William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

come in,” he suggested. “But don’t take no liberties. I’ll find if Mr. Robinson’ll see yer.”
    He left them in the small side room in which Hester had waited before. There was not even space or chairs for all three of them to be seated.
    Rathbone looked around him with curiosity and a slight puckering of his nose with distaste.
    “Did you come here by yourself, Hester?” he said anxiously.
    “Yes, of course I did,” she replied. “There’s no one to come with me. Don’t look like that. I didn’t meet with any harm.”
    “Did Monk know?” he asked.
    “No. And you are not going to tell him!” she said hotly. “I will do so myself, when the time is right.”
    He smiled very slightly. “And when will that be?”
    “When the matter is closed,” she said. “It is not always a good idea to tell everybody everything, you know. One should keep one’s own counsel at times.”
    He gave her a pointed look.
    “Hester is very brave,” Margaret said loyally. “Far braver than I am . . . in some things.”
    “I hope you have more sense!” he said sharply.
    Margaret blushed and looked down, then up again at him quickly. “I do not think you should criticize Hester, Sir Oliver. She does what she has to in order to protect people who have no one else to care for their interests. The fact that in some cases they may have made errors of judgment does not set them apart from the rest of us.”
    Suddenly he smiled. It was a warm and charming gesture. “You are quite right. I’m not used to women who take such risks. It is my fear for her which speaks. I am very slow to learn that my discomfort may concern her, but it certainly will not stop her.”
    “Would you wish it to?” Margaret challenged.
    He thought for several seconds.
    Hester waited, surprisingly interested in what he should reply.
    “No,” he said at last. “I used to wish it would, but I have learned at least that much.”
    Margaret smiled back at him, then looked away, conscious of his eyes upon her.
    The butler returned. “Yer’d better come,” he said, jerking his head toward the corridor and leading them deeper into the warren of passages and stairways.
    Squeaky Robinson was sitting in the same room as when Hester had seen him before. Piles of papers were strewn around him, and one gas lamp was lit, throwing a pool of yellow onto the desk. And again there was the tray with tea. He looked tired to the point of exhaustion; his skin was papery with dark smudges under his eyes. Had he been in ordinary trade Hester would have been sorry for him, but she was too aware of Fanny and Alice, and others like them, to allow herself such a feeling.
    Squeaky stood up slowly, only glancing at Hester, then his eyes went straight to Rathbone. He barely noticed Margaret at all. Perhaps women were largely invisible to him if he was not inspecting them as goods.
    “Good evening, Mr. Robinson,” Hester said as calmly as she could. “I have brought this gentleman, whose name you do not need to know as yet, because he is interested in investing money in a business a little out of the ordinary, where he can have a fast and safe return. It will also be desirable if it can escape the attention of the tax inspectors and not have to be explained to certain members of his family with whom he might otherwise have to share it.” She indicated Margaret. “And this lady is good with books and figures, always an advisable attribute to have when considering an investment.”
    Squeaky stood up slowly, his face like that of a man who has walked long across an arid plain and at last thinks he sees water. He stared at Rathbone, taking in his immaculate boots, his perfectly cut suit with its excellent cloth, his cravat as clean as snow, the humor and intelligence in his face.
    “How do you do, Mr. Robinson.” Rathbone did not offer his hand. “Mrs. Monk tells me that your previous partner in business met with an unfortunate accident, and therefore the position is now vacant. Is she correct?”
    Squeaky licked his lips. His indecision was palpable. Whatever answer he made, there was risk attached. On one hand he might give away too much about himself, on the other he might lose Rathbone’s interest, and thus the new partner necessary for his survival.
    The silence was heavy in the room. The building seemed to sag and creak as if settling itself deeper into unseen mire beneath it.
    Rathbone glanced at Hester impatiently and frowned.
    Squeaky saw it. “Yes!”