William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

ushered into Rathbone’s office with its beautiful leather inlaid desk and cabinets full of books, and the long windows overlooking the street.
    Rathbone came forward toward Hester, smiling broadly. He was not much more than average height. His charm lay in the intelligence in his face, in his wry, delicate humor and the supreme confidence of his bearing. He was a gentleman, and he had the ease of privilege and education.
    “Hester, what a pleasure to see you, even if it has to be a problem that brings you here,” he said sincerely. “Who is wrongly accused of what? I imagine it is murder? It usually is, with you.”
    “Not yet,” she replied, warmth engulfing her just to hear the gentleness in his voice. She turned to introduce Margaret, and as he turned also she saw a sudden interest spark in his dark eyes, as if already he recognized her, or something in her that he was happy to see. “This is Miss Margaret Ballinger,” she said quickly. “Sir Oliver Rathbone.”
    Margaret drew in her breath to reply, a very faint flush in her cheeks.
    “We have met already,” Rathbone said before Margaret could speak. “At a ball, I forget where, but we danced. It was just before that miserable business with the architect. It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Ballinger.” The expression in his face suggested that he was speaking honestly, not simply as a matter of good manners.
    Margaret took a deep breath, just a trifle shakily. “Thank you for seeing us with no notice at all, Sir Oliver. It is very gracious of you.”
    “Hester always brings me the most fascinating problems,” he demurred, inviting them with a gesture to sit down, and when they had done so, taking the seat behind the desk himself. “You said no one has been murdered yet. Should I deduce from that that you expect someone will be?” There was no mockery in his tone; it was light, but perfectly serious.
    “Two people have been very badly injured, and more will be,” Hester said a fraction more quickly than she had meant to. She was aware that Rathbone was at least as conscious of Margaret as he was of her. She realized with a yawning hollow inside her how much of his life lay beyond her knowledge. The material facts of it did not matter, it was the wealth of people he knew, the emotions, the laughter and hurt, the dreams that were the man inside.
    He was waiting for her to continue.
    “Miss Ballinger and I have rented a house in Coldbath Square in which to offer medical treatment to women of the street who are injured or ill,” she said, ignoring the look in his eyes, the strange mixture of tenderness, admiration, and horror. “Lately at least two women have come in very seriously beaten,” she went on. “One of them has said that she used to be a governess, then married, and her husband led her into debt. She borrowed money, and then could not repay it.” She was speaking too quickly. Deliberately, she slowed herself. “The usurer offered her a position as a prostitute, catering to men who like to humiliate and abuse women who were once respectable.” She saw the disgust in his face. If he could have listened to her and felt nothing she would have despised him for it.
    Rathbone glanced at Margaret, saw the anger in her, and something in him softened even further.
    “Go on,” he said, turning back to Hester.
    “I daresay you are aware that a Mr. Nolan Baltimore was murdered in Leather Lane just over a week ago?” she asked.
    He nodded. “I am.”
    “Since then the police have patrolled the area with more men than usual, with the result that there is far less trade possible for such women. They are earning little or no money, and cannot pay the usurer. They are being beaten for their delinquency in their debts.” Memory of the two women momentarily obliterated any sense of her own loneliness. She leaned forward earnestly. “Please, Oliver, there must be something we can do to stop it. They are far too terrified and ashamed to fight back for themselves.” She watched him struggle for something to say to let her down gently. She was asking too much. She would have liked to withdraw, be reasonable, but the reality of their pain burned too hotly inside her.
    “Hester . . .” he began.
    “I know the whole world of Coldbath Square and Leather Lane are outside the law,” she said quickly, before he could dismiss her. “It shouldn’t be! Do we always have to wait until people come to us before we can help them? Sometimes we