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He bowed very slightly. “Good-bye.”
Hester and Margaret walked away side by side, heads high, without speaking, each lost in her own thoughts. Hester assumed Margaret’s were of Rathbone, perhaps driven by emotions rather than reason. Her own were also emotional, the full realization that whether Rathbone knew it or not, he was falling in love with Margaret Ballinger quite as much as he had ever been with Hester herself. She felt a powerful mixture of regret and pleasure, but she knew in a while the pleasure would win.
By the time the hansom stopped in the Farringdon Road at just after half past nine, Hester, Margaret and Rathbone knew exactly what part each was going to play in what they hoped was going to be the downfall of Squeaky Robinson’s business. They alighted and walked the short distance in the fitful lamplight along Hatton Wall and across Leather Lane to the darkness of Portpool Lane, under the shadow of the brewery. None of them spoke, each concentrating on what he or she was going to say and how to assume their various roles.
Hester was nervous. It had seemed a brilliant idea when she first thought of it. Now that it was about to become a reality, she could see all the difficulties that she had so eagerly persuaded Margar
et, and then Rathbone, did not matter.
She led them through the alley entrance, which was still remarkably clear of rubbish, and up the steps to the door. As usual it was opened by the man in the cast-off butler’s suit.
“You again,” he said somewhat ungraciously to Hester, then looked beyond her to the other two. His face clouded. “ ’Oo are they?” he demanded.
“Friends of mine,” she replied confidently. “The gentleman is in a way of business which might interest Mr. Robinson. I am aware of certain”—she hesitated delicately—“requirements, at the moment. You had better tell him I am here.”
He was empowered to make decisions; it showed in his face. It was also more than likely that he was fully aware of the problems occasioned by Baltimore’s death. It was probably he who had moved the body and left it in Abel Smith’s house. He swung the door wide, slight surprise registering in his face. “Then yer’d better come in,” he suggested. “But don’t take no liberties. I’ll find if Mr. Robinson’ll see yer.”
He left them in the small side room in which Hester had waited before. There was not even space or chairs for all three of them to be seated.
Rathbone looked around him with curiosity and a slight puckering of his nose with distaste.
“Did you come here by yourself, Hester?” he said anxiously.
“Yes, of course I did,” she replied. “There’s no one to come with me. Don’t look like that. I didn’t meet with any harm.”
“Did Monk know?” he asked.
“No. And you are not going to tell him!” she said hotly. “I will do so myself, when the time is right.”
He smiled very slightly. “And when will that be?”
“When the matter is closed,” she said. “It is not always a good idea to tell everybody everything, you know. One should keep one’s own counsel at times.”
He gave her a pointed look.
“Hester is very brave,” Margaret said loyally. “Far braver than I am . . . in some things.”
“I hope you have more sense!” he said sharply.
Margaret blushed and looked down, then up again at him quickly. “I do not think you should criticize Hester, Sir Oliver. She does what she has to in order to protect people who have no one else to care for their interests. The fact that in some cases they may have made errors of judgment does not set them apart from the rest of us.”
Suddenly he smiled. It was a warm and charming gesture. “You are quite right. I’m not used to women who take such risks. It is my fear for her which speaks. I am very slow to learn that my discomfort may concern her, but it certainly will not stop her.”
“Would you wish it to?” Margaret challenged.
He thought for several seconds.
Hester waited, surprisingly interested in what he should reply.
“No,” he said at last. “I used to wish it would, but I have learned at least that much.”
Margaret smiled back at him, then looked away, conscious of his eyes upon her.
The butler returned. “Yer’d better come,” he said, jerking his head toward the corridor and leading them deeper into the warren of passages and stairways.
Squeaky Robinson was sitting in the same room as when Hester had seen him before. Piles of papers were strewn around him, and one gas lamp was lit, throwing a pool of yellow onto the desk. And again there was the tray with tea. He looked tired to the point of exhaustion; his skin was papery with dark smudges under his eyes. Had he been in ordinary trade Hester would have been sorry for him, but she was too aware of Fanny and Alice, and others like them, to allow herself such a feeling.
Squeaky stood up slowly, only glancing at Hester, then his eyes went straight to Rathbone. He barely noticed Margaret at all. Perhaps women were largely invisible to him if he was not inspecting them as goods.
