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“Until he died as well. . . .” Rathbone observed.
“That was his own fault too!” Squeaky said immediately. “He got stupid, and thought just because he had a share in the place that he could go as far as he liked with the girls.”
“One of them killed him?” Rathbone said very softly.
“Yeh. But she’s gone. Too wild, that one. Pushed him out o’ the window. Top story, an’ all.” He winced. “What a mess! It’s all right, though, the police don’t even know it happened here.” He grinned. “We put the body in old Abel Smith’s place, like he fell down the stairs.”
“Very tidy,” Rathbone observed. “You have a gift for making the best of bad luck.”
“Thank you.” Squeaky bowed.
Margaret drew in her breath sharply.
“Now all I require is to look at your accounts, if you please,” Rathbone asked.
Squeaky hesitated, staring at Rathbone as if to hold his attention while he deliberated. He glanced at Hester, then Margaret in the background, barely moving, then at Rathbone again.
Rathbone understood his meaning instantly. “Miss . . .” Then he changed his mind. “I cannot enter a business unless I have a financial opinion upon the books, Mr. Robinson—one that I trust.” He smiled very slightly, hardly more than an easing of his features. “I do not care to consult my usual bankers in this particular matter.”
Squeaky grinned, then nodded slowly, satisfied. He turned and went to a cupboard on the far side of the overcrowded room. Taking a key out of his pocket—although it remained attached to him by a chain—he opened one of the doors. He lifted up a large ledger, relocked the door, and carried the ledger over to the table.
Margaret stepped forward. “I shall require a quiet place to study the figures.” She said it coolly, but Hester knew from the tension in her shoulders and the slightly higher pitch of her voice that she was desperately aware that everything hung on this moment. “Alone, and no interruptions, if you please,” Margaret added. “Then, if it is satisfactory, you can make the arrangements.”
Squeaky regarded her with curiosity. It was perfectly plain that she was nothing he had expected, and he was confused. She did not belong in any preconceived part of his world.
She waited. No one interrupted the silence.
Rathbone moved from one foot to the other. Hester all but held her breath.
“Right,” Squeaky said at last. He offered the ledger for Margaret, who took it with very slightly trembling hands and clasped it to her.
“Through there,” Squeaky said, pointing to a corner of the room where another doorway was partially concealed by a curtain.
“Thank you,” Hester accepted immediately, and to Squeaky’s fairly obvious relief, she and Margaret left him alone with Rathbone.
The next room was small and enclosed. The turning up of the gaslight revealed one square, uncurtained window overlooking rooftops almost indistinguishable against the night sky.
There was one chair and a table on rickety legs. Margaret sat down and opened the ledger, and Hester leaned over her shoulder and read with her. It was written in a very neat crabbed hand, all the figures sloping backward a little.
Even at a glance the profits were plain to see, if the entries were honest. But it was the IOUs they needed. Whatever this proved was immaterial. It was not illegal.
Margaret started to turn the pages more hurriedly, then picked up the whole ledger and held it upside down. Nothing fell out.
“They’re not here!” she said with a note of desperation.
“Give it a few moments more, as if we had read it all,” Hester replied. “Then I’ll go and ask for them. I’ll say you need to get an idea of the future, as well as the past.”
Obediently, Margaret returned her attention to the columns and perfunctorily added them up.
“Baltimore was turning a very nice profit on this,” she said bitterly after another few moments. “This looks like Alice’s repayments here.” She pointed. “Stopping about the time of Baltimore’s murder. Actually, there are hardly any repayments after that, only this one.”
“Right,” Hester said firmly. “That’s all I need. I’ll go to see Mr. Robinson.” She went straight to the door and, without knocking, back into the room where Rathbone and Squeaky were sitting facing each other in what seemed to be earnest conversation. Squeaky looked excited and anxious, leaning forward so the gaslight threw his seamed face into heavy relief, and Rathbone relaxed back in his chair, half smiling.
They both turned as Hester came in.
“What is it?” Squeaky demanded.
Rathbone frowned, his eyes searching hers.
