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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 attenti
on. “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.”
