William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

he said abruptly. “He died. Suddenly.”
    “A euphemism, surely?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “Was he not murdered?”
    “Ah!” Squeaky gulped, his throat jerking. “Yes. Nothing to do with his investment here! A purely private matter. A quarrel . . . his own . . . appetites. Most unfortunate.”
    “I see.” Rathbone looked as if he did, although Hester knew he had not the slightest idea. “Well, that will not affect me. I have no desire to avail myself of your services. I mean simply to invest money and reap the reward. But I would prefer to think that you did not have many clients who meet with accidents. It attracts the wrong kind of attention. I am in a position to ride out one term of police presence due to murder, but not two.”
    “Oh, it won’t happen again!” Squeaky assured him. “It’s never happened before, and I’ll take care of it. The woman’s gone, I assure you.”
    “Good!” Rathbone almost smiled. “Satisfactory so far. But naturally I require to know rather more about your business—for instance, the financial side of it, the incomings and outgoings, the general history—before I commit myself.”
    “Of course . . . of course!” Squeaky nodded vigorously. “Anyone would. It needs a careful man.”
    “I am a careful man,” Rathbone said with the barest smile.
    Hester had a sudden suspicion that part of him was enjoying playacting the role. There was a casual elegance in the way he stood, and his hands by his sides were relaxed, his fingers loose. She might tease him about this afterwards, when it was all over. He would probably never admit to it.
    “It’s a good business,” Squeaky assured him. “Very profitable, and strictly legal, mind. Just a matter of lending a little money to people who need it. Could almost be viewed as a charity.” He saw the look on Rathbone’s face and amended his expression. “Well . . . there’s no matter what anyone thinks, is there, ’cos nobody’s going to know.”
    “Not from me,” Rathbone replied dryly. “And if you are wise, not from you either.”
    “Oh, rest easy, sir!” Squeaky nodded vehemently, his eyes wide. “Rest easy!”
    “You won’t get any money until I do,” Rathbone promised him. “How did your deceased partner become involved?”
    Hester shot a quick look at him. It did not matter how Baltimore had started in this. In fact, she really no longer cared who had killed him, if it was one of his own victims, and not only for the money but for his appetites as well. A certain kind of justice had already been served.
    “Some gentlemen have different tastes,” Squeaky said with a wry leer. “He was one of them.”
    “And you take all such men into your confidence?” Rathbone said with disgust. Hester saw his hand clench by his side. She was afraid now that the answer Squeaky would give would make it far harder for him to remain as an investor. He had pushed too far. Should she say something to help? But what?
    “You set up the business with him?” she interrupted. “I daresay it was his idea?”
    “No, it was not!” Squeaky said angrily, his voice rising alarmingly in pitch. “It was already a very good concern when he came in.” He resented her intrusion.
    “That’s hard to believe,” she said scathingly.
    Squeaky pointed his finger at her. “Look, miss, you just keep to your good works in Coldbath and leave the business to them as know about it. I had a very good thing going here before Mr. Baltimore ever came along. I was just unlucky. My partner then, Preece, his name was, was a greedy man. He tried to blackmail one or two of the better-off customers. That’s a fool thing to do. Kill the goose that way. Enough’s enough.” He sliced the air with his stringy hand and its ink-stained fingers. “Anyway, Baltimore got very angry and they set at each other like prizefighters.” His lips pursed in a gesture of disgust, but he looked a little pale at the memory. “Preece was a big fat bastard, and he took an attack. Went all colors and fell down on the floor, clutching his chest. Died right there.” He looked past Hester, directly at Rathbone. “Heart!” he said savagely. “Too much belly and no brain. His own fault.”
    Rathbone nodded. “Apparently,” he agreed.
    Hester saw him relax so very slightly it was barely perceptible. She shot a glance at Margaret in the shadows behind him, and read the relief in her face also.
    “Anyway,” Squeaky resumed, “I needed someone to take