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“Yes,” Monk agreed. “Yes, I imagine they will.” He put the money in his pocket and went out of the door.
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 ver
y 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?”
