Death of a Stranger

chapter SEVEN
The house on Coldbath Square was almost empty of women injured in the usual way of trade, because there was hardly any trade. Many of the local populace had found ways around the constant police presence and now conducted what business they could elsewhere, but the Farringdon Road was outwardly much the same as always. It required a more practiced eye to see the stiffness of street corner peddlers, the way everyone was watching over their shoulders, not for pickpockets or other small-time thieves, but for the ubiquitous constables placed, in frustrated boredom, as prevention rather than solution.

"On our backs like a jockey floggin' a horse what won't run," Constable Hart said miserably, nursing a mug of hot tea in his hands as he sat opposite Hester at the smaller of the two tables. "We won't run 'cos we can't!" he went on. It was mid-afternoon and raining on and off. His wet cape hung on one of the hooks by the door. "We're just standin' 'round lookin' stupid, an' gettin' everyone angry at us," he complained. "It's all to make the Baltimore family an' their friends feel like we're cleanin' up London." His expression of disgust conveyed his feelings perfectly.

"I know," she agreed with some sympathy.

"Nobody ever done that, nor ever will," he added. "London don't wanter be cleaned up. Women on the street in't the problem. Problem is men what comes after 'em!"

"Of course," Hester conceded. "Would you like some toast?"

His face lit up. It was a completely unnecessary question, as she had known it would be.

He cleared his throat. "Got any black currant jam?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course." She smiled, and he colored very faintly. She stood up and spent the next few minutes cutting bread, toasting it on the fork in front of the stove, and then bringing it over, with butter and jam.

"Thanks," he said with his mouth already full.

She and Margaret had spent their days trying to drum up more funding, having further conversations with Jessop which varied from placatory to confrontational and back again depending upon tempers, and pledges of help. Hester had never disliked anyone more. "Are you any closer to finding whoever killed Baltimore?" she asked Hart.

He shrugged, an air of hopelessness filling him as he stared gloomily at the crumbs on his plate. "Not as I can see," he admitted. "Abel Smith's girls all swear blind they din't do it, an' speakin' purely for meself, I believe 'em. Not that the higher-ups are goin' to listen to what I say." He looked up at her with sudden anger, his face set hard.

"But I'm damned if I'm goin' to see some poor little cow topped for killin''im just to satisfy 'is family an' their like, an' get business back to normal. No matter whoever says, ever so soft, that they'd like it that way!"

Hester felt a chill. "Do you think anyone would try to do that?"

He caught the doubt in her voice. "You're a nice lady, brought up proper. You don't belong 'ere," he said gently. He glanced around the long room with its iron beds, the stone sinks at the far end and the jugs and pails of water. " 'Course they would, if it comes to it. Can't go on like this much longer. Right and wrong gets to look different when you've bin 'ungry for a while, or slept in a doorway. I've seen 'em. It changes folk, an' 'oo's to say it's their fault?"

She wondered whether to tell him anything about Squeaky Robinson and his very different establishment, apparently somewhere near Reid's Brewery on Portpool Lane, or close beside. She was only half listening to him as she weighed it up.

"Of course," she agreed absently. If she told Hart he would feel obliged in turn to tell his superiors, and they would go blundering in, and very possibly warn Robinson without learning anything about Baltimore. After all, Robinson would deny it, just as everyone else was doing. Almost certainly he already had done.

"Not as I'm sure we want to find the truth," Hart went on dismally. "Considering what it'll be, like as not."

Now she did pay attention. "Not find it?" she challenged. "You mean just go on with the appearance until they get tired of it and say they're giving up? They can't keep half the London police force in Coldbath forever."

"Another few weeks at the most," he agreed. "It would be easier, in the end."

"Easier for whom?" Without asking, she poured him more tea, and he thanked her with a nod.

" 'Em as uses the 'ouses 'round 'ere for their pleasures," he answered her question. "But mostly for 'em in charge o' the police." He grimaced, shaking his head a little. "Would you like to be the one what goes and tells the Baltimore family that Mr. Baltimore came 'ere to gratify 'isself, an' maybe refused to pay what 'e owed, an' got into a fight with some pimp in a back alley somewhere? But the pimp got the better of'im, an' killed'im. Maybe 'e didn't even mean to, but when it was done it were too late, an' so 'e settled some old score or other by dumpin' the body at Abel Smith's?"

She tightened her lips and frowned.

"We all know it's likely the truth," he went on. "But knowin' an' sayin' is two different things. Most of all, 'aving other people know is a third different thing, an' all! Some of which is best not said."

It made her decision for her. If the truth was what she feared it was-that in some way Baltimore's death was personal, incurred by his behavior, either as a user of prostitutes or something to do with the railway fraud, because he was the instigator of it, or some other member of his family was-then the police were not going to wish to find either of those answers.

"You are right," she agreed. "Would you like another piece of toast and jam?"

"That's very civil of you, miss," he accepted, leaning back in the chair. "I don't mind if I do."

Hester knew she must find an excuse to call on Squeaky Robinson. After Hart had gone and Margaret came in, they spent some time caring for Fanny and Alice, who were both making slow and halting recovery. Then, as the afternoon waned and a decided chill settled in the air, Hester brought in more coals for the fire and considered telling Margaret to go home. The streets were quiet, and Bessie would be there all night.

Margaret sat at the table staring disconsolately at the medicine cabinet she had recently restocked.

"I spoke to Jessop again," she said, her face tight, contempt hardening the line of her mouth. "My governess used to tell me when I was a child that a good woman can see the human side in anyone, and perceive some virtue in them." She gave a rueful little shrug. "I used to believe her, probably because I actually liked her. Most girls rebel against their teachers, but she was fun, and interesting. She taught me all sorts of things that were certainly no practical use at all, simply interesting to know. I can't imagine when I shall ever need to speak German. And she let me climb trees and get apples and plums-as long as I gave her some. She loved plums!"

Hester had a glimpse of a young Margaret, her hair in pigtails, her skirts tucked up, shinning up the apple trees in someone else's orchard, forbidden by her parents, and encouraged by a young woman willing to risk her employment to please a child and give her a little illicit but largely harmless fun. She found herself smiling. It was another life, another world from this one, where children stole to survive and would not have known what a governess was. Few of them ever attended even a ragged school, let alone had personal tuition or the luxury of abstract morality.

"But I don't think even Miss Walter would have found anything to redeem Mr. Jessop," Margaret finished. "I wish with a passion that we did not have to rent accommodation from him."

"So do I," Hester agreed. "I keep looking for something else so we can be rid of him, but I haven't found anything yet."

Margaret looked away from Hester, and there was a very faint pinkness in her cheeks. "Do you think Sir Oliver will be able to help us with the women like Alice who are in debt to the usurer?" she asked tentatively.

Hester felt the odd sinking feeling of change again, a very slight loneliness that Rathbone no longer cared for her quite as he had. Their friendship was still the same, and unless she behaved unworthily, it always would be. And she had never offered him more than that. It was Monk she loved. If she were even remotely honest, it always had been. The love of friends was different, calmer, and immeasurably safer. The heat did not burn the flesh, or the heart, nor did it light the fires which dispelled all darkness.

And that was the core of it. If she cared for either Rathbone or Margaret, and she cared for them both, then she should be happy for them, full of hope that they were on the edge of discovering the kind of happiness that required all the strength and commitment there was to give.

Margaret was looking at her, waiting.

"I know he will do his best," Hester said aloud. "So if it can be done, then yes, he will do it." She breathed in deeply. "But before that, and apart from it, I want to make some more enquiries as to where Mr. Baltimore was killed, because I believe Abel Smith that it was not in his house."

Margaret looked at her quickly, a different kind of anxiety in her eyes now. "Hester, please be careful. Shall I come with you? You shouldn't go alone. If anything happened to you, no one would ever know-"

"You would know," Hester replied, cutting off her argument. "But if you come with me, then no one would, except perhaps Bessie. I think I would rather rely on you to rescue me." She smiled to rob the remark of sting. "But I promise I shall be careful. I have an idea which, even if I don't learn anything, could be of benefit to us. A little more in the way of funds, anyhow. And even a spoke in Mr. Jessop's wheel, which I would dearly like."

"So would I," Margaret agreed. "But not at the cost of danger to you."

"There's no more danger than coming here every night," Hester assured her, with something less than the truth. But she thought the risk was worth it, and it was slight, all things considered. She stood up. "Tell Bessie I should be back no later than midnight. If I'm not, then you can inform Constable Hart and send out a search party for me."

"I shall be here myself," Margaret retorted. "Tell me where you are going, so I shall know where to begin looking." She half smiled, but her eyes were perfectly serious.

"Portpool Lane," Hester replied. "I have an idea to see a Mr. Robinson who keeps an establishment there." She felt better for telling Margaret that, and as she put on her shawl and opened the door onto Coldbath Square, it was with more confidence than she had felt a few moments earlier. She turned in the doorway. "Thank you," she said gravely, then, before Margaret could argue, she walked quickly along the footpath in the rain and turned the corner into Bath Street.

She did not slacken her speed even when she was out of sight of the square because it was better for a woman alone to look as if she had a purpose, but also she did not want to allow herself time to reconsider what she was going to do, in case she lost her nerve. Margaret had an extraordinary admiration for her, especially her courage, and she was surprised now to realize how precious that was. It was worth conquering the fear that fluttered in the pit of her stomach to be able to return to Coldbath Square and say that she had gone through with her plan, whether she learned anything or not.

It was not entirely pride, although she was forced to admit that that did enter into it. It was also a gentler thing, the desire to live up to what Margaret believed of her and aspired to herself. Disillusion was a bitter thing, and she might already have brought about a little of that. She was aware of having been abrupt a few times, of a reluctance to praise even where it was due. The knowledge that Monk was keeping from her something that hurt him had driven her into an unusual sense of isolation, and it had touched her friendships as well.

She could at least live up to the mask of courage that was expected of her. She too needed to believe that she was equal to anything she set herself. Physical courage was easy, compared with the inner strength to endure the pain of the heart.

Anyway, Squeaky Robinson was probably a perfectly ordinary businessman who had no intention of hurting anybody unless they threatened him, and she would be careful not to do that. This was only an expedition to look and learn.

The huge mass of Reid's Brewery towered dark into the rain-drifted sky, and there was a sweet, rotten smell in the air.

She was obliged to stop where Portpool Lane ran close under the massive walls. She could no longer see where she was going. The eaves dripped steadily. There were shadows in the doorways, beggars settling for the night. Considering that she was in the immediate vicinity of exactly the kind of brothel she would have inhabited herself, had she been driven to the streets, the chances of her being misunderstood were very high. But she had passed a constable less than a hundred yards away. Certainly he was out of sight, but his presence was sufficient to deter the kind of customer who came here even more than most.

She leaned against the brewery wall, keeping away from the edge of the narrow curb, where the light from the street lamp shone pale on the wet cobbles. With her shawl covering her head and concealing most of her face, she did not look as if she were hoping to be noticed. The lane was a couple of hundred yards long, leading into the Gray's Inn Road, a busy thoroughfare, traffic running up and down it until midnight or more, and the odd hansom cab even after that. The town hall was just around the corner. Squeaky Robinson was more likely to have his house in the shadows up one of the alleys at this end, opposite the brewery. His clients would want to be as discreet as possible.

Did such men feel any shame at the exercise of their tastes? Certainly they would wish it secret from society in general, but what about each other? Would they come if their equals with similar tastes were aware? She had no idea, but perhaps it would be clever of the proprietor of such a place to have more than one entrance-more than two, even? If so, the alleys opposite would be perfect. This end, not the other, where there was a large, very respectable looking building and a hotel beyond.

Now that she had decided as much, there was no point in waiting. She straightened up, breathed in deeply, forgetting the sweet, decaying smell, and she wished she had not, as she coughed and gasped, drawing in more of it. She should never forget where she was, not even for an instant! Cursing her inattention, she crossed the road and walked smartly up the first alley right to the end, where any building would lie which opened onto both lanes, and onto the narrow streets at the farther side.

The alley was narrow, but freer of rubbish than she would have expected ordinarily, and there was a light on a wall bracket about halfway along, showing a clear path up the uneven stones. Was that coincidence, or was Squeaky Robinson taking care of the physical sensibilities of his clients by seeing they did not have to stumble over refuse on their way to their pleasures?

She reached the end of the alley, and on the outer edge of the light from the lamp she could see steps and a doorway. She already knew what she was going to say, and there was nothing to hesitate for. She went to the door and knocked.

It was opened immediately by a man in a dark suit, scuffed at the edges and too large for him, even though he was at least average in build. From the way he stood, he was ready for a fight any time one should seem necessary. He looked like a ruffian aping a down-at-heel butler. Perhaps it was part of the image of the establishment. He regarded her without interest. "Yes, miss?"

She met his eyes directly. She did not wish to be taken for a supplicant in distress, seeking to use the brothel to rescue herself from debt.

"Good evening," she replied stiffly. "I would like to speak with the proprietor. I believe he is a Mr. Robinson? We may have business interests in common where we could be of service to one another. Would you be good enough to tell him that Mrs. Monk, of Coldbath Square, is here to see him?" She made it an order, as she would have done in her old life, before her sojourn in the Crimea, when calling upon the daughter of a friend of her father whose servants would know her.

The man hesitated. He was used to obeying the clientele-it was part of their purchase-but women were stock-in-trade, and as such should do as they were told.

She did not lower her eyes.

"I'll see," he conceded ungraciously. "Yer'd better come in." He almost added something further, then at the last moment thought better of it and merely led her to a very small room off the passage, little more than a wide cupboard furnished with one wooden chair. "Wait there," he ordered, and went out, closing the door.

She did as he said. This was not the time to take risks. She would learn nothing by exploring, and she had no interest in the interior of a brothel yet, and hoped she never would have. It was easier to deal with the injured women if she knew less rather than more about their lives. She was concerned with medicine, nothing else. And if she was caught she would not be able to explain herself to Squeaky Robinson, and it was important he believe her. There would be enough stretching and bending of the truth as it was.

She had to wait for what seemed like a quarter of an hour before the door opened again and the would-be butler ushered her along the passage further into the warren of the building. It was narrow, cramped for width and height. The floors were uneven under the old red carpeting, but the boards did not creak, as she would have expected. Someone had taken great care to nail them all down so not one moved to betray a footstep. There was no sound in the silence except a random settling of the whole fabric of the building, a sigh of ancient timber slowly consumed by rot. The stairs were steep and ran both up and down within the one corridor, as if two or three rambling houses had been joined to give a dozen entrances and exits.

Finally the butler stopped and opened a door, indicating that Hester should go in. The room was a startling surprise, although only on entering it did Hester realize what she had expected. She had pictured dimness, vulgarity, and instead it was large, low-ceilinged, and the walls were almost obscured by shelves and cupboards. The floor was wood boards covered with rugs, and the main piece of furniture was an enormous desk with a multitude of drawers. On its cluttered surface was a brightly burning oil lamp shedding a yellow light in every direction. The room was also warm from a black stove on the far wall, and the whole place was untidy, but apparently clean.

The man sitting in the leather-upholstered chair was thin-faced, sharp-eyed, with straggling gray-brown hair and very slightly hunched shoulders. He regarded Hester with intelligent wariness, but none of the curiosity she would have expected had he no idea who she was. Presumably word of the Coldbath house had reached him, which she should have expected.

"Well, Mrs. Monk," he said smoothly. "And what business is it that could concern both you and me?" His voice was light and soft, a little nasal, but not sufficiently so to account for his nickname. She wondered what had given him that.

She sat down without being invited, in order to let him know she did not intend to be fobbed off but would stay until the matter was settled to her satisfaction.

"The business of keeping as many women as possible in a fit state to work, Mr. Robinson," she replied.

He moved his head a trifle to one side. "I thought you were a charitable woman, Mrs. Monk. Wouldn't you rather see all the women back in factories or sweatshops, earning a living the law and society would approve?"

"You don't earn a living at all with broken bones, Mr. Robinson," she countered. She tried to sound as casual as possible, suppressing her emotions of anger and contempt. She was there to accomplish a purpose, not indulge herself. "And my interests are not your concern, except where they meet with your own, which I presume is to make as much profit as possible."

He nodded very slowly, and as the light flickered on his face she saw the lines of tension in it, the grayness of his skin in spite of being close-shaven, even at this time in the early evening. There was a tiny flicker of surprise in him, so small she might have been mistaken.

"And what kind of profit are you looking for?" he enquired. He picked up a paper knife and fiddled with it, his long, ink-stained fingers constantly moving.

"That is my concern," she said tartly, sitting up very straight, as if she were in a church pew.

He was taken aback, it was clear in his face. A trifle more masked was the fact that she had also woken his curiosity.

She smiled. "I have no intention of becoming your rival, Mr. Robinson," she said with some amusement. "I assume you are aware of my house in Coldbath Square?"

"I am," he conceded, watching her closely.

"I have treated some women who I think may have worked for you, but that is only a deduction," she continued. "They do not tell me, and I do not ask. I mention it only to indicate that we have interests that coincide."

"So you said." His fingers kept rolling the paper knife around and around. There were papers scattered on the desk which looked like balance sheets. There were lines ruled on them in both directions, and what seemed more like figures than words. The lack of trade must be affecting him more than most, as she had already thought. It added to her strength.

"Business is poor for everyone," she observed.

"I thought you did yours for nothing," he replied flatly. "So far you are wasting my time, Mrs. Monk."

"Then I'll come to the point." She could not afford to have him dismiss her. "What I do serves your interests." She made it a statement of fact and did not wait for him to agree or disagree. "In order to do it I have to have premises, and I am at the present time having a degree of difficulty with my landlord. He is obstructive and keeps threatening to increase the rent."

She saw his body tighten under the thin jacket, a distinct alteration in his position in the big chair. She wondered just how much the present situation had cost him. Was he short of money? Was he the usurer, or merely the manager of this place? Quite a lot might depend upon the answer to that.

"I practice business, not charity, Mrs. Monk," Robinson said sharply, his voice rising in pitch, his hand clutching the paper knife even more rigidly.

"Of course," she said without the slightest change in her expression. "I am expecting enlightened self-interest from you, not a donation. Tell me, Mr. Robinson, have you made a profit since the unfortunate death of... Mr. Baltimore, I believe his name was?"

His eyes narrowed. "You knew him?" he said suspiciously.

"Not at all," she answered. "I say unfortunate because it has interrupted what was a fairly satisfactory state of affairs in the area and has brought a police presence we would all prefer to be without."

He seemed to consider saying something and then changed his mind. She saw his breathing quicken a little, and again he shifted his position very slightly, as if easing aching bones.

"They apparently intend to remain until they find who killed him," she went on. "And I do not foresee any success for them. They appear to think he died in Abel Smith's house in Leather Lane." She did not move her eyes from his. "I think that is unlikely."

Robinson seemed scarcely to breathe. "Do you?" He was weighing everything he said, which made her wonder if he was frightened, and if so, of what, or of whom.

"There are several possibilities." She kept her voice light, as if they were discussing something of only moderate interest. "None of which anyone will assist them to find out," she added. "He will have been killed somewhere else, either intentionally or by accident. And whoever was responsible, very naturally, did not wish to be blamed or to attract the attention of the police, so equally naturally, they moved the body. Anyone would have done as much."

"That has nothing to do with me," Robinson replied, but she noticed the knuckles of his hand were white.

"Except that, like all of us, you would like to see the police leave and allow us to get back to our normal lives," she agreed.

Hope flashed for a moment in his eyes, briefly but quite unmistakably.

"And you have some way of doing that, Mrs. Monk?" he asked. Now his fingers were motionless, as if he could not divert even that much of his energy from her.

She wished she had! Any plan would be worth sharing now. If this was the place where Fanny and Alice had worked, she would give a very great deal to finish him legally, so he and anyone who was his partner would spend the rest of their lives in prison, preferably on the treadmill.

"I have certain ideas," she equivocated. "But my immediate concern is to acquire better terms for leasing premises. Since it will be in your interest that women who have... accidents... are treated quickly, freely and with total discretion, I thought you might be a good person to approach for... advice on the matter."

Robinson sat quite still, studying her while the seconds stretched into one minute, then two. She tried to judge him in return. She did not expect any assistance with accommodation; that was only an excuse to allow her to meet him and to see something of the place. Was this where Fanny and Alice, and others like them, had worked? If at least she could give Rathbone a name and address, then he would have something to pursue. Was this narrow-faced man with his stringy shoulders and carefully shaven face the intelligence behind the usury, the profit and the vicious punishment she had seen? Or simply another brothel owner with a rather-better-than-average establishment?

He was nervous about something. The way his long, thin fingers constantly moved, the pallor of his face, his rigid body, all betrayed anxiety. Or was it simply that he was unwell, or preoccupied with something quite different? Perhaps he never went out in daylight anyway, and his pallor was part of the way of his life.

She had learned little. If she was to accomplish anything she must take more risk. "You must be losing money," she stated boldly.

Something in him changed. It was so subtle she could not have described it, but it was as if some hidden fear had clamped a tighter hold on him. Her heart sank. She must be in the wrong place. Squeaky Robinson had not the nerve or the intelligence to plan something as bold or complicated as the scheme Alice had described. It would take planning with long-term profit in view, a steady mind and a cool head to carry out such a thing. Squeaky Robinson did not impress her as having any of those qualities. The panic in him was too close beneath the surface now as they sat staring at each other.

But it could not be she whom he feared. She had posed no threat at all, open or implicit. She had no power to hurt him, and had not suggested that she wished to.

Was it his partner he was afraid of? The man who had set this up, and relied on him to run it profitably and without attracting the law? Was that it?

"Perhaps you should consult your partner before you reach any decision?" she said aloud.

Squeaky stiffened so violently he poked himself with the paper knife and gave a sharp yelp. He started to say something, then abruptly changed his mind. "I don't have a partner!" He glared at the red mark on his hand, then resentfully at her, as if it were her fault he had hurt himself.

She smiled disbelievingly.

"You looking for other premises?" he said guardedly.

"I could be," she replied. "But I would want very good rates, and no chopping and changing them when it suited you-a proper business arrangement. If you have no one else to consult, then consider what I have said and see if you can be of assistance. It is in your interest."

Squeaky chewed his lip. He was only too obviously in a quandary, and the pressure of a decision was taking him ever closer to panic.

Hester leaned forward a little. "It is going to get worse, Mr. Robinson. The longer the police are here, the more likely it is that your clients will be obliged to find other places in which to entertain themselves, and then..."

"What can I do?" he burst out, and now his voice was high and sharp enough to have given him his nickname. "I don't know who killed him, do I?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Perhaps you do. I'm sure a man with the skill to run a house like this must have his ear to the ground. You could not succeed if you did not-" She stopped. He looked so acutely uncomfortable she was afraid he was actually in physical pain. There was a sheen of sweat over his skin and his knuckles were white.

"... if you did not have an excellent knowledge of the area and everything that goes on in it," she finished. There was such a tension in the man a few feet from her that suddenly she wanted to escape. The emotion in his face, the desperation, had a physical presence almost at odds with the sly knowledge of his mind. It was as if he had been robbed of a safety he had known for so long he was still only half aware of his new nakedness and had had no time to shield himself or deal with it.

"Yes!" he said sharply. "Of course I have!" He was defensive now, as if he needed to assure her. "I'll think about it, Mrs. Monk. We need to get back to business as usual. If I hear from anyone what happened to this Baltimore I'll see if we can't... arrange something." He spread his hands, indicating the piles of paper. "Now I've got things to see to. I can't spare any more time to... to talk... when there's nothing to say."

She rose to her feet. "Thank you, Mr. Robinson. And you will not forget to mention to your partner the matter of a property to rent... very reasonably, seeing as it is in all our interests?"

He jerked up again. "I don't have..." he began, then his face ironed out and he smiled. It was a ghastly gesture, all teeth and rigid muscles. "I'll tell him. Ha, ha!" He laughed violently. "See what he says!"

She left, conducted out through the corridors again by the man in the dark suit too big for him, and found herself in the alley leading back to Portpool Lane. It was now swirling with fog and she could see the solitary lamp on the wall through a shifting haze. For several moments she stood still, becoming accustomed to the chill air and the smell of the brewery massive against the sky, shedding its denser shadow till it obliterated all other outlines, just as the Coldbath Prison did on the house in the square. Then she set out walking, keeping close to the walls to 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 counted. But this was not a usual social friendship; they would probably never see each other after this. There was only one thing which brought them together, and regardless of what conventions were observed, it was the only thing either of them cared about.

"Yes, I am," Hester replied, relaxing into the chair. "Of course the area is in some difficulty at the moment, and some of the women are being beaten, simply out of temper and frustration because there is no business." She was watching Livia's face as she spoke. She saw the young woman's struggle to hide her distaste at the "business" in question. It was something she knew very little about. Well-bred young ladies were barely aware of the existence of prostitution, never mind the details of the lives of those involved. If she had been asked before her father's death, she would have known even less, but unkind tongues had made sure she was acquainted with at least the rudiments now.

"There are police on every corner," Hester went on. "Nobody's pockets have been picked in a couple of weeks, but there is less and less in them that would be worth the trouble. People are going elsewhere when they can, which I suppose is natural. I don't know why, but police make even honest people nervous."

"I don't know why they should," Livia responded. "Surely innocence should fear nothing?"

"Perhaps too few of us are entirely innocent," Hester replied, but she said it gently. She had no desire whatever to hurt this young woman whose life had been so abruptly invaded by tragedy, and knowledge nothing had prepared her for and which in other circumstances she would never have known. "But I came to tell you that I have continued to listen, and to enquire where I could into the death of Mr. Baltimore."

Livia sat motionless. "Yes?" Her voice was little more than a whisper. She blinked, ignoring the tears brimming her eyes.

"I went to the house in Leather Lane where his body was found," Hester said gravely, pretending not to notice. She did not know Livia well enough to intrude. "I spoke to the people there, and they told me they had no part in what happened to him. He died elsewhere and was moved in order to implicate them, and I assume to remove suspicion from someone else."

"Did you believe them?" There was neither acceptance nor rejection in Livia's tone, as if she was deliberately not daring to hope too much.

"Yes, I did," Hester said unequivocally.

Livia relaxed, smiling in spite of herself.

Hester felt a stab of guilt so sharp she questioned whether she should be there at all, telling this young woman things which were true, and yet so much less than the whole truth. It would inevitably lead her to knowledge which would destroy forever the memories of happiness and innocence that had molded her youth.

"Then he could simply have been set upon in the street?" Livia was saying eagerly, the color returned to her cheeks. "Whoever killed my father then used his death to try to have some kind of revenge on Mr. Smith, and of course escape blame themselves. Have you told the police this?"

"Not yet," Hester said guardedly. "I would rather know more first, so that they believe me. Do you know why he would be in the Farringdon Road area? Did he go there often?"

"I have no idea." Livia blinked away sudden tears. "Papa went out many evenings, at least two or three every week. I am sure that sometimes he went to his club, but usually it would be to do with business. He was... I mean, we were..." She gulped as realization overwhelmed her again. She forced her voice to remain almost level. "We are on the brink of a great success. He worked so very hard; it hurts us all that he will not be here to see it."

"The new line opening in Derbyshire?" Hester asked.

Livia's eyes widened. "You know about that?"

Hester realized she had shown too much knowledge. "I must have heard someone speak of it," she explained. "After all, expansion of travel and new and better rail lines are of interest to everyone." The maid returned with tea, and Livia thanked and dismissed her, choosing to pour it herself.

"It is very exciting," she agreed, passing Hester her cup. For a moment her face betrayed very mixed emotions-there was exhilaration, the sense of being on the verge of change that was wonderful, and also a regret for the loss of the familiar.

Hester was uncertain if it could have any bearing at all upon Baltimore's death, or what Monk needed to know, but she was curious to learn more. "Will it mean changes for you? This house seems charming. It would be hard to imagine anything better." She picked up her cup and sipped the hot, fragrant liquid.

Livia smiled. It softened her face and made her look the young, slightly shy girl that she must have been only a month before. "I am glad you like it. I have always been happy here. But my brother assures me that when we move it will be even better."

"You are to move?" Hester said with surprise.

"We will keep this for the London season," Livia explained with a slight gesture of her hand. "But we are to have a large estate in the country for our home. The only thing that will cloud it at all is that my father will not be here. He wanted to build all this for us. It is so unfair that he should not be able to have the rewards of his life's labor, all the risks and the skill that went into it." She picked up her tea also, but did not drink.

"He must have been a remarkable man," Hester prompted, feeling that her hypocrisy must show in her face. She despised Baltimore.

"He was," Livia agreed, accepting the praise eagerly, as if somehow her father could still be warmed by it.

Hester wondered how well Livia had known him. Was her change in tone due to the fact that she was not remembering him so much as saying what she wished were true?

"He must have been very clever," Hester said aloud. "And very forceful. A weak man would never have been able to command others in the manner that must be necessary in order to build a railway. Any sign of indecision, or wavering from a principle, and he would have failed. One has to admire such... spirit."

"Yes, he was very strong," Livia agreed, her voice tense with emotion. "When Papa was around one always knew one would be safe. He was always quite certain. I suppose it is a quality men have... at least the best men, those who are leaders."

"I think the leaders are the ones who do not allow us to see their uncertainties," Hester replied. "After all, if someone does not feel confidence in where they are going, how can they expect others willingly to follow them?"

Livia thought for a moment. "You are quite right," she said with sudden understanding. "How perceptive you are. Yes, Papa was always... I thinkbrave is the word. I know now that there were some more difficult times, when I was a child. We have waited many years for this great success that is coming now." A smile flickered across her face. "It is not just the new railway line, you know, it is a new invention to do with rolling stock-that means carriages and wagons and so on. I apologize if I tell you what you already know."

"Not at all," Hester assured her. "I know only what anyone may read about, or overhear. What kind of an invention?"

"I am afraid I am not certain. Papa said little of it at home. He and my brother, Jarvis, did not discuss business matters at the table. He always said it was not suitable to speak of in front of ladies." There was a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes, not quite as strong as doubt. "He believed family and business should be kept separate." Her voice dropped again. "It was something he cared about very much... keeping the home a place of peace and graciousness, where things such as money and the struggles of trade should not intrude. We spoke of the values that matter: beauty and intelligence, the exploration of the world, realms of the mind."

"It sounds excellent," Hester said, trying to sound as if she meant it sincerely. She did not want to hurt Livia's feelings, but she knew that the inclusion of the ugly, and some attempt at the understanding of pain, was necessary for the kind of truth that makes the greatest beauty possible. But this was not the time or place to say so. "You must have been very happy," she added.

"Yes," Livia agreed. "We were." She hesitated, sipping her tea.

"Mrs. Monk..."

"Yes?"

"Do you think it is likely that the police will ever find out who killed my father? Please be honest... I do not want a comfortable lie because you think it would be easier for me."

"It is possible," Hester said carefully. "I don't know about likely. It may depend whether there was a personal reason, or if it was simply mischance, that he passed along the wrong street at the wrong moment. Do you know if he went intending to keep an appointment with anyone?" It was the question to which she most wanted an answer, and yet she was aware that the solution to Baltimore's death might mean social ruin to his family, particularly to Livia, who was young and as yet unmarried.

Livia looked startled, then, on the brink of speech, she stopped and considered, setting her cup down again. "I don't know. Certainly he did not tell us, but then he never discussed business with Mama or me. My brother might know. I could ask him. Do you think it would make a difference?"

"It might." How honest should she be? Her whole reason for being there was dishonest to Livia. She was thinking of Monk and his need to know about fraud, and Fanny and Alice and all the other young women like them-in fact, all the women of the whole Coldbath area who were still living on the streets but were unable to earn anything because of the constant police presence. She was not trying to find the murderer of Nolan Baltimore because it would ease the grief of his family, or even in the impersonal cause of justice.

"I know what people presume," Livia said quietly, her cheeks very pink. "I simply cannot believe it is true. I won't."

No one could easily believe it of her own father. Hester would not have believed it of hers. It was not rational. The brain said that one's father was human like any other man, but all the heart and the will denied the very idea that he would lower himself to indulge carnal appetites with a woman paid from the streets. It awoke something inside oneself as to the origin of one's own existence, the nature of one's physical creation, and something unbearable about one's mother as well. It was a betrayal beyond acceptance.

"No," Hester said, not really as a reply, simply an understanding. "Of course not. Perhaps your brother may know if he intended to meet someone, or if not, at least what his destination might have been."

"I have already tried," Livia said with both embarrassment and anger. "He simply told me not to worry myself, that the police would find the answer, and not to listen to anyone."

"That might be good advice," Hester conceded. "At least the part about not listening to what people say."

There was a knock on the door, and almost before Livia had finished answering, it opened. A dark, lithe man in his thirties came in, hesitating when he saw Hester, but only momentarily. He had an air of confidence about him which was arrogant, even abrasive, and yet had a certain attraction. Perhaps it was the feeling of energy in him which appealed, almost like a fire, at once dangerous and alive. He moved with grace, and he wore his clothes as if elegance were natural to him. He reminded Hester fleetingly of Monk as he would have been in his early thirties. Then the impression was gone. This man lacked a depth of emotion. His fire was of the head, not the heart.

Livia looked over at him, and her face lit instantly. It was not something she did consciously, but it was impossible to mistake her pleasure.

"Michael! I was not expecting you." She turned to Hester. "I should like you to meet Mr. Michael Dalgarno, my brother's partner. Michael, this is Mrs. Monk, who has been kind enough to call upon me in connection with a charity in which I am interested." She barely blushed at her lie. She was perfectly used to the accommodation of social exchange.

"How do you do, Mrs. Monk." Dalgarno bowed very slightly. "I am delighted to meet you, and I apologize for intruding upon your tea. I had not realized Miss Baltimore had company, or I should not have been so forward." He turned to look at Livia and smiled; it was deliberate and devastatingly charming. There was a candor to it that was as intimate as a touch.

The color swept up Livia's face, and neither Hester nor Dalgarno himself could have doubted her feelings for him.

He placed his hand on the back of Livia's chair, gently, as if it were her shoulder. It was oddly possessive. Perhaps so soon after her father's death, and in such circumstances, the statement of anything further would be inappropriate, but the gesture was unmistakable.

Hester had a fleeting thought that as the daughter of a wealthy man, about to become vastly wealthier through the sale of the components, Livia Baltimore was a young woman who might expect a great number of suitors, many of them driven by the least noble of motives. She must have known Dalgarno for some time. Was it a genuine love, begun as friendship long before the promise of wealth, or was it a classic piece of opportunism by an ambitious young man? She would never know, nor did she need to, but she hoped profoundly that it was the former.

Now she had learned all that she was likely to, she did not want to remain longer and risk saying something that would give away the lie to Livia's explanation for her presence. The only charity with which she was connected was the house in Coldbath Square, and she did not think that Mr. Dalgarno would find it easy to believe that Livia was interested in that.

She rose to her feet. "Thank you, Miss Baltimore," she said with a smile. "You have been most gracious, and I shall call upon you again if you wish, or not trouble you further if you feel we have-"

"Oh, no!" Livia interrupted hastily, rising as well, her black skirts rustling stiffly. "I should very much like us to speak again, if... if you would be so kind?"

"Of course," Hester agreed. "Thank you again for your graciousness." She turned to him. "I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Dalgarno." He moved to open the door for her. She went out and was conducted to the entrance by a footman. She passed a tall, fair-haired young man coming in. He was remarkable for his vigor and his large ears. He took no notice of her, but strode toward Dalgarno and started to speak before he reached him. Unfortunately, Hester was obliged to go out into the street before she could overhear anything.

* * *

The following evening Hester and Margaret kept their appointment to meet in Margaret's sister's home and learn what more they could about Nolan Baltimore.

Accordingly, Hester dressed carefully in her most sober jacket and skirt, the one which she would have worn were she seeking a position of nursing in a private house. Margaret wore a becoming gown of a dark wine shade and a highly fashionable cut. They took a hansom together and arrived in Weymouth Street, south of Regent's Park, just after six. It was a very imposing house, and even as they crossed the footpath and mounted the steps up to the front door, Hester felt a subtle change come over Margaret. She moved less briskly, her shoulders were not quite so square, and she pulled the brass knob of the bell almost tentatively.

The door was answered straightaway by a footman of towering height and excellent legs, the qualities most admired in his calling.

"Good evening, Miss Ballinger," he said stiffly. "Mrs. Courtney is expecting you and Mrs. Monk. If you would care to come this way." He ushered them in, and Hester could not help glancing around the perfectly proportioned hallway with its black-and-white flagged floor leading to a magnificent staircase, and the walls hung with ancient armor, decorated swords, and flintlocks, stocks inlaid with gold wire and mother-of-pearl.

The footman opened the withdrawing-room door, announced them, and then showed them in. Hester saw Margaret draw in a deep breath and go forward.

Inside the room, oak-floored with paneled walls, heavy plum-colored curtains framed high windows onto formal gardens beyond. Three people were awaiting them. The woman was obviously Margaret's sister. She was not quite as tall, and judging by her skin and slightly more ample figure, the elder by four or five years. She was handsome in a conventional way, and gave the air of being extremely satisfied with all about her. She was fashionably dressed, but discreetly so, as if she had no need to make herself ostentatious in order to be remarked.

She came forward as soon as she saw Margaret, her face beaming with welcome. Either she was genuinely pleased to see her sister or she was a most accomplished actress.

"My dear!" she said, giving Margaret a swift kiss on the cheek, then stepping back to regard her with great interest. "How delightful of you to have come. It has been far too long. I swear I was quite giving up hope!" She turned to Hester. "You must be Mrs. Monk, Margaret's new friend." This welcome was not nearly so warm-in fact, it was merely courteous. There was something guarded in her eyes. Hester realized immediately that Marielle Courtney was not at all sure that Hester's influence upon her sister was a good one. It might have replaced some of her own, and with less desirable effects. And of course she could not place Hester socially, which set her at a disadvantage in estimating her desirability.

"How do you do, Mrs. Courtney," Hester replied with a polite smile. "I think so highly of Margaret that to meet any member of her family is a great pleasure to me."

"How kind of you," Marielle murmured, turning to the man to her right and just behind her. "May I introduce you to my husband, Mr. Courtney?"

"How do you do, Mrs. Monk," he responded dutifully. He was a bland-faced man of approximately forty, already a little corpulent, but full of assurance and general willingness to receive his wife's family, and whoever they might bring with them, civilly enough.

The third person in the room was the one they had come to see, the man who might be able to tell them more about Nolan Baltimore. He was slender and unusual in appearance. His thick hair waved back off a high brow and was touched with gray at the temples, suggesting his age was more than his ease of carriage and elegance of dress portrayed. His features were very aquiline, his mouth full of humor. Marielle introduced him as Mr. Boyd, and laid rather more emphasis on Margaret than Hester was prepared for.

She saw Margaret stiffen and the color rise to her cheeks, although she masked her discomfort as well as possible.

The usual formalities of refreshment were offered and accepted. Marielle invited them to remain for dinner also, and Margaret declined without even referring to Hester, stating a previous engagement which did not exist.

"It is very good of you to come in order to furnish us with assistance and information, Mr. Boyd," she said a little stiffly. "I hope it has not spoiled your evening."

"Not at all, Miss Ballinger," he replied, smiling very slightly, the humor going all the way to his eyes, as if he saw some joke that might be shared, but not spoken of. "Please tell me what it is you wish to know, and if I can answer you, then I will do so."

"I understand the restrictions," she said hastily. "I am sure you are aware that Mr. Baltimore died tragically just over two weeks ago... in Leather Lane?"

"I am." If he felt any distaste he was too well schooled to show it.

Hester's regard for him increased. She glanced at Marielle and saw her intense interest. She was watching Boyd, and then Margaret, and then Boyd again, as if the outcome was of the greatest importance to her. Hester was filled with a fierce understanding of why Margaret longed to escape from her home and the pressure to marry suitably... as Marielle had done, and possibly whatever other sisters she had. She recalled some mention of a younger one, who was no doubt impatient for her turn.

Was Boyd aware of this also? Did he know he was being gently but very firmly engineered into the desired place? He looked like a man supremely able to make his own decisions. No ambitious mother, or sister, would maneuver him, of that Hester was certain. But it was Margaret's feelings that concerned her.

"I work in a charity in that area," Margaret went on with a candor that made Marielle wince and her husband look startled, and then unhappy.

"Really, Margaret..." he said with disapproval. "Gaining a little money for those who are unfortunate is one thing, but you should not become involved in any personal way, my dear..."

Margaret ignored him, keeping her attention on Boyd. "Mrs. Monk was a nurse in the Crimea," she went on relentlessly. "She offers medical assistance to women who cannot afford to pay a doctor. I am privileged to give what additional help I can, as well as to raise money for the rent of the rooms and for medicines."

"Admirable," Boyd said, seemingly with sincerity. "I don't see what I can contribute, beyond an offering of money, which I am happy to do. What has Nolan Baltimore's business to do with this? He did well, but not extraordinarily so. And anyway, as you observed, he is dead now."

Hester searched his face but saw no personal grief in it, and no trace of surprise or alarm. Neither did she see the outrage she had at least half expected.

"He was murdered," Margaret added. "As you may imagine, it has caused some upheaval in the area, an intense police presence-"

"Of course it has!" Marielle said sharply, moving forward a step as if to come between Margaret and Hester, who represented this regrettable involvement of her sister's. "It is completely shocking that a respectable man should be attacked in the street and done to death by the immoral and predatory creatures who inhabit such places." She turned her shoulder toward Hester. "I don't know why you wish even to discuss such subjects, Margaret. You never used to be so bold in your conversation." She looked at Boyd. "I am afraid Margaret's soft heart at times leads her into some strange, not to say misguided, avenues..."

"Marielle..." Courtney began.

"I do not need you to apologize for me!" Margaret snapped. Then she looked candidly at Boyd before her sister could respond. "Mr. Boyd, Mrs. Monk and I have reason to believe that Mr. Baltimore may have been murdered by a business rival rather than a prostitute." She ignored Marielle's sharp intake of breath at the word. "And we would both be most obliged if you could tell us more of his business interests and his character as you may have heard it. Is it possible he went to meet someone he was dealing with in such a place as Leather Lane, or its environs, rather than in his customary offices?"

Hester felt obliged to interject. "We know what his family says of his business interests and conduct. I am acquainted with his daughter. But their view cannot help but be biased. What was his reputation in the City?"

"You speak very plainly, Mrs. Monk." Boyd turned his gaze to her, and she knew instantly that he remarked it in respect, not disapproval, although the faint ghost of humor was still there in his eyes. She found herself liking him. Had she been in Margaret's place, and had she not already met Oliver Rathbone, she might have been acutely uncomfortable at being so foisted upon this man, rather than having him choose her for himself. She believed closer acquaintance with him might prove a great pleasure.

"I do," she agreed. "The matter does not allow for misunderstandings. I apologize if it offends you." She knew it did not. "I am afraid nursing has blunted the edges of my good manners." Suddenly she smiled at him fully. "That is a euphemism. I never had any."

"Then I shall follow your example, Mrs. Monk," he replied with a very slight bending of his head, almost like a bow, his eyes dancing. "Nolan Baltimore was a man with great ambitions who took extraordinary chances in order to achieve them. He had courage and imagination, both of which were admired." He was watching her as he spoke, weighing what she made of his remarks.

"And..." she prompted him.

He acknowledged her understanding. "And some of his risks paid fairly well; others did not. He managed to survive rather better than some of his friends. He was not noted for his loyalty."

"In general?" Hester asked. "Or in particular?"

"I had no dealings with him myself."

She knew his tact was for Courtney, not for her. He expected her to understand his omissions as much as his words.

"From choice?" she said quickly.

"Yes." He smiled at her.

"Could any of his... chances... have taken him to Leather Lane?" she asked.

"Dubious finance?" His eyes widened. "It is not impossible. If one needs money and the usual services are not available, one goes elsewhere. A short-term loan that was to be paid off when an investment produced a high profit could be found in such a place. There is plenty of money in vice of one sort or another. People who come by it that way are often keen to invest it in a legitimate business."

"Really... Boyd!" Courtney growled. "I don't think this is the sort of thing to discuss in front of ladies!"

"If Mrs. Monk has been an army nurse, and now works in the Coldbath area, James, I doubt I can tell her anything that she does not already know better than I," Boyd pointed out with more humor than annoyance.

"I was thinking of my sister-in-law!" Courtney said a trifle waspishly, his eye flickering to Marielle and back again, as if in actuality responding to her rather than his own thoughts. "And my wife," he added, perhaps unaware of the implied insult to Hester.

Boyd looked at him coldly for a moment, and noticed him color, then he turned to Margaret. "I apologize if I have distressed you, Miss Ballinger," he said with a slight smile, but a question in his eye.

"I shall require an apology, Mr. Boyd, if you think me less able to face the truth than Mrs. Monk!" Margaret replied with heat. "You have answered us very frankly, and for that I am grateful. Please do not spoil your respect for our sincerity by equivocating now."

Boyd ignored both Courtney and Marielle as if they had not been present.

"Then I must tell you, Miss Ballinger," he replied, "that I think Nolan Baltimore was as likely to have gone to Leather Lane for the reasons generally supposed as for any business purpose, honorable or otherwise. The quality of his living, the cost of his clothes, his carriages, his food and wine, did not suggest a company with any need to seek finance." He waved Courtney's proposed interruption away impatiently, and without taking his eyes from Margaret's, he continued. "Since I have seen him in the City he has never restricted himself. Rumor has it that his company is on the verge of a great achievement. Perhaps he has borrowed against his expectations, or else he had a backer with very deep pockets. But before you ask me who it might be, I have no idea whatever. Not even an educated guess. I am sorry."

An extraordinary thought occurred to Hester, only a flutter of darkness to begin with, but less and less absurd as the seconds ticked by. "Please don't apologize, Mr. Boyd," she said with sincerity. "You have been most helpful." She ignored Margaret's look of surprise, and Marielle's clear disapproval.

Boyd smiled at her, curiosity and satisfaction in his face.

"How fortunate," Marielle said coolly, indicating that the subject was closed. "Have you seen the new exhibition at the British Museum yet, Margaret? Mr. Boyd was just telling us how fascinating it is. Egypt is a country I have always wished to visit. The past must seem so immediate there. It would give one quite a different perspective upon time, don't you think?"

"Unfortunately, it would not give me any more of it," Margaret said, trying to sound casual and less embarrassed than she was at such an obvious ploy. She looked at Boyd. "Thank you for your candor, Mr. Boyd. I hope you will excuse us leaving so abruptly, but there is no one to take our places should any injured be brought into the house in Coldbath Square." She looked at her sister. "Thank you for being so generous, Marielle. I am extremely grateful to you."

"You really must stay longer next time," Marielle said resentfully. "You must come to dinner, or to the theater. There are many excellent plays on at the moment. You are allowing your interests to become too narrow, Margaret. It cannot be good for you!"

Margaret ignored her, bade everyone good-bye, and a few moments later she and Hester were outside in the cool air of the street, walking toward the corner where they might find a hansom easily.

"What did he say that was helpful?" Margaret demanded. "I don't see what any of it means that is really any use."

"Mr. Boyd hinted that Baltimore had other income, apart from the railway company," Hester said a little tentatively.

"He went to Leather Lane on business?" Margaret was uncertain. "Does that help? We have no idea what business, or with whom. And actually didn't you say his death wasn't in Leather Lane anyway?"

"Yes, I did. I said it might very well have been in Portpool Lane."

Margaret stopped walking abruptly and swung around to face Hester. "You mean... in the brothel that is run by the usurer?"

"Yes-I do mean that."

"His tastes were... to humiliate young women who used to be respectable?" Disgust and anger were very clear in Margaret's face.

"Possibly," Hester agreed. "But what if that was his other source of income? His family would not know of it, nor would any gatherer of taxes or anything else. It would explain very nicely why he had more funds to spend on his pleasures than Baltimore and Sons could supply. And his death coincides just about exactly with Squeaky Robinson's panic. Maybe the question has nothing to do with railways. Maybe the question is-was he killed as a client who went too far, or as a usurer who got too greedy?"

Margaret was tense, but her eyes did not waver even though her voice did. "So what must we do? How can we find out?"

"I don't have any plan yet," Hester replied. "But I will certainly make one."

She saw a hansom and stepped off the curb, raising her hand in the air.

Margaret followed after her with equal determination.