William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

Robinson.” She went straight to the door and, without knocking, back into the room where Rathbone and Squeaky were sitting facing each other in what seemed to be earnest conversation. Squeaky looked excited and anxious, leaning forward so the gaslight threw his seamed face into heavy relief, and Rathbone relaxed back in his chair, half smiling.
    They both turned as Hester came in.
    “What is it?” Squeaky demanded.
    Rathbone frowned, his eyes searching hers.
    “It all looks very profitable, Mr. Robinson,” Hester said smoothly. “There is just one matter to sort out.”
    “Oh?” Squeaky asked abruptly. “And what’s that, then?”
    “There has been almost a complete stop in repayments lately—over the last three weeks, to be exact,” she answered.
    “Of course there has!” Squeaky exploded. “Gawd sakes, woman, there’s rozzers on every bleeding footpath! How d’yer think anyone’s going to earn anything? Where are your wits at?”
    Rathbone stiffened.
    “At wanting to see your paper proof that there are still debts owed,” Hester answered perfectly levelly, avoiding Rathbone’s eyes. “No one wants to buy a business that has nothing coming in on a permanent basis.”
    Squeaky shot to his feet. “I have!” he said furiously, jabbing his finger in the air. “I’ve got lots o’ money coming still, but nothing’s forever! What do you think I need a partner for? When these run out, we gotter get more!” He went back to the cupboard where he had found the ledger and pulled the key from his pocket and opened the door. He poked his hand inside and fished around for a few moments, then withdrew it holding a sheaf of papers. He ignored the wide-open door and came back to Hester, holding them out. “There! All debts!” he said, waving them at her.
    “So you say,” she agreed, resisting the impulse to snatch at them. “We will add them up, deduct a little for . . . accidents, and come to a figure to present.” She inclined her head at Rathbone, but carefully avoided using his name.
    Squeaky still held tight onto the papers.
    Hester looked at Rathbone again.
    Rathbone pursed his lips and started to stand up.
    “All right!” Squeaky thrust the papers at Hester. “But only in that room, mind. They’re worth a lot of money.”
    “Of course,” Rathbone agreed. “Or I would not be willing to put my own money into the venture.”
    Hester took the papers from Squeaky’s reluctant fingers and walked straight over to the doorway, expecting any moment to hear Squeaky’s footsteps behind her. She reached the door with relief and opened it, then closed it again behind her. Margaret looked up at her, her face pale and tight with tension. She gulped when she saw the papers in Hester’s hand, and relaxed a fraction.
    Hester looked at them just long enough to be certain that they were the original signed IOUs, not copies of anything in Squeaky’s own hand. When she was satisfied that they were, she looked up and nodded to Margaret.
    Margaret took them and went to the fireplace. She put a taper to the gas flame in the light, caught fire to it, then, sheltering it with her hand, bent down and set it to the papers, all in absolute silence.
    Hester stood with her back against the door, her heart pounding.
    The flames caught and flared up. Margaret watched until there was nothing left, then took the tongs and crushed the blackened pieces. She turned around to Hester, a smile of triumph on her face.
    Hester picked up the ledger. “Do you want to?” she invited her.
    Margaret shook her head. “It’s yours,” she replied. “But I want to watch.”
    Hester made a little beckoning gesture, then opened the door with her free hand and went back into the room with Squeaky and Rathbone.
    Squeaky looked up. “Well?” he demanded. “Didn’t I tell you?”
    “You did,” Hester agreed, putting the ledger down on the desk in front of him. “There was a lot of money owed. But since I have just burned the IOUs, you will not be able to collect it.”
    Squeaky stared at her in incomprehension. It was too terrible for him to grasp.
    Even Rathbone seemed startled. He had expected her to leave Squeaky to find that out for himself when they were well outside the place. He looked a trifle taken aback.
    “You . . . you fool!” Squeaky screeched as the truth of it dawned on him. “You . . . you . . .”
    “Not a fool, Mr. Robinson,” Hester said calmly, although her hands were sweating and she knew she was