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s are getting ugly and more and more women will get hurt.”
Ada was still suspicious. “And since when did women ’oo speak like you care if women like us got trade or not?” she said, her eyes narrow. “Thought you was all fired up ter clean the streets and put decency back inter life.” She said this last with sarcasm like an open razor.
“If you think putting constables on every corner is going to do that, you’re a fool!” Hester retorted. “There’s no ’like me’ and ’like you.’ All kinds of women can find themselves in debt and take to the streets to pay it. They might have to cater to specialist tastes, but they take what they can get. It’s better than being beaten half to death.”
“We don’t do that ter nob’dy,” Ada said indignantly, but beside the self-righteousness there was a ring of honesty in her voice as well, and Hester heard it.
“Do you cater to special tastes?” Hester asked.
“Not wi’ girls wot are ’ere ’cos o’ debts wot we know anythin’ abaht,” Ada replied. “They’re jus’ orn’ry girls wot wants ter make a livin’, an’ they don’ get enough ter pay more’n their way.”
Hester glanced at the room. What Ada said was easy enough to believe, although it was quite possible they had a second establishment, or even a third, which could be different from his. But for all she could tell, no one had seen Nolan Baltimore in the area. If he had been killed in one of Abel Smith’s other houses, were there any, Smith would hardly have had the body dumped here. She was inclined to believe them.
Her silence unnerved Ada. “We don’t do nothin’ like that!” Ada reiterated. “Jus’ straight bus’ness. An’ we in’t never beat no one.” She sniffed fiercely. “Less they got uppity an’ looked fer it. Gotta ’ave some discipline or yer in’t got nothin’. People in’t got no respect fer a great soft ’eap like’im!” She glanced witheringly at Abel.
“May I speak to some of your girls, to ask if anyone saw Mr. Baltimore around the streets here, or knows where he could have gone?” Hester requested.
Ada considered for a few moments. “I s’pose,” she said at last. Apparently she had weighed what Hester had told her and decided a degree of trust might get her what she wanted. “But don’ take all night! Times is ’ard. We in’t got opportunities ter waste!”
Hester did not bother to answer.
She spent nearly an hour speaking with one bored or frightened woman after another, but none of them were marked as far as she could see. Certainly none of them were prepared to admit having seen Nolan Baltimore in Leather Lane, only at the bottom of the stairs here on the night of his death.
“Daft question, if yer ask me!” one woman called Polly said with total disdain. “ ’E were a toff. Money comin’ outer ’is ears, an’ all.” Her laugh changed into a snarl, more disgust than anger. “Look at us, lady! D’yer think someone like that’s gonna come ’ere ter the likes o’ us? ’E wants summink special, an’ ’e can pay fer it.” She shrugged, and yanked the sliding shoulder of her dress back up again. “ ’E prob’ly goes up Squeaky Robinson’s way. ’E could pay ’is prices, an’ no trouble.”
“Squeaky Robinson?” Hester repeated, almost afraid to believe. “Who is he?”
“Dunno,” Polly said immediately. “Nearer Coldbath, an’ the brewery. ’Atton Wall, or Portpool Lane, mebbe. Don’ wanner know. Neither d’ you, if yer knows wot’s good fer yer.”
“Thank you.” Hester stood up. “You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate it.”
“In’t told yer nothin’,” Polly denied bluntly, jerking the dress back into position again and swearing under her breath.
“No,” Hester agreed. “Except that Baltimore didn’t die here. In fact, he didn’t do business here at all.”
“Yer right,” Polly said with feeling. “ ’E din’t!”
Hester believed her. All the way back to Coldbath Square she turned it over in her mind and was sure that Nolan Baltimore had met his death somewhere else and been carried to Abel Smith’s house in order to move the blame.
But she was a little closer to finding out where he had been killed, or why, though she would not forget the name of Squeaky Robinson, or the fact that, according to Polly, he catered to men with expensive and different tastes.
CHAPTER SIX
Monk had considered very carefully all the information he possessed regarding the Baltimore and Sons railway, and he could see no obvious fraud in the purchase of land or any other part of the project. But even if there had been illegitimate profit made in either the buying or not buying of certain stretches of the track, he could think of no way in which it could be connected with a risk of accident. And that was what exercised his mind in ways Katrina Harcus could not imagine. Of course a present danger mattered, and he was acutely aware that if such existed he had a moral duty as well as a desire to do everything in his power to avoid it. But what hurt with a massive, drowning pain—because it was irretrievable—was the fear that in the past the fraud for which Arrol Dundas had died was in some way responsible for the crash Monk remembered with such awful guilt.
He strode across the grass of Regent’s Park toward the Royal Botanic Society Gardens, barely noticing the other people strolling by. His mind was torn between past and present. Each held the key to the other, and he might find both in the few snatches of information Katrina held, locked in and obscured by her emotions. They had at least that in common. She was terrified for Dalgarno and what she did not know about him, and dreaded could be true. Monk was terrified in exactly the same way, but for himself.
It was bright sunshine with all the aching silver-and-gold clarity of spring, and the gardens were busy with people. Having nerved himself to meet her, he felt a sharp disappointment that he looked for her for several minutes in vain. There were dozens of women of all ages. He could see colored silk and lace, embroidered muslin, hats with flowers, parasols in a jungle of points above the spread domes of cloth. They walked in twos and threes, laughing together, or on the arms of admirers, heads high, a flounce of skirts.
He stood in the gateway with a sense of acute disappointment. He had steeled himself for the meeting, and now he would have to do it again tomorrow. He had no idea where she lived or how to find her, and no other avenue of investigation to pursue to fill in the time until she might be here again.
“Mr. Monk!”
He swung around. She was there behind him. He was so pleased to see her he did not notice what she was wearing, except that it was pale and faintly patterned. It was her face he watched, her amazing, dark-fringed eyes, and he knew he was smiling. It probably misled her, as if he had good news to tell, and even though that was a lie, he could not alter it. The sheer relief bubbled up inside him.
“Miss Harcus! I . . . I was afraid you would not come,” he said hastily. It was not really what he meant, but he could think of nothing more exact.
She searched his face. “Have you news?” she said almost breathlessly. He noticed only now how pale she was. He could feel the emotion in her as he could in himself, tight, curled like a spring ready to break.
