William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

was easier to deal with the injured women if she knew less rather than more about their lives. She was concerned with medicine, nothing else. And if she was caught she would not be able to explain herself to Squeaky Robinson, and it was important he believe her. There would be enough stretching and bending of the truth as it was.
    She had to wait for what seemed like a quarter of an hour before the door opened again and the would-be butler ushered her along the passage further into the warren of the building. It was narrow, cramped for width and height. The floors were uneven under the old red carpeting, but the boards did not creak, as she would have expected. Someone had taken great care to nail them all down so not one moved to betray a footstep. There was no sound in the silence except a random settling of the whole fabric of the building, a sigh of ancient timber slowly consumed by rot. The stairs were steep and ran both up and down within the one corridor, as if two or three rambling houses had been joined to give a dozen entrances and exits.
    Finally the butler stopped and opened a door, indicating that Hester should go in. The room was a startling surprise, although only on entering it did Hester realize what she had expected. She had pictured dimness, vulgarity, and instead it was large, low-ceilinged, and the walls were almost obscured by shelves and cupboards. The floor was wood boards covered with rugs, and the main piece of furniture was an enormous desk with a multitude of drawers. On its cluttered surface was a brightly burning oil lamp shedding a yellow light in every direction. The room was also warm from a black stove on the far wall, and the whole place was untidy, but apparently clean.
    The man sitting in the leather-upholstered chair was thin-faced, sharp-eyed, with straggling gray-brown hair and very slightly hunched shoulders. He regarded Hester with intelligent wariness, but none of the curiosity she would have expected had he no idea who she was. Presumably word of the Coldbath house had reached him, which she should have expected.
    “Well, Mrs. Monk,” he said smoothly. “And what business is it that could concern both you and me?” His voice was light and soft, a little nasal, but not sufficiently so to account for his nickname. She wondered what had given him that.
    She sat down without being invited, in order to let him know she did not intend to be fobbed off but would stay until the matter was settled to her satisfaction.
    “The business of keeping as many women as possible in a fit state to work, Mr. Robinson,” she replied.
    He moved his head a trifle to one side. “I thought you were a charitable woman, Mrs. Monk. Wouldn’t you rather see all the women back in factories or sweatshops, earning a living the law and society would approve?”
    “You don’t earn a living at all with broken bones, Mr. Robinson,” she countered. She tried to sound as casual as possible, suppressing her emotions of anger and contempt. She was there to accomplish a purpose, not indulge herself. “And my interests are not your concern, except where they meet with your own, which I presume is to make as much profit as possible.”
    He nodded very slowly, and as the light flickered on his face she saw the lines of tension in it, the grayness of his skin in spite of being close-shaven, even at this time in the early evening. There was a tiny flicker of surprise in him, so small she might have been mistaken.
    “And what kind of profit are you looking for?” he enquired. He picked up a paper knife and fiddled with it, his long, ink-stained fingers constantly moving.
    “That is my concern,” she said tartly, sitting up very straight, as if she were in a church pew.
    He was taken aback, it was clear in his face. A trifle more masked was the fact that she had also woken his curiosity.
    She smiled. “I have no intention of becoming your rival, Mr. Robinson,” she said with some amusement. “I assume you are aware of my house in Coldbath Square?”
    “I am,” he conceded, watching her closely.
    “I have treated some women who I think may have worked for you, but that is only a deduction,” she continued. “They do not tell me, and I do not ask. I mention it only to indicate that we have interests that coincide.”
    “So you said.” His fingers kept rolling the paper knife around and around. There were papers scattered on the desk which looked like balance sheets. There were lines ruled on them