William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

undyingly grateful. And of course we know exactly where your real morality lies.”
    “Hester, it is . . .” he tried again.
    “Ingenious and unpleasant,” Margaret answered for him. “Of course it is.” Her voice conveyed understanding and disappointment. Her eyes were wide, full of gentleness, as if she knew she had expected too much.
    Rathbone flushed. He was perfectly well aware that she and Hester worked in Coldbath Square almost every day, regardless of dirt, danger, or risk to their reputations.
    “When were you planning on doing this?” he asked tentatively.
    “Tonight,” Hester replied without hesitation.
    Margaret smiled hopefully and said nothing.
    “Tonight! I . . .” Rathbone was momentarily nonplussed. “I . . .”
    “Thank you,” Hester murmured.
    “Hester!” he protested, but he had already surrendered and all three of them knew it.
    Margaret’s eyes were gleaming, her cheeks faintly flushed, although no one could have told whether the cause was anticipation of the possible victory tonight or her knowledge that Rathbone had succumbed largely because of her.
    Hester stood up, and Rathbone and Margaret did likewise. Time was short, but quite apart from that, it was wise to withdraw before triumph could be turned into defeat by a thoughtless additional remark.
    “Thank you very much,” Hester said sincerely. “Where would you like to meet us? Coldbath Square might not be the most advisable.”
    “What about Fitzroy Street?” Margaret suggested. “I can be there at whatever time you wish.”
    “Then I shall join you at nine o’clock,” Rathbone replied. He looked at Hester with a twisted smile. “What does one wear to buy into a brothel?”
    She regarded his extremely elegant gray suit and white shirt with its perfectly tied cravat. “I would not change, if I were you. Dressed like that, he will believe you have money and influence.”
    “How about greed, immorality and perverted tastes?” he asked with a slight curl of his lip.
    “You cannot dress for that,” she replied with perfect seriousness. “Regrettably.”
    “Touché,” he murmured. “Until nine o’clock. I presume you will tell me then whatever else I am required to know?”
    “Yes, of course. Thank you, Oliver. Good-bye.”
    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 Margaret, 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