William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

trembling. “It was precisely what I intended to do.”
    “I’m ruined!” Squeaky’s face was red, his eyes bulging. He held out his hands as if he were thinking of actually grasping hold of her and strangling her.
    She took a step backward just as Rathbone stood up. “No you won’t,” she said chokingly. “I have an idea how you could use this place . . . really quite well.”
    “You what?” Squeaky said with total disbelief. She was monstrous! Beyond credibility.
    “I . . . I have an idea,” Hester repeated. “We need new premises, better than we have now, and cheaper . . .”
    “Cheaper?” Squeaky yelled. “You should pay me compensation! That’s what you should do . . . you . . . you lunatic!”
    “Nonsense!” she said briskly. “At least you will stay out of jail. You can run this place as a hospital for the sick and injured. There’s plenty of room.”
    He gulped and choked.
    “The money can be raised by charity,” she went on in the deafening silence. “You’ve got lots of young women here who could learn to be nurses. It would—”
    “Gawd Almighty!” Squeaky burst out in anguish.
    “Hester!” Rathbone protested.
    “It seems like quite a good bargain to me.” Hester adopted an air of utmost reason.
    Squeaky turned to Rathbone to appeal to him.
    “I’m sorry,” Rathbone said, a strange lift in his voice, as if he were teetering on the edge between horror and laughter. “I have no intention of investing in your business, Mr. Robinson. Unless, of course, you adopt Mrs. Monk’s suggestion? I had no idea that she had such a thing in mind, but it seems to me something to which I could donate a certain amount, and possibly find others who would do the same.” He took a deep breath. “I appreciate that it would ruin your reputation among your colleagues, but it might earn you a certain leniency in other directions.”
    “What other directions?” Squeaky wailed. “You’re asking me to be worse than legitimate! It’d be downright . . . good!” He said the word as if it were damnation.
    “The law,” Rathbone said reasonably. “I am a barrister.” He bowed very slightly. “Sir Oliver Rathbone, Q.C.”
    Squeaky Robinson let out a long, wordless groan.
    “Then we will all be well suited,” Hester said with satisfaction.
    “We shall even be able to tell Mr. Jessop that his premises are no longer required,” Margaret added. “I personally will enjoy that very much. We shall, of course, not pay you well, Mr. Robinson, but the donations will be sufficient, without that expense, to see that you are comfortable and properly fed and clothed. If you manage the place, it will give you something to occupy your time, and the other work will need to be overseen. The present young ladies can earn a modest living, quite honorably . . .”
    Squeaky howled.
    “Good,” Margaret said with deep satisfaction. She glanced at last at Rathbone, and blushed at the admiration in his eyes. She looked at Hester.
    Hester smiled back at her.
    “You’re all in it together!” Squeaky accused, his voice hitting falsetto in outrage.
    “You are exactly right,” Rathbone agreed gently, smiling as if extraordinarily pleased with himself. “And now you are fortunate to be in it with us also, Mr. Robinson. My sincere advice, for which I will not charge you, is to make the best of it.”
    Squeaky let out a last, despairing groan, and was utterly ignored.

CHAPTER TEN
    The journey to Liverpool was just like the others. He could hear the rattle of iron wheels over the joints in the rails even when he drifted into sleep, although he fought against it. He was afraid of what the dreams would bring back, the sense of horror and grief, the piercing, sick knowledge of guilt, although he still did not know for what.
    He stared out of the window. The rolling countryside with its plowed fields was dark where the grain was sown but not yet through the ground, green like thrown gauze over the earth where the earlier crop had sprung. The cherry and wild plum and pear trees were mounded white with blossom, but all of them made no mark on his senses. He got out and back in again at every stop, eager to be there.
    He reached Liverpool Lime Street just before dark, stiff and tired, and found himself lodgings for the night.

    In the sharp chill of morning his mind was made up where to begin. Whatever pain it might bring, whatever revelations not only as to his life, but to Monk’s also, he must start with Arrol