William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

room a huge china bowl of white and yellow tulips gave off a light, pleasing perfume.
    Livia Baltimore was waiting for her expectantly. She was dressed in the obligatory black of mourning, and it made her fair skin look drained of all color. The moment Hester was in the room Livia stood up, coming forward from the chair where she had been sitting, her book put down with a marker to keep the place.
    “How kind of you to come, Mrs. Monk. I was hoping that with all your work for the distressed you would not forget me. I am sure you would like tea?” Without waiting for an answer she nodded to the parlor maid to confirm the instructions.
    “Please sit down.” She indicated one of the chairs as the door closed and she resumed her own seat. “You look very well. I hope you are?”
    It would probably be polite to talk about a variety of subjects, as was usually done. None of them mattered; it was simply a way of becoming acquainted. It was not what one said but the manner in which one said it that counted. But this was not a usual social friendship; they would probably never see each other after this. There was only one thing which brought them together, and regardless of what conventions were observed, it was the only thing either of them cared about.
    “Yes, I am,” Hester replied, relaxing into the chair. “Of course the area is in some difficulty at the moment, and some of the women are being beaten, simply out of temper and frustration because there is no business.” She was watching Livia’s face as she spoke. She saw the young woman’s struggle to hide her distaste at the “business” in question. It was something she knew very little about. Well-bred young ladies were barely aware of the existence of prostitution, never mind the details of the lives of those involved. If she had been asked before her father’s death, she would have known even less, but unkind tongues had made sure she was acquainted with at least the rudiments now.
    “There are police on every corner,” Hester went on. “Nobody’s pockets have been picked in a couple of weeks, but there is less and less in them that would be worth the trouble. People are going elsewhere when they can, which I suppose is natural. I don’t know why, but police make even honest people nervous.”
    “I don’t know why they should,” Livia responded. “Surely innocence should fear nothing?”
    “Perhaps too few of us are entirely innocent,” Hester replied, but she said it gently. She had no desire whatever to hurt this young woman whose life had been so abruptly invaded by tragedy, and knowledge nothing had prepared her for and which in other circumstances she would never have known. “But I came to tell you that I have continued to listen, and to enquire where I could into the death of Mr. Baltimore.”
    Livia sat motionless. “Yes?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. She blinked, ignoring the tears brimming her eyes.
    “I went to the house in Leather Lane where his body was found,” Hester said gravely, pretending not to notice. She did not know Livia well enough to intrude. “I spoke to the people there, and they told me they had no part in what happened to him. He died elsewhere and was moved in order to implicate them, and I assume to remove suspicion from someone else.”
    “Did you believe them?” There was neither acceptance nor rejection in Livia’s tone, as if she was deliberately not daring to hope too much.
    “Yes, I did,” Hester said unequivocally.
    Livia relaxed, smiling in spite of herself.
    Hester felt a stab of guilt so sharp she questioned whether she should be there at all, telling this young woman things which were true, and yet so much less than the whole truth. It would inevitably lead her to knowledge which would destroy forever the memories of happiness and innocence that had molded her youth.
    “Then he could simply have been set upon in the street?” Livia was saying eagerly, the color returned to her cheeks. “Whoever killed my father then used his death to try to have some kind of revenge on Mr. Smith, and of course escape blame themselves. Have you told the police this?”
    “Not yet,” Hester said guardedly. “I would rather know more first, so that they believe me. Do you know why he would be in the Farringdon Road area? Did he go there often?”
    “I have no idea.” Livia blinked away sudden tears. “Papa went out many evenings, at least two or three every week. I am sure that