Hester knew she must find an excuse to call on Squeaky Robinson. After Hart had gone and Margaret came in, they spent some time caring for Fanny and Alice, who were both making slow and halting recovery. Then, as the afternoon waned and a decided chill settled in the air, Hester brought in more coals for the fire and considered telling Margaret to go home. The streets were quiet, and Bessie would be there all night.

  Margaret sat at the table staring disconsolately at the medicine cabinet she had recently restocked.

  “I spoke to Jessop again,” she said, her face tight, contempt hardening the line of her mouth. “My governess used to tell me when I was a child that a good woman can see the human side in anyone, and perceive some virtue in them.” She gave a rueful little shrug. “I used to believe her, probably because I actually liked her. Most girls rebel against their teachers, but she was fun, and interesting. She taught me all sorts of things that were certainly no practical use at all, simply interesting to know. I can’t imagine when I shall ever need to speak German. And she let me climb trees and get apples and plums—as long as I gave her some. She loved plums!”

  Hester had a glimpse of a young Margaret, her hair in pigtails, her skirts tucked up, shinning up the apple trees in someone else’s orchard, forbidden by her parents, and encouraged by a young woman willing to risk her employment to please a child and give her a little illicit but largely harmless fun. She found herself smiling. It was another life, another world from this one, where children stole to survive and would not have known what a governess was. Few of them ever attended even a ragged school, let alone had personal tuition or the luxury of abstract morality.

  “But I don’t think even Miss Walter would have found anything to redeem Mr. Jessop,” Margaret finished. “I wish with a passion that we did not have to rent accommodation from him.”

  “So do I,” Hester agreed. “I keep looking for something else so we can be rid of him, but I haven’t found anything yet.”

  Margaret looked away from Hester, and there was a very faint pinkness in her cheeks. “Do you think Sir Oliver will be able to help us with the women like Alice who are in debt to the usurer?” she asked tentatively.

  Hester felt the odd sinking feeling of change again, a very slight loneliness that Rathbone no longer cared for her quite as he had. Their friendship was still the same, and unless she behaved unworthily, it always would be. And she had never offered him more than that. It was Monk she loved. If she were even remotely honest, it always had been. The love of friends was different, calmer, and immeasurably safer. The heat did not burn the flesh, or the heart, nor did it light the fires which dispelled all darkness.

  And that was the core of it. If she cared for either Rathbone or Margaret, and she cared for them both, then she should be happy for them, full of hope that they were on the edge of discovering the kind of happiness that required all the strength and commitment there was to give.

  Margaret was looking at her, waiting.

  “I know he will do his best,” Hester said aloud. “So if it can be done, then yes, he will do it.” She breathed in deeply. “But before that, and apart from it, I want to make some more enquiries as to where Mr. Baltimore was killed, because I believe Abel Smith that it was not in his house.”

  Margaret looked at her quickly, a different kind of anxiety in her eyes now. “Hester, please be careful. Shall I come with you? You shouldn’t go alone. If anything happened to you, no one would ever know—”

  “You would know,” Hester replied, cutting off her argument. “But if you come with me, then no one would, except perhaps Bessie. I think I would rather rely on you to rescue me.” She smiled to rob the remark of sting. “But I promise I shall be careful. I have an idea which, even if I don’t learn anything, could be of benefit to us. A little more in the way of funds, anyhow. And even a spoke in Mr. Jessop’s wheel, which I would dearly like.”

  “So would I,” Margaret agreed. “But not at the cost of danger to you.”

  “There’s no more danger than coming here every night,” Hester assured her, with something less than the truth. But she thought the risk was worth it, and it was slight, all things considered. She stood up. “Tell Bessie I should be back no later than midnight. If I’m not, then you can inform Constable Hart and send out a search party for me.”

  “I shall be here myself,” Margaret retorted. “Tell me where you are going, so I shall know where to begin looking.” She half smiled, but her eyes were perfectly serious.

  “Portpool Lane,” Hester replied. “I have an idea to see a Mr. Robinson who keeps an establishment there.” She felt better for telling Margaret that, and as she put on her shawl and opened the door onto Coldbath Square, it was with more confidence than she had felt a few moments earlier. She turned in the doorway. “Thank you,” she said gravely, then, before Margaret could argue, she walked quickly along the footpath in the rain and turned the corner into Bath Street.

  She did not slacken her speed even when she was out of sight of the square because it was better for a woman alone to look as if she had a purpose, but also she did not want to allow herself time to reconsider what she was going to do, in case she lost her nerve. Margaret had an extraordinary admiration for her, especially her courage, and she was surprised now to realize how precious that was. It was worth conquering the fear that fluttered in the pit of her stomach to be able to return to Coldbath Square and say that she had gone through with her plan, whether she learned anything or not.

  It was not entirely pride, although she was forced to admit that that did enter into it. It was also a gentler thing, the desire to live up to what Margaret believed of her and aspired to herself. Disillusion was a bitter thing, and she might already have brought about a little of that. She was aware of having been abrupt a few times, of a reluctance to praise even where it was due. The knowledge that Monk was keeping from her something that hurt him had driven her into an unusual sense of isolation, and it had touched her friendships as well.

  She could at least live up to the mask of courage that was expected of her. She too needed to believe that she was equal to anything she set herself. Physical courage was easy, compared with the inner strength to endure the pain of the heart.

  Anyway, Squeaky Robinson was probably a perfectly ordinary businessman who had no intention of hurting anybody unless they threatened him, and she would be careful not to do that. This was only an expedition to look and learn.

  The huge mass of Reid’s Brewery towered dark into the rain-drifted sky, and there was a sweet, rotten smell in the air.

  She was obliged to stop where Portpool Lane ran close under the massive walls. She could no longer see where she was going. The eaves dripped steadily. There were shadows in the doorways, beggars settling for the night. Considering that she was in the immediate vicinity of exactly the kind of brothel she would have inhabited herself, had she been driven to the streets, the chances of her being misunderstood were very high. But she had passed a constable less than a hundred yards away. Certainly he was out of sight, but his presence was sufficient to deter the kind of customer who came here even more than most.

  She leaned against the brewery wall, keeping away from the edge of the narrow curb, where the light from the street lamp shone pale on the wet cobbles. With her shawl covering her head and concealing most of her face, she did not look as if she were hoping to be noticed. The lane was a couple of hundred yards long, leading into the Gray’s Inn Road, a busy thoroughfare, traffic running up and down it until midnight or more, and the odd hansom cab even after that. The town hall was just around the corner. Squeaky Robinson was more likely to have his house in the shadows up one of the alleys at this end, opposite the brewery. His clients would want to be as discreet as possible.

  Did such men feel any shame at the exercise of their tastes? Certainly they would wish it secret from society in general, but what about each other? Would they come if their equals with similar tastes were aware? She had no idea, but perhaps it would be clever of the proprietor of such a place to have more than one entrance—more than two, even? If so, the alleys opposite would be perfect. This end, not the other, where there was a large, very respectable looking building and a hotel beyond.

  Now that she had decided as much, there was no point in waiting. She straightened up, breathed in deeply, forgetting the sweet, decaying smell, and she wished she had not, as she coughed and gasped, drawing in more of it. She should never forget where she was, not even for an instant! Cursing her inattention, she crossed the road and walked smartly up the first alley right to the end, where any building would lie which opened onto both lanes, and onto the narrow streets at the farther side.

  The alley was narrow, but freer of rubbish than she would have expected ordinarily, and there was a light on a wall bracket about halfway along, showing a clear path up the uneven stones. Was that coincidence, or was Squeaky Robinson taking care of the physical sensibilities of his clients by seeing they did not have to stumble over refuse on their way to their pleasures?

  She reached the end of the alley, and on the outer edge of the light from the lamp she could see steps and a doorway. She already knew what she was going to say, and there was nothing to hesitate for. She went to the door and knocked.

  It was opened immediately by a man in a dark suit, scuffed at the edges and too large for him, even though he was at least average in build. From the way he stood, he was ready for a fight any time one should seem necessary. He looked like a ruffian aping a down-at-heel butler. Perhaps it was part of the image of the establishment. He regarded her without interest. “Yes, miss?”

  She met his eyes directly. She did not wish to be taken for a supplicant in distress, seeking to use the brothel to rescue herself from debt.

  “Good evening,” she replied stiffly. “I would like to speak with the proprietor. I believe he is a Mr. Robinson? We may have business interests in common where we could be of service to one another. Would you be good enough to tell him that Mrs. Monk, of Coldbath Square, is here to see him?” She made it an order, as she would have done in her old life, before her sojourn in the Crimea, when calling upon the daughter of a friend of her father whose servants would know her.

  The man hesitated. He was used to obeying the clientele—it was part of their purchase—but women were stock-in-trade, and as such should do as they were told.

  She did not lower her eyes.

  “I’ll see,” he conceded ungraciously. “Yer’d better come in.” He almost added something further, then at the last moment thought better of it and merely led her to a very small room off the passage, little more than a wide cupboard furnished with one wooden chair. “Wait there,” he ordered, and went out, closing the door.

  She did as he said. This was not the time to take risks. She would learn nothing by exploring, and she had no interest in the interior of a brothel yet, and hoped she never would have. It 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 in both directions, and what seemed more like figures than words. The lack of trade must be affecting him more than most, as she had already thought. It added to her strength.

  “Business is poor for everyone,” she observed.

  “I thought you did yours for nothing,” he replied flatly. “So far you are wasting my time, Mrs. Monk.”

  “Then I’ll come to the point.” She could not afford to have him dismiss her. “What I do serves your interests.” She made it a statement of fact and did not wait for him to agree or disagree. “In order to do it I have to have premises, and I am at the present time having a degree of difficulty with my landlord. He is obstructive and keeps threatening to increase the rent.”

  She saw his body tighten under the thin jacket, a distinct alteration in his position in the big chair. She wondered just how much the present situation had cost him. Was he short of money? Was he the usurer, or merely the manager of this place? Quite a lot might depend upon the answer to that.

  “I practice business, not charity, Mrs. Monk,” Robinson said sharply, his voice rising in pitch, his hand clutching the paper knife even more rigidly.

  “Of course,” she said without the slightest change in her expression. “I am expecting enlightened self-interest from you, not a donation. Tell me, Mr. Robinson, have you made a profit since the unfortunate death of . . . Mr. Baltimore, I believe his name was?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You knew him?” he said suspiciously.

  “Not at all,” she answered. “I say unfortunate because it has interrupted what was a fairly satisfactory state of affairs in the area and has brought a police presence we would all prefer to be without.”

  He seemed to consider saying something and then changed his mind. She saw his breathing quicken a little, and again he shifted his position very slightly, as if easing aching bones.

  “They apparently intend to remain until they find who killed him,” she went on. “And I do not foresee any success for them. They appear to think he died in Abel Smith’s house in Leather Lane.” She did not move her eyes from his. “I think that is unlikely.”

  Robinson seemed scarcely to breathe. “Do you?” He was weighing everything he said, which made her wonder if he was frightened, and if so, of what, or of whom.

  “There are several possibilities.” She kept her voice light, as if they were discussing something of only moderate interest. “None of which anyone will assist them to find out,” she added. “He will have been killed somewhere else, either intentionally or by accident. And whoever was responsible, very naturally, did not wish to be blamed or to attract the attention of the police, so equally naturally, they moved the body. Anyone would have done as much.”

  “That has nothing to do with me,” Robinson replied, but she noticed the knuckles of his hand were white.