William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

legitimate business.”
    “Really . . . Boyd!” Courtney growled. “I don’t think this is the sort of thing to discuss in front of ladies!”
    “If Mrs. Monk has been an army nurse, and now works in the Coldbath area, James, I doubt I can tell her anything that she does not already know better than I,” Boyd pointed out with more humor than annoyance.
    “I was thinking of my sister-in-law!” Courtney said a trifle waspishly, his eye flickering to Marielle and back again, as if in actuality responding to her rather than his own thoughts. “And my wife,” he added, perhaps unaware of the implied insult to Hester.
    Boyd looked at him coldly for a moment, and noticed him color, then he turned to Margaret. “I apologize if I have distressed you, Miss Ballinger,” he said with a slight smile, but a question in his eye.
    “I shall require an apology, Mr. Boyd, if you think me less able to face the truth than Mrs. Monk!” Margaret replied with heat. “You have answered us very frankly, and for that I am grateful. Please do not spoil your respect for our sincerity by equivocating now.”
    Boyd ignored both Courtney and Marielle as if they had not been present.
    “Then I must tell you, Miss Ballinger,” he replied, “that I think Nolan Baltimore was as likely to have gone to Leather Lane for the reasons generally supposed as for any business purpose, honorable or otherwise. The quality of his living, the cost of his clothes, his carriages, his food and wine, did not suggest a company with any need to seek finance.” He waved Courtney’s proposed interruption away impatiently, and without taking his eyes from Margaret’s, he continued. “Since I have seen him in the City he has never restricted himself. Rumor has it that his company is on the verge of a great achievement. Perhaps he has borrowed against his expectations, or else he had a backer with very deep pockets. But before you ask me who it might be, I have no idea whatever. Not even an educated guess. I am sorry.”
    An extraordinary thought occurred to Hester, only a flutter of darkness to begin with, but less and less absurd as the seconds ticked by. “Please don’t apologize, Mr. Boyd,” she said with sincerity. “You have been most helpful.” She ignored Margaret’s look of surprise, and Marielle’s clear disapproval.
    Boyd smiled at her, curiosity and satisfaction in his face.
    “How fortunate,” Marielle said coolly, indicating that the subject was closed. “Have you seen the new exhibition at the British Museum yet, Margaret? Mr. Boyd was just telling us how fascinating it is. Egypt is a country I have always wished to visit. The past must seem so immediate there. It would give one quite a different perspective upon time, don’t you think?”
    “Unfortunately, it would not give me any more of it,” Margaret said, trying to sound casual and less embarrassed than she was at such an obvious ploy. She looked at Boyd. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Boyd. I hope you will excuse us leaving so abruptly, but there is no one to take our places should any injured be brought into the house in Coldbath Square.” She looked at her sister. “Thank you for being so generous, Marielle. I am extremely grateful to you.”
    “You really must stay longer next time,” Marielle said resentfully. “You must come to dinner, or to the theater. There are many excellent plays on at the moment. You are allowing your interests to become too narrow, Margaret. It cannot be good for you!”
    Margaret ignored her, bade everyone good-bye, and a few moments later she and Hester were outside in the cool air of the street, walking toward the corner where they might find a hansom easily.
    “What did he say that was helpful?” Margaret demanded. “I don’t see what any of it means that is really any use.”
    “Mr. Boyd hinted that Baltimore had other income, apart from the railway company,” Hester said a little tentatively.
    “He went to Leather Lane on business?” Margaret was uncertain. “Does that help? We have no idea what business, or with whom. And actually didn’t you say his death wasn’t in Leather Lane anyway?”
    “Yes, I did. I said it might very well have been in Portpool Lane.”
    Margaret stopped walking abruptly and swung around to face Hester. “You mean . . . in the brothel that is run by the usurer?”
    “Yes—I do mean that.”
    “His tastes were . . . to humiliate young women who used to be respectable?” Disgust and