William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

honest, it always had been. The love of friends was different, calmer, and immeasurably safer. The heat did not burn the flesh, or the heart, nor did it light the fires which dispelled all darkness.
    And that was the core of it. If she cared for either Rathbone or Margaret, and she cared for them both, then she should be happy for them, full of hope that they were on the edge of discovering the kind of happiness that required all the strength and commitment there was to give.
    Margaret was looking at her, waiting.
    “I know he will do his best,” Hester said aloud. “So if it can be done, then yes, he will do it.” She breathed in deeply. “But before that, and apart from it, I want to make some more enquiries as to where Mr. Baltimore was killed, because I believe Abel Smith that it was not in his house.”
    Margaret looked at her quickly, a different kind of anxiety in her eyes now. “Hester, please be careful. Shall I come with you? You shouldn’t go alone. If anything happened to you, no one would ever know—”
    “You would know,” Hester replied, cutting off her argument. “But if you come with me, then no one would, except perhaps Bessie. I think I would rather rely on you to rescue me.” She smiled to rob the remark of sting. “But I promise I shall be careful. I have an idea which, even if I don’t learn anything, could be of benefit to us. A little more in the way of funds, anyhow. And even a spoke in Mr. Jessop’s wheel, which I would dearly like.”
    “So would I,” Margaret agreed. “But not at the cost of danger to you.”
    “There’s no more danger than coming here every night,” Hester assured her, with something less than the truth. But she thought the risk was worth it, and it was slight, all things considered. She stood up. “Tell Bessie I should be back no later than midnight. If I’m not, then you can inform Constable Hart and send out a search party for me.”
    “I shall be here myself,” Margaret retorted. “Tell me where you are going, so I shall know where to begin looking.” She half smiled, but her eyes were perfectly serious.
    “Portpool Lane,” Hester replied. “I have an idea to see a Mr. Robinson who keeps an establishment there.” She felt better for telling Margaret that, and as she put on her shawl and opened the door onto Coldbath Square, it was with more confidence than she had felt a few moments earlier. She turned in the doorway. “Thank you,” she said gravely, then, before Margaret could argue, she walked quickly along the footpath in the rain and turned the corner into Bath Street.
    She did not slacken her speed even when she was out of sight of the square because it was better for a woman alone to look as if she had a purpose, but also she did not want to allow herself time to reconsider what she was going to do, in case she lost her nerve. Margaret had an extraordinary admiration for her, especially her courage, and she was surprised now to realize how precious that was. It was worth conquering the fear that fluttered in the pit of her stomach to be able to return to Coldbath Square and say that she had gone through with her plan, whether she learned anything or not.
    It was not entirely pride, although she was forced to admit that that did enter into it. It was also a gentler thing, the desire to live up to what Margaret believed of her and aspired to herself. Disillusion was a bitter thing, and she might already have brought about a little of that. She was aware of having been abrupt a few times, of a reluctance to praise even where it was due. The knowledge that Monk was keeping from her something that hurt him had driven her into an unusual sense of isolation, and it had touched her friendships as well.
    She could at least live up to the mask of courage that was expected of her. She too needed to believe that she was equal to anything she set herself. Physical courage was easy, compared with the inner strength to endure the pain of the heart.
    Anyway, Squeaky Robinson was probably a perfectly ordinary businessman who had no intention of hurting anybody unless they threatened him, and she would be careful not to do that. This was only an expedition to look and learn.
    The huge mass of Reid’s Brewery towered dark into the rain-drifted sky, and there was a sweet, rotten smell in the air.
    She was obliged to stop where Portpool Lane ran close under the massive walls. She could no longer see where she was going. The eaves dripped steadily.