Death Of A Stranger

CHAPTER FIVE

Hester had spent a strange, unhappy evening after Monk’s return, aware that there was something powerful in him that she could not reach. He was either unwilling or unable to share it. She had missed him while he was away, and taken the opportunity to put in as much work as possible at the house on Coldbath Square, and she would have been happy to go there far later, or even not at all, had he said only once that he wished her to stay.

But he did not. He was brittle, absorbed in thought, and he seemed almost relieved when she said good-bye just before ten o’clock and went out into the lamp-lit darkness and took the first passing hansom to Coldbath Square.

The night was chill and she was glad of the warmth that enveloped her when she pushed the door of the clinic open and went inside. Bessie was sitting at the table stitching buttons onto a white blouse, and she looked up, her face filling with pleasure when she saw Hester.

“Yer look pinched,” she said with concern. “Nice ’ot cup o’ tea’ll do yer good.” She put the sewing down and rose to her feet. “Like a drop o’ the ’ard stuff with it?” She did not even reach for it, knowing Hester would refuse. She always did, but Bessie always offered. It was a sort of ritual.

“No, thank you,” Hester replied with a smile, hanging her damp coat on the hook on the wall. “But don’t let me stop you.”

That was ritual also. “Now that you mention it,” Bessie agreed, “don’t mind if I do.” She went to the stove to make sure the kettle was on the boil, and Hester went to look at the patients.

Fanny, the girl who had been stabbed, was feverish and in a great deal of pain, but she appeared to be no worse than Hester had expected. Wounds like that did not heal easily. Her fever seemed to be down.

“Have you eaten anything?” Hester asked her.

Fanny nodded. “Nearly,” she whispered. “I had some beef broth. Thank you.”

Bessie was coming toward them, a wide, benign shadow between the beds, away from the light of the far end of the room.

“Mr. Lockhart was right pleased with ’er,” she said with pleasure. “ ’E come about midday. Sober as a judge.” She added that last bit with pride, as if it were partially her achievement. Perhaps it was.

“Did you give him luncheon?” Hester asked without looking up at Bessie.

“What if I did?” Bessie demanded. “We can spare’im a bit o’ bubble an’ squeak, an’ a sausage or two!”

Hester smiled, knowing Bessie had brought it out of her own meager pantry. “Of course we can,” she agreed, pretending she did not know. “Small enough reward for all he does.”

“Yer right!” Bessie said vehemently, darting a slightly suspicious look at Hester, and then away again. “An’ ’e looked at Alice, an’ all, poor thing. Said as she’s doin’ as well as yer could expect. Spent a fair time talkin’ to ’er. ’E an’ Miss Margaret put arnica poultices on ’er, jus’ like me an’ yer did, an’ it seemed ter ’elp ’er some.” There was fear in Bessie’s voice. Hester knew she wanted to ask if Alice was going to live, and yet she was too afraid of the answer to do it.

The fact that Alice had already survived three days since her injuries was the most hopeful sign. Had there been the internal bleeding they feared, she would have been dead by now.

Hester went to her and saw that she was half asleep, dozing fitfully, muttering under her breath as if troubled by dreams. There was nothing to do to help her. Either her body would heal in time, or she would develop fever or gangrene and die. In a while, when she was more wakeful, they would give her a little more to drink, then sponge her down with cool water and give her a fresh nightgown.

Hester returned to the table at the far end of the room where Bessie was allowing the tea to brew and putting a generous dash of whiskey into her own mug.

There were still police on every street in the Coldbath area, harassing people, asking questions. Hester had noticed them, looking profoundly unhappy but unable to escape the necessity. Most of them were locally based and knew the women-and the men who regularly came to take their pleasures, although in the current climate there were fewer and fewer of them. Business was poor in other trades as well; all those on the edge of the law were nervous and tempers were short. There was no money to be spared for small treats like peppermint water, flowers, ham sandwiches, a new hat, a toy for a child. Sellers of matches and bootlaces were about the only ones doing well.

A little before midnight Jessop called again, pressing for higher rent. He stood in the middle of the floor with his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his red brocade waistcoat, trying to add restrictions and generally making a nuisance of himself. The few women who were hurt or ill had already complained of his presence, and would do so again if he kept on coming. He made them wary; he represented authority, no matter how distantly. Hester pointed that out to him and asked him to leave. He smiled with satisfaction and remained the longer, until Bessie lost her temper and filled the bucket with hot water, lye, and vinegar. She started to scrub the floor, splashing the bucket’s contents all over his boots deliberately, and he left in umbrage. Bessie then made a very slapdash effort at cleaning a couple of yards of the floor, then threw the good water away. She and Hester curled up on two of the empty beds and slept on and off, undisturbed by patients for most of the night, only getting up twice to help Alice.

“I put a weapon into his hand, didn’t I!” Margaret said with chagrin when Hester told her about Jessop’s visit early on the following morning when she arrived just after nine o’clock, and Bessie had gone for some shopping.

Margaret was too honest for Hester to patronize her with an excuse. Today of all days she felt a burning need for candor.

“I’m afraid so,” she agreed, but with a rueful smile to rob it of offense. They were busy seeing what bandages could be saved from those used and washed. They were not in a position to afford any unnecessary supplies. “But I don’t think it will make any difference in a while. We’ll have to find a new place as soon as we can. He’ll put us out at the first opportunity. He was always going to do that.”

Margaret did not reply. Her fingers moved nimbly over the rolls of cloth, sorting some out and throwing them away, keeping the others. “What are we going to do about the usurer and the women who are being beaten?” she said at last.

Hester had been thinking about just that since she had first learned the truth from Alice, and had come to the conclusion that by themselves there was nothing they could do that did not risk making the situation worse. The usury was not a crime that the law could reach in the ordinary way. She had toyed with other ideas, but never formed any coherent plan they might be capable of carrying out.

This morning she felt even more helpless in the face of pain, because her own happiness was dimmed, her confidence in herself shadowed by the fact that Monk had placed a distance between them. Something hurt him, and he was not able to share it with her.

“We need help,” she said aloud. Already her mind was made up. “Someone who knows the law far better than we do.”

“Mr. Monk?” Margaret said quickly.

“No, I meant a lawyer.” Hester refused to allow herself to be hurt by the thought that it was not Monk she would turn to. “Someone who knows about usury, and that kind of thing,” she answered. “I think we should go as soon as legal offices will be open. Bessie will be back by then, and it is not very likely anyone will come in during the morning who can’t wait for us to return.”

“But who could we find who would be interested in cases like Fanny or Alice?” Margaret asked. “And we have no spare money to pay with. Everything is already committed to rent and supplies.” She said that firmly, just in case Hester should be inclined to be impractical and forget their priorities.

“I know at least where to begin,” Hester replied soberly. “I won’t spend our supply money, I promise.” She did not yet want to tell Margaret that she was planning to see Sir Oliver Rathbone. He had been on the verge of asking Hester to marry him once. He had hesitated, and then not spoken the words. Perhaps he had seen in her face that she was not yet ready to make such a decision, or even that she would never love anyone else with the fierceness or the magic with which she loved Monk. She could not help that, whether Monk ever returned her feeling or not, and at that time she had not known. It was only after that that she had discovered Monk did return her feelings, passionately and profoundly, and he had accepted that to deny his own emotions would be to deny all the best in himself, as well as the most vulnerable.

They were friends, all three of them, in a fashion. Rathbone still felt a deep affection for her. She knew that, and Monk had to be aware of it also. But they were allies in a cause which overrode personal wounds and losses. Rathbone had never turned down a case he believed in, however difficult or against whatever odds, and certainly not because it was brought to him by Monk.

She and Margaret would go to Vere Street and tell Oliver all that they knew. At least it would be a burden shared. Suddenly she knew how good it would feel to see him, to be aware of the warmth of his regard for her, and his trust.

Actually, it was after eleven o’clock before Hester and Margaret were ushered into Rathbone’s office with its beautiful leather inlaid desk and cabinets full of books, and the long windows overlooking the street.

Rathbone came forward toward Hester, smiling broadly. He was not much more than average height. His charm lay in the intelligence in his face, in his wry, delicate humor and the supreme confidence of his bearing. He was a gentleman, and he had the ease of privilege and education.

“Hester, what a pleasure to see you, even if it has to be a problem that brings you here,” he said sincerely. “Who is wrongly accused of what? I imagine it is murder? It usually is, with you.”

“Not yet,” she replied, warmth engulfing her just to hear the gentleness in his voice. She turned to introduce Margaret, and as he turned also she saw a sudden interest spark in his dark eyes, as if already he recognized her, or something in her that he was happy to see. “This is Miss Margaret Ballinger,” she said quickly. “Sir Oliver Rathbone.”

Margaret drew in her breath to reply, a very faint flush in her cheeks.

“We have met already,” Rathbone said before Margaret could speak. “At a ball, I forget where, but we danced. It was just before that miserable business with the architect. It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Ballinger.” The expression in his face suggested that he was speaking honestly, not simply as a matter of good manners.

Margaret took a deep breath, just a trifle shakily. “Thank you for seeing us with no notice at all, Sir Oliver. It is very gracious of you.”

“Hester always brings me the most fascinating problems,” he demurred, inviting them with a gesture to sit down, and when they had done so, taking the seat behind the desk himself. “You said no one has been murdered yet. Should I deduce from that that you expect someone will be?” There was no mockery in his tone; it was light, but perfectly serious.

“Two people have been very badly injured, and more will be,” Hester said a fraction more quickly than she had meant to. She was aware that Rathbone was at least as conscious of Margaret as he was of her. She realized with a yawning hollow inside her how much of his life lay beyond her knowledge. The material facts of it did not matter, it was the wealth of people he knew, the emotions, the laughter and hurt, the dreams that were the man inside.

He was waiting for her to continue.

“Miss Ballinger and I have rented a house in Coldbath Square in which to offer medical treatment to women of the street who are injured or ill,” she said, ignoring the look in his eyes, the strange mixture of tenderness, admiration, and horror. “Lately at least two women have come in very seriously beaten,” she went on. “One of them has said that she used to be a governess, then married, and her husband led her into debt. She borrowed money, and then could not repay it.” She was speaking too quickly. Deliberately, she slowed herself. “The usurer offered her a position as a prostitute, catering to men who like to humiliate and abuse women who were once respectable.” She saw the disgust in his face. If he could have listened to her and felt nothing she would have despised him for it.

Rathbone glanced at Margaret, saw the anger in her, and something in him softened even further.

“Go on,” he said, turning back to Hester.

“I daresay you are aware that a Mr. Nolan Baltimore was murdered in Leather Lane just over a week ago?” she asked.

He nodded. “I am.”

“Since then the police have patrolled the area with more men than usual, with the result that there is far less trade possible for such women. They are earning little or no money, and cannot pay the usurer. They are being beaten for their delinquency in their debts.” Memory of the two women momentarily obliterated any sense of her own loneliness. She leaned forward earnestly. “Please, Oliver, there must be something we can do to stop it. They are far too terrified and ashamed to fight back for themselves.” She watched him struggle for something to say to let her down gently. She was asking too much. She would have liked to withdraw, be reasonable, but the reality of their pain burned too hotly inside her.

“Hester…” he began.

“I know the whole world of Coldbath Square and Leather Lane are outside the law,” she said quickly, before he could dismiss her. “It shouldn’t be! Do we always have to wait until people come to us before we can help them? Sometimes we have to see the problem and address it anyway.” She was aware of Margaret’s slight stiffening. Perhaps she was unaccustomed to such frankness from a woman to a man. It was unbecoming, not the way either to win or to keep a husband.

“You mean decide for them?” Rathbone said with a wry smile. “That doesn’t sound like you, Hester.”

“I’m a nurse, not a lawyer!” she said sharply. “Quite often I have to help people when they are beyond knowing anything for themselves. It is my skill to know what they need, and do it.”

This time his smile was full of warmth, a genuine sweetness in it. “I know that. It is a kind of moral courage I have admired in you from the day we met. I find it a little overwhelming, because I don’t possess it myself.”

She found tears prickling her eyes for an instant. She knew he meant it, and it was more precious to her than she had expected. But she still wished to argue. That was no help to women like Alice and Fanny. “Oliver…”

Margaret leaned forward. “Sir Oliver,” she said urgently, her cheeks flushed but her eyes steady, “if you had seen that poor woman’s body with its broken arms and legs, if you could see her pain, her fear, and the shame she feels because she has taken to the streets to pay her husband’s debts, you would feel as we do, that to nurse her through the daily distress of at least partial recovery, only to set her out into Coldbath for it to happen again, because her debt is ever falling behind…”

“Miss Ballinger…”

“Then-” She stopped abruptly, the color deepening in her face as she became conscious of how forward she was being. “I am sorry,” she said contritely. “It is not your sort of case. And it is not as if we had any money to pay you.” She rose to her feet, her eyes downcast with embarrassment. “It was an act of desperation…”

“Miss Ballinger!” He rose also, stepping around the desk towards her. “Please,” he said gently. “I do not mean that I am unwilling, simply that I do not know what I can do! But I promise you that I will put my attention to it, and if there is anything that may be done within and through the law, I will tell you, and take your instructions. Money need not be a consideration. I hesitate only because I do not wish to promise what it is outside my power to give.”

Margaret looked up at him quickly, her eyes candid and direct, her face filled with gratitude. “Thank you…”

Hester realized with a shock of amazement that Rathbone was acceding to a request entirely against his interests and outside his nature in order not to refuse Margaret. It was not Hester he was pleasing, as it had always been in the past. She was glad he agreed, of course, and grateful, but it was an odd sense of rebuff that it was not for her. It was not obvious-in no way had he been less than friendly to her, but the quality of his attention was different. She knew it as certainly as a change of temperature in the air. She should have been happy for both of them. She was happy! She did not wish Rathbone to spend the rest of his life in love with her when she would only ever love Monk. But just today, this was as if a door had closed in front of her, and something in it hurt.

Rathbone had turned towards her. She must smile, it was imperative.

“Thank you,” she added to Margaret’s words. “I think we have told you everything that we know. It is the principle rather than individual women so far, but if we learn anything further we will inform you, of course.”

There was nothing else for any of them to say, and they were conscious of the courtesy of his having seen them at all at the expense of other clients waiting. They excused themselves, thanking him again, and five minutes later were in a hansom riding back toward Coldbath Square. They did not speak, each lost in her own thoughts. Margaret was still flushed, her eyes wide, turned away from Hester and staring out of the window at the passing streets. No words could have been more eloquent of the fact that very plainly she had not forgotten her first meeting with Rathbone, nor had its emotional mark on her been worn away in the time between. But it was something too delicate to share. Had their roles been reversed, Hester would not have spoken either, and she did not think of intruding now. She and Margaret had been honest and natural friends. Part of such friendship was respect, and the understanding of when not to speak.

She did not wish to share her own thoughts, except the superficial ones of the mind, the difficulty of knowing where to find the women who owed money to the usurer, of persuading them that help was possible… if indeed it was, and the effort needed to convince them that the exercise of courage would win them anything but further pain. Above all there was the necessity of being absolutely certain that that was true.

But Margaret had been in Coldbath Square long enough to know that for herself, so Hester also watched the streets pass by and thought of practical things.

In the afternoon another woman was brought in beaten for debt. She was not seriously injured, but she was very frightened, and it was that which marked her apart from the usual anger and misery of those hurt. She was almost silent as Hester and Margaret tended to her shallow, painful knife cuts. She would not say who had inflicted them on her, no lies and no truth, but they were very obviously intentionally made. No imaginable accident could have caused such vicious and repeated slicing of the flesh.

She stayed a few hours, until they were certain the bleeding was stopped and the woman had at least partially recovered from shock. Margaret wished her to stay longer, but shaking her head, she picked up her torn shawl, once a pretty thing with flowers and fringes, and went out into the square toward the Farringdon Road.

Margaret stood in the middle of the room and looked around at the tidy cupboards, the scrubbed tabletops and the floor.

Hester shrugged. “I suppose we should be glad there’s nobody else hurt,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “Do you want to go home? There really isn’t anything to do, and Bessie’ll be in later, if anything should happen.”

Margaret grimaced. “And trail around behind Mama, calling on nice ladies who look at me with kindly despair and wonder why I haven’t accepted a reasonable offer of marriage?” she said wryly. “Then they’ll assume that there is something terribly wrong with me… too indiscreet to mention, and they will think I have lost my virtue!” She gave a little grunt of frustration. “Why is it that young women are presumed to have only two possible virtues-chastity and obedience?” she demanded with sudden fierceness. “What about courage, or honesty of opinion, not just a matter of not taking what does not belong to you?”

“Because they make people uncomfortable,” Hester replied without hesitation, but giving Margaret a crooked, sympathetic smile.

“Can you imagine anything lonelier than being married to someone who always says what he thinks you want to hear, regardless of whatever it is that he thinks?” Margaret asked, her brows puckered in a frown. “It would be like living in a room full of mirrors, where every other face you saw was simply a reflection of your own.”

“I think it would be a very particular kind of hell,” Hester answered with a rush of wonder and pity that anyone could imagine they desired such a thing, and yet she knew many who thought they did. “You have a gift to put it into such vivid words,” she added with admiration. “Perhaps you should try to convey it visually sometime?”

“That would be something really worth drawing,” Margaret responded. “I am so bored with doing the predictable, just reproducing what I see in front of me, with no greater meaning.”

“I can barely draw a straight line,” Hester admitted.

Margaret flashed her a sudden smile. “There are no straight lines in art-except perhaps the horizons at sea. Would you like me to go out and see if I can find us some hot pies for luncheon? There is a good peddler on the corner of Mount Pleasant and Warner Street.”

“What an excellent idea,” Hester said enthusiastically. “One with flaky pastry-and lots of onions… please?”

In the late afternoon Bessie came in carrying a basket with herbs, tea, a bottle of brandy, and a loaf of bread. She set it down on the table and looked around the room before taking off her hat and cape.

“Nobody!” she said with disgust, hanging the cape and bonnet on the hooks near the door. “ ’Ardly a bleedin’ soul out in the streets neither, ’ceptin’ damn bluebottles! An’ bin like that all night too, they say.” She looked at Hester reproachfully, as if somehow she had failed to do anything about it.

“I know!” Hester replied tartly. “The pressure is still on them to find whoever killed Nolan Baltimore.”

“Some pimp ’e crossed up!” Bessie retorted. “What else? Der they think as someone’s goin’ ter tell ’em that if they asks often enough? Don’t s’pose nob’dy knows, ’ceptin’’im wot done it. An’ ’e in’t gonna tell. ’E’d be dancin’ at the end of a rope ’fore ’e can say ’knife.’ “ She walked over to the cupboard and started to rearrange the things inside it so she could put the new groceries away. “Funny, innit? Some bleedin’ usurer can beat a girl ’alf ter death, an’ nob’dy gives a toss! But kill some toff wot’s refused ter pay ’is debts an’ ’alf the rozzers in Lunnon’s out in the streets wastin’ their time askin’ questions they know nob’dy’s gonna answer. Sometimes I think they’re sittin’ on their brains an’ thinkin’ wi’ their backsides!” She glared at the basket. “Couldn’t get no butter. Yer’ll ’ave ter do wi’ bread an’ jam.”

Margaret stopped riddling the stove and moved the kettle over onto the hob.

“Nob’dy’s workin’!” Bessie went on relentlessly. “Them as brings the money in are frit o’ bein’ done by the rozzers… all this ’keep the streets decent’ thing. An’ them as if livin’ ’ere in’t got no trade ’cos no one’s got no money! It’s wicked-that’s wot it is.”

There was no answer to make. There was not even any purpose in either Hester’s or Margaret’s remaining for the rest of the afternoon. Hester said as much, and Bessie agreed with her.

“Yer get orff.” She nodded. “There’s nothin’ much gonna ’appen ’ere. If that fat slug Jessop comes ’round lookin’ fer yer, I’ll give’im a nice ’ot cup o’ tea!” She grinned demonically.

“Bessie!” Hester warned.

“Wot?” She opened her eyes wide. “If it don’t agree wif’im, I know ’ow ter give summink ter make’im sick it up! I won’ let the bastard die, I gi’ me word.” She spat and made an elaborate gesture of crossing her heart.

Hester glanced at Margaret, and they both half hid smiles.

But all the way home and for the rest of the evening until Monk returned late and tired, Hester thought about the women, the police around the Farringdon Road and the Coldbath area. It was no moral answer to the evil to get the police presence removed, but it was a practical answer to the lack of trade which was crippling everyone and turning tempers so ugly.

She had tried to avoid coming to the conclusion, but it was inevitable: the only thing that would make them leave would be to solve the murder of Nolan Baltimore. If the police were going to succeed, they would almost certainly have done so by now. The community had closed against them, which was to be expected. No one would tell them anything of meaning in case it would implicate himself, in prostitution if nothing else. And most of the inhabitants of the Leather Lane area were involved, at least peripherally, in fencing stolen goods, a little forgery, of documents if not of money, in pickpocketing, burglary, cardsharping and a dozen other illegal pursuits.

She could ask Monk, at least for advice, if not practical help. He knew and understood murder and its investigation. And perhaps it was in the interest of his own case to learn everything he could of the man who, until a week or two ago, had been the head of Baltimore and Sons. If there had been fraud, he might have known of it; he might even have been the man who perpetrated it. Surely it was reasonable to suppose his death was connected?

In fact, the jarringly ugly thought was irrefutable that Michael Dalgarno could have followed him to Leather Lane and killed him, precisely because he knew of the fraud and would have exposed it.

Why had Monk not thought of that?

Because he was so caught up in investigating the exact nature of the fraud, and whether it could provoke a disaster, that he had ignored Nolan Baltimore’s murder.

She waited for him, barely thinking of what else she was doing. She found herself listening for the sound of horses in the street from six o’clock onwards, for the opening and closing of the door and his footsteps. When they finally came at nearly quarter to eight she was caught by surprise, and almost ran into the hall.

He saw her face, the expectation in it, and gave her a quick smile and then looked away. The weariness and anxiety in him were so easy to read she hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether to say anything more than a few words of welcome. Should she ask him if he were hungry or had eaten, or make some enquiry after his success that could be answered on the surface-or honestly, as he chose? She could not let it slide by. If he were not going to break the barrier, then she must.

“Did you find anything more about the fraud?” she asked, not casually, but as if she were waiting for and required an answer.

“Nothing helpful,” he replied, taking his jacket off and hanging it up on the hook. “There’s dubious profit in land sales, but nothing more than I imagine most companies make. There are some losses as well.”

She felt as if he had closed a door. There seemed little more that she could ask, but she refused to let go. She watched him, but he moved around the room restlessly, without looking directly at her, touching things, straightening, putting away. Was she mithering him just at the time when he needed the silent understanding of a friend? Was she being selfish, expecting him to give her his attention, listen to her, think of her problems when he was exhausted?

Or was she breaking a barrier while it was still thin enough to be penetrated easily, before it became habit?

“We need to find out who killed Nolan Baltimore,” she said very clearly.

“Do we?” There was doubt in his voice. He was standing near the mantelshelf staring down at the embers of the fire. It was a sharp evening, and she had lit the fire for company as well as warmth. “I don’t see that his personal weaknesses have anything to do with railway fraud, if there is any.”

“If he defrauded somebody of money, then Leather Lane seems an excellent place to kill him,” she retorted, wishing he would look at her. “A perfect situation to blame someone else, and exact a rather painful revenge on his reputation as well.”

This time he did look up and smile, but it was without pleasure. There was an openness that flickered for an instant in his eyes, as if there had been no shadow, then it was gone again. The anxiety was back, and with it the distance between them.

“Actually, when I said ’we,’ “ she corrected herself, “I meant Margaret Ballinger and me. Or perhaps I meant everybody in Coldbath. More women are getting beaten because they can’t pay their debts. The police are all over the place so nobody’s doing any trade.”

“You wish to find who killed Baltimore so the police will leave and the prostitutes can get back into business?” he said with an edge of mockery she could not miss. “You have strange moral convictions, Hester.”

Was that pain in his voice now? Did he feel she had let him down, that she should have taken a higher, more puritan stand? He was disappointed, and she felt rebuked.

“If I could change the world so no women ever went into prostitution, I would!” she said angrily. “Perhaps you can tell me where I should begin? Get every woman a decent living at something more respectable, perhaps? Or stop every man from wanting… or needing… to buy his pleasures outside his own home?” She saw his expression of surprise and ignored it. “Perhaps every man should be married, and every wife comply with her husband’s wishes? Or better still, no man should have wishes he can’t satisfy honorably… that would solve at least half of it! Then all we would have to do is change the economy… after that changing human nature should be relatively easy!”

“You have rather escalated your demands,” he said quietly. “I thought all you wanted was for me to solve Nolan Baltimore’s murder.”

Her anger vanished. She did not want to quarrel with him. She wanted intensely, fiercely, to hold him in her arms and share whatever it was that hurt him so much, to take at least half of it, if not all, to fight it with him, beside him.

It was better to try, and be rebuffed, than not to try at all. Even rejection would not hurt more than this distance, which was a kind of little death. She walked over to him and stopped just in front of him, forcing him either to meet her eyes or deliberately look away.

“All I want is for you to advise me,” she said. “What should I do? What questions should I ask? Some of the women will trust me, where they won’t trust the police.”

“Leave it alone, Hester.” He lifted one hand as if to touch her cheek, then let it fall again. “It’s too dangerous. You think they trust you, and they do, to take care of their injuries. But you aren’t one of them and you never will be.”

“But that’s just the point, William!” She caught hold of his hand, gripping it hard. “I could have been! These women who owe money were perfectly respectable only a short while ago. They were governesses, parlor maids, married women who were abandoned, or whose husbands got into debt. They could have been nurses! I earned my own living in other people’s houses before I married you. One mistake, one misfortune, and I could have borrowed money, and found myself on the streets to pay it back.” She pulled a self-mocking face. “At least if I were a trifle younger.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he said very softly, but with absolute certainty. “You would never have lent yourself to that, at any age. You’d have led a rebellion, or taken ship to America, or even stuck a knife between his ribs, but you wouldn’t have gone meekly to the slaughter.”

“Sometimes you rate my courage too high,” she replied, but with a rush of warmth inside her at the strength of his admiration. “I don’t know what I would have done. Thank God I was never put to the test.”

He stood silently for a moment, then bent and kissed her long and with a tenderness so complete, so achingly profound, the emotion welled up inside her, bringing tears to her eyes.

Then he let go, and went into the room he used as a study, and closed the door.

She was asleep in exhaustion when he came to bed. She woke in the night and he was beside her, but he did not move or touch her, even when she turned closer to him.

In the morning he was gone. There was a note on the dresser:

Hester,

I am going to investigate more into land purchase for the railway, partly because it is the only fraud I can see in the Baltimore case, but mostly because I know that Arrol Dundas was convicted of land fraud in what seems to have been almost identical circumstances. It may even have been the same company, Baltimore and Sons. I don’t know that beyond question, but I am fairly certain. I hope you will understand why I need to know absolutely.

If there is anything at all I can do to make sure Dalgarno does not end up in prison as Dundas did, for something of which he is innocent, then I must do so. I will not fail him in the same way. I may have to return to the railway itself, in Derbyshire.

Please, Hester, be careful! It is enough that you work in the Coldbath area, helping people who are troubled and are incapable of repaying you, even by telling you the truth. Certainly they cannot protect you if you attract the interest of the kind of men who so abuse them.

If you won’t look after yourself for your own sake, or for mine, at least do it for theirs. If you are injured, or worse, to whom could they turn?

You have in the past eloquently criticized the Crimean generals who wasted their troops in quixotic gestures. And rightly. You have often said a woman would have been more practical and less glory seeking-now prove it!

I hope to see you minding your business-and not mine-when I return, when, if I can, I shall help you to find whoever killed Nolan Baltimore-if the police have not already done so.

Even if it does not always seem as if I do, I love you profoundly, and I admire you far more than you realize.

William

She held the paper in her hands as if it could bring her some part of him, or he would know the emotions inside her, the love and the need, the loneliness for him, the longing to be able to help with whatever private battle he was fighting.

Why could he write so much, and yet not tell her face-to-face? She knew the answer even as the question formed. It was obvious-because she could hold a letter in her hands, read it and reread it, carry it with her, but she could not demand any further answers of it. Monk himself was gone… alone.

And she was here… equally alone. He loved her, certainly. But why was it he could not trust her also-her loyalty, her understanding, her courage? What was it in her he feared might fail him?

It hurt too much to think of. She would go back to Coldbath Square and work. There would be something to do, even if it were only to seek more ideas for raising money. Perhaps they should start to look for other premises? Margaret’s friendship was valuable, although it no longer had quite the uncomplicated ease she had thought it did before they had gone to Rathbone’s office.

She must not show jealousy. That would be small-minded and unbelievably ugly! She would despise herself for that.

And of course she must try to learn all she could about Nolan Baltimore’s death, taking reasonable care not to antagonize anyone.

Margaret was late in to Coldbath, but that was of no importance at the moment. Tempers were short throughout the area so there were many quarrels and several people lashed out in frustration and fear, but it was more often men who were the victims, and the injuries were of the nature that heal with time and very little care-mostly bruises, shallow cuts, and sore heads. Pimps were getting more careful about scarring or bruising their women, their only asset in a shrinking market.

Of course everyone knew it would not go on indefinitely, but it had already been long enough to blow a chill of bitter reality into the lives of all manner of people. The end of it still lay in some unknown time in the future. They lived from day to day.

“How is Fanny?” Hester asked as she came in out of the fine rain, taking off her cloak and hat. “And Alice?”

“Fair enough,” Bessie answered, looking at her balefully from where she was sitting by the empty table, apart from her half-drunk cup of tea. “Quiet, it is. Like a bleedin’ graveyard. ’Ad two girls come in wi’ disease, that’s all. Can’t do much fer ’em, poor cows. Miss Ballinger in’t in yet. Out showin’ ’erself off ’round the swell ’ouses, I shouldn’t wonder. Never seen such a change in anyone in me life!” She said it with fierce satisfaction and not the shadow of a smile. “Wouldn’t say boo to yer w’en she first come ’ere. Now she’s as bold as brass. Ask anyone fer money, she would. Wager yer sixpence she’ll come waltzin’ in ’ere wi’ a grin all over ’er face an’ tell us she’s got a few pound more fer us.”

Hester did smile, in spite of the gloom of the morning. It was true, Margaret had found a confidence, even a happiness, in work. That in itself was an accomplishment, whoever else they were able to heal, and whether or not their patients would slip back to exactly the same debt and abuse afterwards.

Bessie was right; half an hour later Margaret did come in carrying satisfaction with her like a burst of sunlight.

“I have another twenty guineas!” she said proudly. “And promise of more!” She held it out for Hester, her eyes bright, her face glowing.

Hester forced herself to warm to the success, even though she felt all she could taste in her own mouth was failure. “That’s excellent,” she said appreciatively. “It will keep Jessop at bay for a while, and that gives us time. Thank you very much.”

Margaret looked pained. “You’re not going to give him more than our agreement, are you?”

Hester relaxed a little; she almost laughed. “No, I am most certainly not!”

Margaret smiled back and started to take off her jacket and hat. “What can we do today? How are Fanny and Alice?” She glanced towards the beds as she spoke.

“Asleep,” Bessie answered for Hester. “Nowt ter do fer ’em now, ’ceptin keep the roof over their ’eads, an’ feed ’em now an’ then.” She frowned at the rain spattering the window. “I s’pose I’d best be doin’ some marketin’.”

“Stay inside and keep dry for a while.” Hester made her decision. “Margaret and I have an errand in half an hour or so. It’s important.”

Bessie was suspicious. “Oh, yeh?” She did not trust Hester to look after herself, but she was not quite bold enough to say so in so many words. “Wot yer gonna do that I can’t do fer yer, then?”

Hester had not been going to confide in Bessie, simply as a precaution, and also at least in part because she was not sure if her plan had any chance of success. Now, suddenly, she thought better of secrecy and decided to be frank.

“If we are to solve this problem of police all over the place, and therefore no trade for the women,” she said briskly, before she should lose her nerve, “we have to find out what happened to Nolan Baltimore.” She ignored Margaret’s look of incredulity and Bessie’s sucking her breath in between the gap in her teeth. “I intend to start asking a few questions, at least. People may speak to me who would not speak to the police,” she finished.

“ ’Ow yer gonna do that?” Bessie said with dismissal in her voice. “ ’Oo’s gonna tell yer anythin’ about it? Come ter think, ’oo’d yer even ask?”

“The people in Leather Lane, of course,” Hester replied, spreading out her cape so it would dry. “We need to know if Baltimore went there regularly or if it was his first visit. If he went there often, then someone will know something about him, who else he knew, what kind of a man he was away from his home and family. I would like to know whether he went there simply to use the women or if he could have had some other business. Maybe somebody from his life at home followed him there? His death might have nothing to do with the people who live in the Coldbath area.”

Bessie’s face brightened. “Cor! That’d be summink, eh?”

“But the people of Leather Lane might not know his name,” Margaret pointed out. “I don’t suppose he used it.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Hester agreed, realizing her point. “What we need is a picture to show people.”

Margaret’s eyes widened. “A picture! How on earth could we get a picture? Only the family would have one, and they’re hardly likely to give it to us.”

Hester took a deep breath and plunged in. “Actually… I have an idea for that. I am not very good at drawing, but you are.”

“Oh!” Margaret’s voice shot up in denial, and she started shaking her head, but her eyes did not leave Hester’s. “Oh, no!”

“Do you have an idea which would serve better?” Hester asked with an attempt at innocence.

Bessie understood with dawning horror. “You never are!” she said to Hester. “The morgue! Yer gonna draw a dead body?”

“Not I,” Hester corrected her. “Nobody would recognize their own mother from anything I drew, but Margaret is very good. She can really catch a likeness, even if she is too modest to say so herself.”

“It’s not that…” Margaret began, then tailed off, staring at Hester as disbelief slowly turned into understanding. “Really?” she whispered. “Do you think… I mean… would they allow us to…”

“Well, we may require one or two embellishments of fact,” Hester admitted wryly. “But I intend to try as hard as possible.” She became very grave. “It really does matter.”

“As long as you do the embellishments,” Margaret said, making a last attempt at reason.

“Of course,” Hester agreed, not yet with any very clear idea of what she would say. There would be plenty of time to think about it as they walked the mile or so to the closest morgue, where Baltimore would have been taken.

“I don’t have a pencil or paper,” Margaret said. “But I’ve got a couple of shillings of my own… I mean, not supposed to be for the house…”

“Excellent,” Hester approved. “We’ll get what you need at Mrs. Clark’s shop on the corner of the Farringdon Road. And I daresay an eraser as well. We may not have time to start over and over again.”

Margaret shrugged, then gave a nervous laugh, almost a giggle. Hester heard a note of hysteria in it.

“It’s all right!” Margaret said quickly. “I was just thinking what my drawing master would say if he knew. He was such an old woman it would be worth it just to see his face. He used to like me to draw demure young ladies. He made my sisters and me draw each other. He wasn’t even sure if we should draw gentlemen. The idea of that would be bad enough-he’d have a seizure if he knew I was going to draw a corpse! I do hope he’ll be wearing a sheet, or something?”

“If not, you have my express instruction to draw one in,” Hester promised with an answering bubble of laughter, not because she found any pleasure in it, but because to think of the absurd was the only way to make it all bearable.

They put on their outdoor clothes again and set off, walking briskly in the rain. They purchased a block of paper, pencils and an eraser, and hurried on to the morgue, an ugly, slab-sided building set a little back from the street.

“What do you want me to say?” Margaret asked as they went up the steps side by side.

“Agree with me,” Hester replied under her breath. As soon as they were through the door they were faced almost immediately by an elderly man with white whiskers and an alarmingly high voice, almost falsetto.

“Good mornin’ to you, ladies. ’Ow can I be of ’elp?” He bowed very slightly, blocking their way as completely as if he had held out his arms. He fixed his eyes on Hester’s face, unblinking, waiting for her to explain herself.

Hester stared back at him without flinching. “Good morning, sir. I am hoping you will accommodate our request, out of delicacy to Miss Ballinger’s feelings.” She indicated Margaret, a look of sorrow in her face. “She has just returned from abroad, visiting her mother, who has gone to a warmer climate-for her health, you understand.” She bit her lip. “Only to hear of her uncle’s most terrible and tragic death.” She waited to see if he showed any sign of sympathy, but she waited in vain. She did not dare to look at Margaret in case she drew attention to her startled expression.

The morgue attendant cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“I have accompanied her so she can pay her last respects to her uncle, Mr. Nolan Baltimore,” Hester continued. “She is not able to remain until the funeral. Heaven knows when that will be.”

“Yer want ter see one o’ our bodies?” He shook his head. “I’d advise agin’ it, ladies. Won’t be nice. Best remember’im as ’e was, if I were you.”

“My mother will ask me,” Margaret spoke at last, her voice husky.

“Tell ’er ’e were restin’ peaceful,” the attendant said almost expressionlessly. “She won’t know different.”

Margaret managed to look shocked. “Oh, I couldn’t do that!” she said hastily. “Besides… she might ask me to describe him, and it is so long since I saw him I might make a mistake. Then I should feel dreadful. I… I would be most grateful if you would simply allow me to have a few moments. You may be with us at all times, of course, if you feel that is the correct thing to do.”

Hester gritted her teeth and swore under her breath. A verbal description of Nolan Baltimore would be of no use. They needed sketches to show people! How could Margaret not have understood that? She tried to catch Margaret’s eye, but Margaret would not look back at her; she was concentrating totally on the attendant, and perhaps on controlling her awareness of the damp, faintly sickly smell in the air.

“Well…” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose it’d make no odds ter me, nor to’im, fer that matter. But don’t ’old me to account if yer pass out, mind!” He looked at Hester. “Yer’d better come an’ stand beside ’er. If she falls over, or yer do either, I’m not fetchin’ a quack fer yer. Yer pick yerself up again, understand?”

“Certainly,” Hester said with considerable asperity. Then she remembered the role she had cast herself in and changed her attitude. “Certainly,” she repeated, with considerably more respect. “You are quite right. We shall conduct ourselves appropriately.”

“Right y’are.” He turned around and led the way through the door and along the passage to the ice room, where corpses were stored if required to be kept for any extended period.

“Why did you ask him to stay?” Hester said in an almost stifled whisper.

The attendant stopped and turned around. “Beg pardon?”

Hester felt herself flush hot. “I… I said it was nice of you to say you would stay,” she lied.

“Gotter,” he said grudgingly. “The cadavers ’ere are in my charge. Some people don’t think as it matters very much, but yer’d be surprised wot some folks get up ter wif bodies. There’s mad people around, an’ that’s a fact!” He snorted. “An’ people will steal bodies ter cut up, Gawd ’elp us!”

Margaret gulped, her face pale, but she kept her composure admirably. “All I wish to do is look at Uncle Nolan,” she said huskily. “I would be obliged if I might do so without hearing more of such… atrocities. I quite appreciate why your care… and… and diligence are necessary. I am grateful for them.”

“Jus’ doin’ me duty,” he said stiffly, and opened the next door, ushering them into a small, very cold room with bare, whitewashed walls. “You said Nolan Baltimore? Last one over there.” He walked across the damp stone floor to the fourth table, where a figure lay supine, covered by a large unbleached cotton sheet. The attendant looked at Margaret skeptically, as if to assess the likelihood of her fainting or otherwise making a nuisance of herself. He gave up the struggle and with a sigh of resignation pulled the sheet off the head and shoulders of the corpse.

Margaret made a little hissing sound of breath between her teeth, and swayed as if the floor beneath her were the deck of a ship.

Hester moved forward quickly and put her arms tightly around her, holding her hard enough to cause pain.

Margaret gave a little yelp, but the sharpness of Hester’s grip seemed to steady her.

They both looked down at the mottled gray-white flesh of the face. It was coarse-featured, with fleshy cheeks and jaw. The large eyes were now closed, but the sockets suggested their shape. His hair was receding, wavy, a dark gingery gold. He was obviously a large man, heavy-chested, thick-armed. It was difficult to judge his height, but probably close to six feet.

The hardest thing was to imagine life and color in the features, to think what they would have been like animated by intelligence. And yet presumably to have built a company like Baltimore and Sons he must have had skill, imagination and immense drive.

“Thank you,” Margaret whispered. “He… he looks so peaceful. How did he die?”

“We do our best,” the attendant said, as if she had passed him a compliment.

“How?” she repeated, her voice rasping in her throat.

“Dunno. P’lice say as ’e likely fell down stairs. Yer can’t see ’ere ’ow broke up ’e is inside. An’ o’ course we clean ’em up.”

“Thank you,” Margaret repeated, struggling to get her breath. The cold and the smell of carbolic were almost overcoming her.

Hester stared at the form on the table. She had seen so many dead men, although most of them not as neatly and clinically laid out as this one. But even without touching him or moving anything, she noticed a certain crookedness in the way he was positioned. Cleaned up or not, she guessed many of his bones had been broken or joints dislocated. It must have been a very hard fall. And staring at his head she noticed fine scratches on the neck stretching under the left ear down to the front of the throat, then starting up again on the front of the breastbone. Fingernails? They were scratches, not cuts, and the edges were new and raw, bloodless of course now, but the skin had a ragged look as if it had had no chance to heal.

“Yer seen enough?” the attendant asked, looking at Margaret and beginning to frown.

“Yes… yes, thank you,” Margaret replied. “I… I should like to leave now. I have done my duty. Poor Uncle Nolan. Thank you so much for your…” She tailed off, unable to keep her composure and finish.

Hester realized that Margaret was at the end of her strength. This was probably the first time she had seen a dead man, although one woman had died in the house in Coldbath, but that was different, full of emotion, pity, and in the end some kind of peace. This was simply freezing cold and smelling of stone and carbolic. And it was old death, days old.

She put her arm around Margaret’s shoulders and walked with her out into the passage again, crushing down her disappointment. At least she had a picture in her mind to try to put into words.

At the entrance they thanked the attendant again, then went as quickly as was even remotely decent out into the street and the gently falling rain.

“Tea!” Margaret gasped. “And somewhere to sit down, somewhere dry!”

“Wouldn’t you rather get back to Coldbath?” Hester said in concern. “I’m not sure what sort of a place around here would offer-”

“I want to draw him before I forget!” Margaret hissed at her. “I can’t do that standing up in the rain!”

Hester was taken completely aback. “Can you… I mean, could…”

“Of course I can! If I do it while he’s still sharp in my mind! Which right now I feel will be forever, but common sense and profound hope say it will not.” Margaret stared around and started to walk more briskly in an effort to reach just such a place, and Hester had to skip a couple of steps to catch up with her, and then seize her by the arm to stop her from bumping into a peddler who was hoping for a sale of bootlaces.

Eventually they found a tavern where they settled for a table in the corner, two half pints of cider and two hot pies. As soon as they were served, Margaret took out the paper and pencil and began to draw. Every now and then she sipped from her glass, but she ignored the pie. Perhaps the thought of eating while she saw the face of a dead man was too much for her.

Hester was suddenly profoundly hungry. In her case, relief outweighed more delicate feelings, and all she could think of was how clever Margaret was to bring character and life into a representation created out of lines on paper. In front of her, Nolan Baltimore’s face took shape until she felt as if she must have known him.

“That’s marvelous!” she said with deep respect, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief, then drinking the last of her cider. “If we show people that, they will certainly know whether they have seen him or not.”

Margaret looked up at her, her eyes bright with pleasure for the praise. “I had better do another,” she said gravely. “If we were to lose it we should be in difficulty.” And immediately she set about depicting Baltimore from a slightly different angle, more three-quarter face.

Hester fetched her another glass of cider, and one more for herself, and watched patiently while Margaret did a third drawing as well, in remarkable detail, and shaded to show an almost three-dimensional likeness.

Then, before they ran even greater risk of attracting anyone’s attention, they put the drawings away and left, going out into the damp streets, but with a clear sky above and a mild breeze promising to keep it so.

They had a very quiet afternoon at Coldbath. Hester deliberately took a short sleep in preparation for her plans, which might involve much of the night. She knew Monk would not be at home, and therefore needed no explanation as to why she was not either. She had no intention of taking Margaret with her. Margaret had already done magnificent work today.

Also, of course, it was necessary to have two people here, just in case there should be some need for help from Mr. Lockhart. Someone had to go for him, and that was almost always Bessie. She seemed to have a great ability to find him at any time. Perhaps his friends sensed her affection for him, and her own past had taught her neither to question nor to judge.

Margaret argued a little, but Hester could see in her eyes a certain relief when it was pointed out that Bessie could not manage alone should someone seriously injured come in.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said with genuine reluctance. “But what about you? You shouldn’t go alone either! Anything could happen to you, and we wouldn’t even know. Why don’t you-” She stopped.

Hester smiled. “Why don’t I what? You can’t think of a better idea any more than I can. I shall be very careful indeed, I promise you. I look pretty much like the women who live in the area, and they go around by themselves. There are police all over the streets just now. We know that as well as anyone. As long as I don’t look as if I am soliciting for trade, which I shall take care not to, I shall be as safe as anyone.” And without waiting for further argument from Margaret, Bessie, or a voice of caution inside her own head, she took an old shawl from the cupboard of spare clothes and went out into the street. The evening was fine now, and quite warm. Looking straight ahead of her, she walked quickly in the direction of Leather Lane.

She intended to begin with the place where Nolan Baltimore’s body had been found, but she must be careful. She did not wish to draw the attention of any police patrolling the streets and alleys, and particularly not of Constable Hart, who would recognize her in an instant, and probably have a very good idea of her purpose.

She slowed her step to something more like that of the middle-aged woman in front of her, keeping about twenty feet between them, and trying to appear to a casual eye to be much the same sort of person. She reached the angle where Bath Street becomes Lower Bath Street, then crosses the wide thoroughfare of Theobald’s Road and becomes Leather Lane.

There was a constable on the corner, looking tired and dispirited. How was she going to show anyone a picture without drawing his attention? It would have to be done under one of the few street lamps. One could hardly be expected to recognize anybody in the dusk and shadows closer to the walls, or in a doorway or alley.

The constable watched her without speaking and without apparent interest. Good. That meant he took her for an ordinary resident. That was not flattering, but it was what she needed at the moment. With a tight little smile to herself, she walked on down Leather Lane.

There was a girl standing close to the next lamppost. The light shone on her bare head, making a bright mass of her hair. She was probably well under twenty, not particularly pretty, but there was still a certain freshness to her. She was not someone Hester knew, and she found herself suddenly very nervous about asking a complete stranger the questions she needed to.

But the answers might be known only by strangers, and she was not going back to Coldbath to tell them that she had been too cowardly to try! That would be worse than anything this girl could say to her.

“Excuse me,” she began tentatively.

The girl looked at her, hostility already in her eyes. “Don’t stop ’ere, luv,” she said in a low, steady voice. “This is my patch, an’ me man’ll mark yer face if yer try it ’ere. Find yer own patch.” She regarded Hester with more care. “Yer looks are nothin’, but yer walk with yer ’ead ’igh. There’s some as likes that. Try up that way.” She pointed back up toward the huge mass of the brewery on Portpool Lane.

Hester swallowed her temper with difficulty. The insult stung, which was ridiculous. She knew her own passion well enough, there were too many remembered nights not to, but she still did not like to be told her looks were nothing. But this was no time to give back as good as she received.

“I don’t want your patch,” she said levelly. Her better sense knew the girl was only fighting for survival. She probably had to fight for everything she got, and then fight again to keep it. “I just want to know if you have seen a particular man in the area.”

“Look, luv,” the girl answered pityingly, “if yer ol’ man comes ’ere fer ’is pleasures, just look the other way an’ ’ang on t’ yer ’ouse an’ yer kids. If yer got a roof over yer ’ead an’ food in yer belly, don’ go ’owlin’ fer the moon. Yer won’t get nothin’ but a sore froat-an’ if yer go upsettin’ other folk, a bucket o’ cold water thrown at yer, or worse.”

Hester hesitated. What story could she make up that this girl would believe and still give her the information she needed? The girl was turning away already. Perhaps the only answer was the truth.

“It’s the man who was murdered,” she said abruptly, feeling the heat run through her body, and then the cold as she committed herself irrevocably. “I want the police out of the area so everything can get back to normal.” She saw the look of disbelief on the girl’s face. There was nothing for it but to go on now. “They aren’t finding out who did it!” she said abruptly. “The only way to see the back of them is if somebody else does.” She fished in her pocket and brought out the picture of Nolan Baltimore.

The girl squinted at it. “Is that’im?” she said curiously. “I in’t never seen’im. Sorry.”

Hester studied the girl’s face, trying to judge whether to believe her or not.

The girl smiled mirthlessly. “I in’t. I know as ’e were found at Abel Smith’s place, but I in’t never seen’im ’ere.”

“Thank you.” She wondered whether to go on and ask this very self-possessed girl where the brothel was that might use women like herself, who walked with their heads high. That might be the one that belonged to the usurer. She drew in her breath.

The girl glared at her, the warning back in her eyes.

“Thank you,” Hester repeated, and put the picture back into her pocket and walked on, almost as far as High Holborn, asking people, showing them the drawing, then back up the Farringdon Road and across Hatton Wall back to Leather Lane again. She found no one who would admit to having seen Nolan Baltimore.

It was fully dark now, and definitely colder. There were very few people around. A man in a coat too big for him hurried along the footpath, dragging one foot a little, his shadow crooked on the stones as he passed under the street lamp.

A woman paraded along the opposite side casually, keeping her head high as if she were full of confidence. As she rounded the corner into Hatton Wall a hansom slowed. Hester did not see whether she was picked up or not.

A beggar reached an arched doorway and subsided into the brief shelter of it, as if for the night.

Hester had accomplished nothing. She was not even sure if people were lying out of fear or perversity, or if indeed no one had seen Baltimore.

If the latter, did that mean he had not been here? Or simply that he had been extremely careful? Would a man like Nolan Baltimore not automatically be careful not to be recognized? What had he come here for? A secret business meeting to do with land fraud? Or, far more likely, to indulge a taste for a bit of rough pleasure, and practices he could not indulge in at home.

At least she knew where Abel Smith’s establishment was, and she decided as a last resort to go there and confront him. She retraced her steps along Leather Lane and finally went into a short alley off the street and up a rickety stair. All around her she could hear the faint drip of moisture, the creak of wood, and now and then the scurry of clawed feet. That last noise reminded her of the rats in the hospital at Scutari, and she clenched her teeth and moved a little faster.

The door opened as she reached it, startling her, and a bald man with a smiling face stood looking at her. The light behind him made a halo out of the few white hairs on his scalp.

“Are yer lost, then?” he asked, his voice sibilant as if he had a broken tooth. It was only when she reached the top step that she realized he was several inches shorter than she was.

“That depends on whether this is Abel Smith’s house or not,” she replied, glad she was not out of breath as well as reasons. “If it is, then I am where I mean to be.”

He shook his head. “I’m willin’ ter try most things, luv, but yer in’t right fer ’ere.” He looked her up and down. “If yer desperate, I’ll give yer a bed for the night, but find yerself somew’ere else fer tomorrer. Yer in’t my trade.”

“No, I’m not,” she agreed. “But I know a few girls who are. I have the house in Coldbath that takes care of some of your sick and injured.”

His eyes narrowed, and he whistled his breath out between the gaps in his teeth. “I in’t got no one sick ’ere, an’ I din’t ask fer no ’ouse calls!”

“I’m not here about illness,” she replied. Now she decided to stretch the truth a little. “I’m here about getting the police to move out of the area so we can all get back to business as usual.”

“Oh, yeah? An’ ’ow d’yer reckon on doin’ that, then?” He eyed her slim, straight body and direct eyes with heavy skepticism. “They’re sayin’ as that toff wot got done was ’ere in me ’ouse… which ’e never were, ’ceptin’ w’en ’e were dead!” He sniffed. “I never topped a customer in me life! Bloody stupid thing ter do, all ways ’round. But d’yer think them stupid sods believe me?”

“Where is the staircase he is supposed to have fallen down?” she asked.

“W’y? Wot diff’rence does it make ter you?” he demanded.

“Why do you want to hide it?” she countered.

“Go on! Git outa ’ere!” He flapped his hands at her. “Yer jus’ trouble. Go on!”

Somewhere behind her a rat overbalanced an empty crate and it fell with a damp thud.

She stood still. “I’m trying to help, you fool!” she said fiercely. “If he didn’t die here, then he died somewhere else! It didn’t have anything to do with women at all, and if I can prove that, then the police will stop harassing us and we can all get back to the way it used to be! Do you want that, or not?”

His eyes were little more than slits in his pink face. “W’y?” he said carefully. “I thought as yer was just a do-gooder wot tries ter save souls o’ fallen women. Yer got summink else goin’ on-in’t yer?” He nodded several times. “Wot is it, then? Wot yer doin’ in that ’ouse up Coldbath?”

“That is none of your business!” she snapped, seizing the chance. “Do we have to do this standing on the steps for anyone to hear?”

Reluctantly, he moved back and swung the door open for her to follow. She went in after him and found herself on a narrow landing with half a dozen doors leading off it. He walked ahead of her with a curious, rolling gait, as if he had been long at sea. He stopped at the fourth door along, opened it and led the way in. She went after him and found herself in a sitting room whose furnishings had once been green and red but were now faded and soiled to shades of brown, like old leaves. A desk against the back wall was covered with papers. There was a soft chair ahead of her, and a very small fireplace, presently filled with dead ash. The odor of stale air was oppressive. Warmth would only have made it worse.

“I would like to speak to some of your girls,” she asked.

“They don’t know nothin’,” he said flatly.

“I don’t care about your miserable trade!” She knew her voice was rising but she could not help it. “They may have seen this man in the street. Somebody brought him here. You say he didn’t walk in… then who brought him? Haven’t you even wondered who did this to you?”

“Yer bleedin’ right I ’ave!” he spat, his face suddenly losing its pink, innocent look and burning instead like that of a malevolent baby, curiously evil because it was so ludicrous. He suddenly raised his voice. “Ada!” he yelled with startling volume.

There was a slight sound downstairs, but no one appeared.

“Ada!” he screamed.

The door flew open and a fat woman almost his own height burst into the room, her black ringlets clustered around her red face, her eyes blazing with indignation. She looked at him, then at Hester.

“No good,” she said without being asked. “Too thin. Wot yer call me fer, yer daft a’porth? Don’t yer know nothin’? Sorry for ’er, are yer?” She jabbed a short, fat finger toward Hester. “Well, not in this ’ouse, yer great soft ’eap o’…” She stopped, sensing his lack of self-justification. She realized her error and swung around to face Hester. “Well, wot are yer ’ere fer then? Cat got yer tongue?”

Hester pulled out the drawing of Nolan Baltimore and showed it to her.

Ada barely glanced at it. “ ’E’s dead,” she said flatly. “Some ’eap o’ dung left ’ere on our floor, but ’e in’t nuffin’ ter do wi’ us. Never see’d’im afore, an’ no one can prove we ’ave!”

“It’s your word against theirs,” Hester said reasonably.

Ada was hugely practical. She was too much of a survivor to quarrel for the sake of it. “So wot der yer want, then? W’y’d yer care ’oo put’im ’ere?”

“Because I wish to find out who killed him so the police will go away and leave us alone. And I wish to find out who is lending money to women and making them pay it back by going on the streets,” Hester replied. She took a wild chance, feeling her flesh prickle at the risk.

Ada’s black eyes opened even more widely. “Do yer, then? W’y?” Her question was shot out like a missile.

“Because as long as there are police all over the place there’s no trade,” Hester replied. “And people can’t pay their debts. Tempers are getting ugly and more and more women will get hurt.”

Ada was still suspicious. “And since when did women ’oo speak like you care if women like us got trade or not?” she said, her eyes narrow. “Thought you was all fired up ter clean the streets and put decency back inter life.” She said this last with sarcasm like an open razor.

“If you think putting constables on every corner is going to do that, you’re a fool!” Hester retorted. “There’s no ’like me’ and ’like you.’ All kinds of women can find themselves in debt and take to the streets to pay it. They might have to cater to specialist tastes, but they take what they can get. It’s better than being beaten half to death.”

“We don’t do that ter nob’dy,” Ada said indignantly, but beside the self-righteousness there was a ring of honesty in her voice as well, and Hester heard it.

“Do you cater to special tastes?” Hester asked.

“Not wi’ girls wot are ’ere ’cos o’ debts wot we know anythin’ abaht,” Ada replied. “They’re jus’ orn’ry girls wot wants ter make a livin’, an’ they don’ get enough ter pay more’n their way.”

Hester glanced at the room. What Ada said was easy enough to believe, although it was quite possible they had a second establishment, or even a third, which could be different from his. But for all she could tell, no one had seen Nolan Baltimore in the area. If he had been killed in one of Abel Smith’s other houses, were there any, Smith would hardly have had the body dumped here. She was inclined to believe them.

Her silence unnerved Ada. “We don’t do nothin’ like that!” Ada reiterated. “Jus’ straight bus’ness. An’ we in’t never beat no one.” She sniffed fiercely. “Less they got uppity an’ looked fer it. Gotta ’ave some discipline or yer in’t got nothin’. People in’t got no respect fer a great soft ’eap like’im!” She glanced witheringly at Abel.

“May I speak to some of your girls, to ask if anyone saw Mr. Baltimore around the streets here, or knows where he could have gone?” Hester requested.

Ada considered for a few moments. “I s’pose,” she said at last. Apparently she had weighed what Hester had told her and decided a degree of trust might get her what she wanted. “But don’ take all night! Times is ’ard. We in’t got opportunities ter waste!”

Hester did not bother to answer.

She spent nearly an hour speaking with one bored or frightened woman after another, but none of them were marked as far as she could see. Certainly none of them were prepared to admit having seen Nolan Baltimore in Leather Lane, only at the bottom of the stairs here on the night of his death.

“Daft question, if yer ask me!” one woman called Polly said with total disdain. “ ’E were a toff. Money comin’ outer ’is ears, an’ all.” Her laugh changed into a snarl, more disgust than anger. “Look at us, lady! D’yer think someone like that’s gonna come ’ere ter the likes o’ us? ’E wants summink special, an’ ’e can pay fer it.” She shrugged, and yanked the sliding shoulder of her dress back up again. “ ’E prob’ly goes up Squeaky Robinson’s way. ’E could pay ’is prices, an’ no trouble.”

“Squeaky Robinson?” Hester repeated, almost afraid to believe. “Who is he?”

“Dunno,” Polly said immediately. “Nearer Coldbath, an’ the brewery. ’Atton Wall, or Portpool Lane, mebbe. Don’ wanner know. Neither d’ you, if yer knows wot’s good fer yer.”

“Thank you.” Hester stood up. “You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate it.”

“In’t told yer nothin’,” Polly denied bluntly, jerking the dress back into position again and swearing under her breath.

“No,” Hester agreed. “Except that Baltimore didn’t die here. In fact, he didn’t do business here at all.”

“Yer right,” Polly said with feeling. “ ’E din’t!”

Hester believed her. All the way back to Coldbath Square she turned it over in her mind and was sure that Nolan Baltimore had met his death somewhere else and been carried to Abel Smith’s house in order to move the blame.

But she was a little closer to finding out where he had been killed, or why, though she would not forget the name of Squeaky Robinson, or the fact that, according to Polly, he catered to men with expensive and different tastes.