William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

of the police rather than of financial ruin. But the rope was an infinitely worse prospect than poverty, even to the greediest man alive.
    “I suppose he could have been,” she said a trifle reluctantly, explaining what her hope had been.
    “Perhaps it was the usurer who killed him?” Margaret suggested, but there was more will than belief in her face. “Maybe he couldn’t pay, and someone lost his temper. It could have been as much an accident as anything. After all, it isn’t in their interest to kill a client, is it? It can’t be good for business. It isn’t as if anyone had to go there. There are plenty of other places, even if they would be in different parts of the city.”
    “And they left the body at Abel Smith’s, just as he said,” Hester agreed. “Yes, that sounds possible.” She could not keep the slight disappointment out of her voice. Also, it might have helped Monk if Baltimore’s death had had something to do with land fraud on the railway. It would have tied the present to the past and vindicated his belief that Arrol Dundas had been innocent. Except, of course, it would increase Monk’s sense of guilt that he had been unable to prove it at the time.
    “Should we tell Constable Hart?” Margaret asked hopefully. “That would solve the murder and get rid of the police.” The kettle started to whistle behind her. “And get rid of the driving force behind the usury at the same time!” She turned to the kettle and scalded the teapot, then put in the leaves, then the boiling water.
    “Not yet,” Hester said cautiously. “I would like to know a little more about Mr. Baltimore first, wouldn’t you?”
    “Yes. But how?” Margaret carried the teapot over to the table and set it down beside the milk and the mugs. “Can I help? I might be able to scrape an acquaintance with someone of whom I could ask questions . . . or you could. I wouldn’t know what to say.” There was the very faintest color in her cheeks, and she did not quite meet Hester’s eyes. “We might be able to take something useful to Sir Oliver if we could prove a connection.” She spoke very casually, and Hester smiled, knowing exactly how she felt and why she was compelled to mask it, even from her closest friend, or perhaps especially from her.
    “That would be a good idea,” she agreed. “I’ll write to Livia Baltimore and ask if I can call upon her tomorrow evening with further information about her father’s death. If I send the letter with a messenger, I’ll have a reply long before I need to go.”
    Margaret looked startled. “What are you going to tell her? Not that her father was at Portpool Lane, surely?”
    “Well, not the reason, anyway.” Hester smiled with a downward twist of her mouth and reached for the teapot.

    Hester sent the letter early in the morning, paying a messenger to take it to the Baltimore house in Royal Square, and before lunch the answer was returned that Miss Baltimore would be delighted to receive her that afternoon, and awaited her call with pleasure.
    Meanwhile, Margaret had made discreet enquiries and arranged for herself and Hester to visit with her brother-in-law, who was acquainted with business matters and could tell them what was publicly known of Baltimore and Sons, and perhaps a certain amount of that which was rather more privately believed. An appointment was made for the following evening.
    In the middle of the afternoon Hester left Fitzroy Street wearing a pale blue skirt and jacket, and a hat—a piece of apparel she loathed—and carrying a parasol against the bright, fitful sun. She had been given the parasol as a gift and she had never even unrolled it. Nevertheless it lent an air of respectability, suggesting young ladies who had time and care to consider guarding their complexions from the sun.
    She took an omnibus from the Tottenham Court Road, and was happy to walk the last few hundred yards to the front door in Royal Square. She was admitted immediately and conducted to a small sitting room clearly kept for the ladies of the house to receive their guests. It was furnished in a very feminine manner. The windows were draped with curtains in a clear, soft yellow, the chairs were well padded and pastel-shaded cushions made them look particularly inviting. There was a tapestry frame in one corner and a basket of colored silks and wools beside it. The screen in front of the fireplace was painted with flowers, and on the round table in the center of the