pay me compensation! That's what you should do... you... you lunatic!"

"Nonsense!" she said briskly. "At least you will stay out of jail. You can run this place as a hospital for the sick and injured. There's plenty of room."

He gulped and choked.

"The money can be raised by charity," she went on in the deafening silence. "You've got lots of young women here who could learn to be nurses. It would-"

"Gawd Almighty!" Squeaky burst out in anguish.

"Hester!" Rathbone protested.

"It seems like quite a good bargain to me." Hester adopted an air of utmost reason.

Squeaky turned to Rathbone to appeal to him.

"I'm sorry," Rathbone said, a strange lift in his voice, as if he were teetering on the edge between horror and laughter. "I have no intention of investing in your business, Mr. Robinson. Unless, of course, you adopt Mrs. Monk's suggestion? I had no idea that she had such a thing in mind, but it seems to me something to which I could donate a certain amount, and possibly find others who would do the same." He took a deep breath. "I appreciate that it would ruin your reputation among your colleagues, but it might earn you a certain leniency in other directions."

"What other directions?" Squeaky wailed. "You're asking me to be worse than legitimate! It'd be downright... good!" He said the word as if it were damnation.

"The law," Rathbone said reasonably. "I am a barrister." He bowed very slightly. "Sir Oliver Rathbone, Q.C."

Squeaky Robinson let out a long, wordless groan.

"Then we will all be well suited," Hester said with satisfaction.

"We shall even be able to tell Mr. Jessop that his premises are no longer required," Margaret added. "I personally will enjoy that very much. We shall, of course, not pay you well, Mr. Robinson, but the donations will be sufficient, without that expense, to see that you are comfortable and properly fed and clothed. If you manage the place, it will give you something to occupy your time, and the other work will need to be overseen. The present young ladies can earn a modest living, quite honorably..."

Squeaky howled.

"Good," Margaret said with deep satisfaction. She glanced at last at Rathbone, and blushed at the admiration in his eyes. She looked at Hester.

Hester smiled back at her.

"You're all in it together!" Squeaky accused, his voice hitting falsetto in outrage.

"You are exactly right," Rathbone agreed gently, smiling as if extraordinarily pleased with himself. "And now you are fortunate to be in it with us also, Mr. Robinson. My sincere advice, for which I will not charge you, is to make the best of it."

Squeaky let out a last, despairing groan, and was utterly ignored.