William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

he misunderstood.
    He flushed with anger—or possibly a kind of embarrassment?
    “You’ve a reputation to keep up,” she continued.
    “What do you want?” he snapped, his voice high with barely controlled tension. “I can’t stop Jessop, I told you that. If you want someone to go an’ beat a little consideration into’im, it’ll cost you. I don’t care whether you’ve got money or not, you’ll get nothin’ for nothin’.”
    It was not just greed driving him, it was fear as well; she could see it and hear it, almost feel it in the room. Fear of what? Not the police; they were nowhere near any kind of solution. She knew that from Constable Hart. Fear of the silent man who loaned money to young women and then blackmailed them into prostitution? A man who would do that must be a cruel and possibly dangerous partner. Was he threatening Squeaky if he did not produce the usual income in spite of the circumstances?
    She smiled slowly. The idea of the would-be butler’s giving Jessop a couple of black eyes and a thoroughly good fright was very appealing. She could be tempted.
    Squeaky was watching her as a cat does a mouse.
    “Five pounds,” he said.
    It was, relatively speaking, a modest enough sum. Margaret would be able to come by it. Why was Squeaky offering to do such a thing for only five pounds? Was the partner really so demanding? He was a usurer. Money was his stock-in-trade. Was Squeaky down to so little that five pounds made a difference?
    “For you, in your position?” she asked.
    “Me!” he snapped. “He’s . . .” Then the derision vanished from his face and he conceded everything. “Me,” he repeated.
    It was a second or two before she realized what he was saying, then it came in a flood of understanding—he was alone. For some reason the partner was no longer there. That was his panic—the fact that he did not know how to run the business by himself.
    The wild idea gained at Marielle Courtney’s house hardened into close to a certainty. Nolan Baltimore had been Squeaky’s partner, and his death, murder or accident, had left Squeaky without anyone to run the usury side of the business.
    He needed a new partner, someone with access to the sort of young women who might get into debt, the polished manner to earn their confidence, and the business acumen to loan them money and insist on its repayment in this way.
    An even wilder idea came almost unbidden into her mind. It was outrageous, but it just might work. If it did, if she could persuade him, it could solve their own problem. It would not reveal who killed Baltimore, or get the police out of the area, but she found to her surprise that she did not care greatly. If Baltimore had been the usurer, and also a client of his own appalling trade, then she could not mourn his death.
    “I will consider your offer, Mr. Robinson,” she said with aplomb. She rose to her feet. Now that she had thought of a plan, she was in a fever to put it to the test.
    He looked vaguely hopeful. Was that for the money or the prospect of seeing Jessop severely frightened? Either would do. “Let me know,” he said with a very faint smile.
    “I will,” she promised. “Good day, Mr. Robinson.”

    Hester had to wait until the evening before she could put her idea to Margaret. After the initial business of the house was over, Alice and Fanny were resting fairly easily. The two were actually talking to one another; Hester heard the occasional soft giggle. Hester sat down with Margaret to a cup of tea, and she could contain herself no longer.
    Margaret stared at her wide-eyed with disbelief. “He’ll never do it! Never!”
    “Well, he might not,” Hester admitted, reaching for the butter and jam for her toast. “But it could work, don’t you think—if he would?”
    “If . . . do you think . . .” Margaret could scarcely admit the possibility, but she was glowing with excitement, her cheeks pink.
    “Will you come with me to try?” Hester asked.
    Margaret hesitated. Her eagerness was plain in her face, also her fear of embarrassment, and of failure. She might be thought too forward, and invite a rebuff which would hurt more than she would find easy to accept.
    Hester waited.
    “Yes,” Margaret agreed, then took a deep breath as if to retract it, and let it out in a sigh and picked up her tea.
    “Good.” Hester smiled at her. “We’ll go tomorrow morning. I shall meet you at Vere Street at nine o’clock.” She gave Margaret no chance to