Anne Perry - Death Of A Stranger

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps you do. I’m sure a man with the skill to run a house like this must have his ear to the ground. You could not succeed if you did not-” She stopped. He looked so acutely uncomfortable she was afraid he was actually in physical pain. There was a sheen of sweat over his skin and his knuckles were white.

“… if you did not have an excellent knowledge of the area and everything that goes on in it,” she finished. There was such a tension in the man a few feet from her that suddenly she wanted to escape. The emotion in his face, the desperation, had a physical presence almost at odds with the sly knowledge of his mind. It was as if he had been robbed of a safety he had known for so long he was still only half aware of his new nakedness and had had no time to shield himself or deal with it.

“Yes!” he said sharply. “Of course I have!” He was defensive now, as if he needed to assure her. “I’ll think about it, Mrs. Monk. We need to get back to business as usual. If I hear from anyone what happened to this Baltimore I’ll see if we can’t… arrange something.” He spread his hands, indicating the piles of paper. “Now I’ve got things to see to. I can’t spare any more time to… to talk… when there’s nothing to say.”

She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Robinson. And you will not forget to mention to your partner the matter of a property to rent… very reasonably, seeing as it is in all our interests?”

He jerked up again. “I don’t have…” he began, then his face ironed out and he smiled. It was a ghastly gesture, all teeth and rigid muscles. “I’ll tell him. Ha, ha!” He laughed violently. “See what he says!”

She left, conducted out through the corridors again by the man in the dark suit too big for him, and found herself in the alley leading back to Portpool Lane. It was now swirling with fog and she could see the solitary lamp on the wall through a shifting haze. For several moments she stood still, becoming accustomed to the chill air and the smell of the brewery massive against the sky, shedding its denser shadow till it obliterated all other outlines, just as the Coldbath Prison did on the house in the square. Then she set out walking, keeping close to the walls to avoid being noticed, and hoping she did not trip on anyone sleeping on the stones of the path or huddled in an unseen doorway.

After speaking with him and seeing his reactions, she was almost certain that Squeaky Robinson ran the brothel where young women like Fanny and Alice were put to work in order to pay off their debts to the usurer. But Squeaky was panicking over something! Was it just the lack of business at the moment? If he were the usurer, surely he could afford to wait until the police either found out who killed Baltimore or were forced to give up.

But what if he was not? What if he was only a partner, and the usurer was pressing him as well? Then who was the usurer, and why was Squeaky so frightened at the mere mention of his existence?

She crossed Portpool Lane and turned left toward Coldbath Square, still walking briskly. There were a few other people about. The lights of a public house shone out across the pavement as someone opened a door. There was a peddler on one corner, a constable on another, looking bored and cold, probably because he was standing still. He was getting in everyone’s way, and he had long since given up hope of discovering anything useful.

Was Squeaky Robinson so frightened because he had somehow lost his partner, the intelligence and driving force behind the enterprise? How? To prison, illness-even death? Was he panicking because he was suddenly alone and he had not the skill to carry on without help? She was convinced, after talking to him, that he was not the usurer. He had not the polish, the confidence, to have ensnared the sort of young women he used. If he were, she could not have rattled him as she had.

What had happened to the usurer? A warm rush of hope surged up inside her, and she quickened her step. It hardly mattered why he had gone, or where, if it left Squeaky unable to continue. His fear might be why he had turned violent and either half killed Fanny and Alice himself, or more probably had someone like the would-be butler do it. But his rule would be short-lived. No more women would be ensnared, and if the usurer was gone then he could not enforce repayment, not in law, surely? Oliver Rathbone might be able to help after all!

She got back to Coldbath Square to find Margaret pacing the floor waiting for her. Her face lit the moment Hester was in through the door.

“I’m so relieved to see you!” she said, rushing forward. “Are you all right?”

Hester smiled with a pleasure that surprised her. She really did like Margaret very much. “Yes, thank you. Only cold,” she answered frankly. “But I would love a cup of tea, to get the taste of that place out of my mouth.” She took off her shawl and hung it up on one of the pegs as Margaret went to the stove.

“What did you learn?” Margaret asked even while she was checking that the kettle was full and moving it onto the hob. She kept glancing at Hester, and her face was eager, her eyes wide and bright.

“I think the woman at Abel Smith’s told me correctly,” Hester answered, fetching two mugs from the cupboard. “That is the place where they cater to more individual interests.” She said it with heavy distaste at the euphemism, and saw her own feelings reflected in Margaret’s expression. “I met Squeaky Robinson…”

“What was he like?” Margaret stopped even pretending to watch the kettle. Her voice was sharp with anticipation.

“Very nervous indeed,” Hester replied succinctly. “In fact, I would say positively frightened.” She put the mugs on the table.

Margaret was astonished. “Why? Was Baltimore killed there, do you suppose?”

Hester had been so occupied with the thought of Squeaky Robinson’s partner, and the possibility of his being absent permanently, and therefore the usury business collapsing, that she had not seriously considered the thought that Squeaky’s fear might be primarily of the police rather than of financial ruin. But the rope was an infinitely worse prospect than poverty, even to the greediest man alive.

“I suppose he could have been,” she said a trifle reluctantly, explaining what her hope had been.

“Perhaps it was the usurer who killed him?” Margaret suggested, but there was more will than belief in her face. “Maybe he couldn’t pay, and someone lost his temper. It could have been as much an accident as anything. After all, it isn’t in their interest to kill a client, is it? It can’t be good for business. It isn’t as if anyone had to go there. There are plenty of other places, even if they would be in different parts of the city.”

“And they left the body at Abel Smith’s, just as he said,” Hester agreed. “Yes, that sounds possible.” She could not keep the slight disappointment out of her voice. Also, it might have helped Monk if Baltimore’s death had had something to do with land fraud on the railway. It would have tied the present to the past and vindicated his belief that Arrol Dundas had been innocent. Except, of course, it would increase Monk’s sense of guilt that he had been unable to prove it at the time.

“Should we tell Constable Hart?” Margaret asked hopefully. “That would solve the murder and get rid of the police.” The kettle started to whistle behind her. “And get rid of the driving force behind the usury at the same time!” She turned to the kettle and scalded the teapot, then put in the leaves, then the boiling water.

“Not yet,” Hester said cautiously. “I would like to know a little more about Mr. Baltimore first, wouldn’t you?”