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“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 p
resent 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.
