William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

a conventional way, and gave the air of being extremely satisfied with all about her. She was fashionably dressed, but discreetly so, as if she had no need to make herself ostentatious in order to be remarked.
    She came forward as soon as she saw Margaret, her face beaming with welcome. Either she was genuinely pleased to see her sister or she was a most accomplished actress.
    “My dear!” she said, giving Margaret a swift kiss on the cheek, then stepping back to regard her with great interest. “How delightful of you to have come. It has been far too long. I swear I was quite giving up hope!” She turned to Hester. “You must be Mrs. Monk, Margaret’s new friend.” This welcome was not nearly so warm—in fact, it was merely courteous. There was something guarded in her eyes. Hester realized immediately that Marielle Courtney was not at all sure that Hester’s influence upon her sister was a good one. It might have replaced some of her own, and with less desirable effects. And of course she could not place Hester socially, which set her at a disadvantage in estimating her desirability.
    “How do you do, Mrs. Courtney,” Hester replied with a polite smile. “I think so highly of Margaret that to meet any member of her family is a great pleasure to me.”
    “How kind of you,” Marielle murmured, turning to the man to her right and just behind her. “May I introduce you to my husband, Mr. Courtney?”
    “How do you do, Mrs. Monk,” he responded dutifully. He was a bland-faced man of approximately forty, already a little corpulent, but full of assurance and general willingness to receive his wife’s family, and whoever they might bring with them, civilly enough.
    The third person in the room was the one they had come to see, the man who might be able to tell them more about Nolan Baltimore. He was slender and unusual in appearance. His thick hair waved back off a high brow and was touched with gray at the temples, suggesting his age was more than his ease of carriage and elegance of dress portrayed. His features were very aquiline, his mouth full of humor. Marielle introduced him as Mr. Boyd, and laid rather more emphasis on Margaret than Hester was prepared for.
    She saw Margaret stiffen and the color rise to her cheeks, although she masked her discomfort as well as possible.
    The usual formalities of refreshment were offered and accepted. Marielle invited them to remain for dinner also, and Margaret declined without even referring to Hester, stating a previous engagement which did not exist.
    “It is very good of you to come in order to furnish us with assistance and information, Mr. Boyd,” she said a little stiffly. “I hope it has not spoiled your evening.”
    “Not at all, Miss Ballinger,” he replied, smiling very slightly, the humor going all the way to his eyes, as if he saw some joke that might be shared, but not spoken of. “Please tell me what it is you wish to know, and if I can answer you, then I will do so.”
    “I understand the restrictions,” she said hastily. “I am sure you are aware that Mr. Baltimore died tragically just over two weeks ago . . . in Leather Lane?”
    “I am.” If he felt any distaste he was too well schooled to show it.
    Hester’s regard for him increased. She glanced at Marielle and saw her intense interest. She was watching Boyd, and then Margaret, and then Boyd again, as if the outcome was of the greatest importance to her. Hester was filled with a fierce understanding of why Margaret longed to escape from her home and the pressure to marry suitably . . . as Marielle had done, and possibly whatever other sisters she had. She recalled some mention of a younger one, who was no doubt impatient for her turn.
    Was Boyd aware of this also? Did he know he was being gently but very firmly engineered into the desired place? He looked like a man supremely able to make his own decisions. No ambitious mother, or sister, would maneuver him, of that Hester was certain. But it was Margaret’s feelings that concerned her.
    “I work in a charity in that area,” Margaret went on with a candor that made Marielle wince and her husband look startled, and then unhappy.
    “Really, Margaret . . .” he said with disapproval. “Gaining a little money for those who are unfortunate is one thing, but you should not become involved in any personal way, my dear . . .”
    Margaret ignored him, keeping her attention on Boyd. “Mrs. Monk was a nurse in the Crimea,” she went