Death of a Stranger (12 page)

“Yes, of course. But I am impressed that you ship to India!” He was astounded, although he could not have said why.

Dalgarno relaxed, putting his fingers together in a steeple in front of him. “Not us, Mr. Monk. Unfortunately, we are not yet large enough for that. But we are supplying components to another company. But I assume you know this.”

That was not really a question. He was taking it for granted that Monk was testing him, and he was allowing his candor to show.

Monk recovered himself rapidly. “Can you speak for your senior partner also?”

Dalgarno’s face clouded. It was impossible to tell if his hesitation was genuine or a matter of propriety. “Tragically, our senior partner died recently,” he answered. “But he is succeeded by his son, Mr. Jarvis Baltimore, who is more than able to take his place.”

“I’m sorry,” Monk said appropriately. “Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you,” Dalgarno accepted. “You will appreciate that at this moment Mr. Jarvis Baltimore is somewhat occupied attending to family affairs, and endeavoring to be of comfort to his mother and sister. And that is where I should be this evening, Mr. Monk. Mr. Baltimore’s death was sudden and totally unexpected. But of course that is not your concern, and railways wait for no man. I give you my word we shall not let personal tragedy keep us from our duty. Any promise given by Baltimore and Sons will be honored to the letter.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

Monk took it, rising also. It was a firm, strong grip, unaffected. Dalgarno was extremely sure of himself, but with a sharp edge of hunger, an ambition in which Monk could see himself as he had once been… in fact, not so long ago. He had left merchant banking and financial venture far behind, but as a policeman that ambition had merely been redirected. Every case was still a battle, a personal challenge.

His charges from Katrina Harcus were to save Dalgarno and to prevent any possible disaster, and to do either of them he needed to have as much knowledge as he could of Jarvis Baltimore.

“One further question, Mr. Dalgarno,” he said casually. “There are always risks of land purchase posing problems. The best deals can founder on that if a section of the proposed track runs into difficulties. Not everyone sees progress as a blessing.”

Dalgarno’s face was mute testimony of his understanding.

“Who deals with that subject in your company?” Monk enquired. “Yourself? Or Mr. Baltimore?”

Was there a slight hesitation in Dalgarno, or was it only that Monk wanted to see it there?

“We’ve all dealt with it at one time or another,” Dalgarno replied. “As you say, it is a subject which can cause a great deal of concern.”

Monk frowned. “All?”

“The late Mr. Nolan Baltimore was also concerned with land,” Dalgarno explained.

“Indeed.” Monk was about to continue when the door opened and a man he instantly assumed to be Jarvis Baltimore stood in the entrance, his face a little flushed, his expression impatient. “Michael, I…” He saw Monk and stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a client.” He held out his hand. “Jarvis Baltimore,” he introduced himself.

Monk took Baltimore’s hand and felt a grip a little too powerful, as of someone determined to exert his authority.

“Mr. Monk represents a client interested in a large purchase of rolling stock,” Dalgarno explained.

Baltimore fixed his expression into one of ease and interest, although his body still carried a barely suppressed tension. “I’m sure we can help you, Mr. Monk. If you give us your client’s requirements, we will quote for you on all goods.”

“And services?” Monk raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Dalgarno said you also have some skill in negotiating the purchase of land and right-of-way.”

Baltimore smiled. “Certainly. At a fee, of course!” He glanced quickly at Dalgarno, then back at Monk. “Now I’m afraid we must both leave the discussion for today. My family has very recently been bereaved, and Dalgarno is a close friend-one of us, almost. My mother and sister are expecting us both this evening…”

Monk looked to Dalgarno and saw the quick response in his face, the immediacy of his answer. Was that ambition, affection, pity? He had no way of telling.

“I’m sure you understand,” Baltimore went on.

“Of course,” Monk agreed. “Again, please accept my condolences. This was only a preliminary discussion. I will report back to my principals, and they will instruct me further. Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Baltimore, Mr. Dalgarno.”

He excused himself and took his leave, turning over impressions in his mind as he made his way home.

“What was Dalgarno like?” Hester asked him an hour later over a supper of grilled fish with mashed potato and onions. “Do you think he is involved in any kind of fraud?”

He hesitated before he replied, surprised by how decisive his answer was. She was watching him with interest, her fork poised in the air.

“I don’t know whether there is any fraud or not,” he replied steadily. “But if there is, I would find it hard to believe he was duped. He seemed knowledgeable, intelligent, and far too ambitious to leave anything to chance-or to anyone else’s judgment. I would think him the last man to trust his welfare to another.”

“Then Miss Harcus’s opinion of him is formed more by being in love than the reality?” She smiled a trifle ruefully. “We all tend to see people we care about rather more as we wish them to be. Are you going to tell her he is very well able to care for his own reputation?”

“No,” he said with his mouth full. “At least not until I know if there is any land fraud or not. I’m going to Derbyshire tomorrow to look at the survey reports, and then at the site.”

She frowned. “Why is she so convinced that there is something wrong? If it is not Dalgarno, who is it she thinks is to blame?” She put her fork down, forgetting her meal altogether. “William, is it possible that it was Nolan Baltimore, the man who was killed in Leather Lane, and his death had to do with land fraud, and not prostitution at all? I know he probably wasn’t there because of land,” she went on quickly. “I do know what Abel Smith does for a living!” Her mouth twisted in a tight little smile. “And I assume he went there for that purpose. But it would make sense, wouldn’t it, if whoever killed him followed him there and chose that place in order to disguise his real motive?”

This time she ignored the quickening of his interest.

“And left Baltimore there so anyone would assume exactly what they do,” she went on. “Except his family, of course. Did I tell you his daughter came to me in Coldbath Square to ask if I knew anything that could help clear his name?”

“What?” He jerked forward. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“Oh… well, I meant to,” she apologized. “Not that it makes any difference. I can’t, of course. Tell her anything, I mean. But the family would want to believe it was nothing to do with prostitution, wouldn’t they?”

“They wouldn’t be keen to think it was land fraud either,” he said with a smile. But the thought took fire in his mind. It fitted with what he had seen of the two younger men in Baltimore’s offices, what Katrina Harcus believed of Dalgarno, and it made more sense of Nolan Baltimore’s death than a prostitute’s or a pimp’s having killed him.

Hester was looking at him, waiting for his response.

“Yes,” he agreed, taking more fish and potato. “But I still don’t know if there is any fraud-or, if you’re right, I suppose I should say was! I must go to Derbyshire tomorrow and see the site. I need all the maps, in large detail, and I need to look at exactly what they are doing.”

She frowned. “Will you know from that? I mean, just looking at the maps and the land?”

This was the time to tell her of his jolting memory, his sense of familiarity with the whole process of surveying for railways, and the land purchase with its difficulties. He had told her long ago of the snatches he had remembered of Arrol Dundas and his helplessness to prove the truth at the time. She would understand why he was compelled now to learn the truth about Baltimore and Sons, whether Katrina Harcus needed it or not. If he explained his fears it would make it easier if he had to admit later on that he had been at least partly implicated in the fraud-and the disaster afterwards which it may have caused.

He thought of her work with the women in Coldbath Square. She would be going back there tonight. She was dressed for it already, a long night’s hard and thankless labor. He might not see her again until after he came back from Derbyshire. It should wait until another time, when he would have the opportunity to be with her, to assure her of… what? That whatever he had been in the past, he was no longer that man anymore?

“I don’t know,” he said. That was in essence true, even if not all of it. “I don’t know what better to try.”

She picked up her knife and fork and started to eat again. “If I hear anything more about Nolan Baltimore, I’ll tell you,” she promised.

Hester had spent a strange, unhappy evening after Monk’s return, aware that there was something powerful in him that she could not reach. He was either unwilling or unable to share it. She had missed him while he was away, and taken the opportunity to put in as much work as possible at the house on Coldbath Square, and she would have been happy to go there far later, or even not at all, had he said only once that he wished her to stay.

But he did not. He was brittle, absorbed in thought, and he seemed almost relieved when she said good-bye just before ten o’clock and went out into the lamp-lit darkness and took the first passing hansom to Coldbath Square.

The night was chill and she was glad of the warmth that enveloped her when she pushed the door of the clinic open and went inside. Bessie was sitting at the table stitching buttons onto a white blouse, and she looked up, her face filling with pleasure when she saw Hester.

“Yer look pinched,” she said with concern. “Nice ’ot cup o’ tea’ll do yer good.” She put the sewing down and rose to her feet. “Like a drop o’ the ’ard stuff with it?” She did not even reach for it, knowing Hester would refuse. She always did, but Bessie always offered. It was a sort of ritual.

“No, thank you,” Hester replied with a smile, hanging her damp coat on the hook on the wall. “But don’t let me stop you.”

That was ritual also. “Now that you mention it,” Bessie agreed, “don’t mind if I do.” She went to the stove to make sure the kettle was on the boil, and Hester went to look at the patients.

Fanny, the girl who had been stabbed, was feverish and in a great deal of pain, but she appeared to be no worse than Hester had expected. Wounds like that did not heal easily. Her fever seemed to be down.

“Have you eaten anything?” Hester asked her.

Fanny nodded. “Nearly,” she whispered. “I had some beef broth. Thank you.”

Bessie was coming toward them, a wide, benign shadow between the beds, away from the light of the far end of the room.

“Mr. Lockhart was right pleased with ’er,” she said with pleasure. “ ’E come about midday. Sober as a judge.” She added that last bit with pride, as if it were partially her achievement. Perhaps it was.

“Did you give him luncheon?” Hester asked without looking up at Bessie.

“What if I did?” Bessie demanded. “We can spare’im a bit o’ bubble an’ squeak, an’ a sausage or two!”

Hester smiled, knowing Bessie had brought it out of her own meager pantry. “Of course we can,” she agreed, pretending she did not know. “Small enough reward for all he does.”

“Yer right!” Bessie said vehemently, darting a slightly suspicious look at Hester, and then away again. “An’ ’e looked at Alice, an’ all, poor thing. Said as she’s doin’ as well as yer could expect. Spent a fair time talkin’ to ’er. ’E an’ Miss Margaret put arnica poultices on ’er, jus’ like me an’ yer did, an’ it seemed ter ’elp ’er some.” There was fear in Bessie’s voice. Hester knew she wanted to ask if Alice was going to live, and yet she was too afraid of the answer to do it.

The fact that Alice had already survived three days since her injuries was the most hopeful sign. Had there been the internal bleeding they feared, she would have been dead by now.

Hester went to her and saw that she was half asleep, dozing fitfully, muttering under her breath as if troubled by dreams. There was nothing to do to help her. Either her body would heal in time, or she would develop fever or gangrene and die. In a while, when she was more wakeful, they would give her a little more to drink, then sponge her down with cool water and give her a fresh nightgown.

Hester returned to the table at the far end of the room where Bessie was allowing the tea to brew and putting a generous dash of whiskey into her own mug.

There were still police on every street in the Coldbath area, harassing people, asking questions. Hester had noticed them, looking profoundly unhappy but unable to escape the necessity. Most of them were locally based and knew the women-and the men who regularly came to take their pleasures, although in the current climate there were fewer and fewer of them. Business was poor in other trades as well; all those on the edge of the law were nervous and tempers were short. There was no money to be spared for small treats like peppermint water, flowers, ham sandwiches, a new hat, a toy for a child. Sellers of matches and bootlaces were about the only ones doing well.

A little before midnight Jessop called again, pressing for higher rent. He stood in the middle of the floor with his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his red brocade waistcoat, trying to add restrictions and generally making a nuisance of himself. The few women who were hurt or ill had already complained of his presence, and would do so again if he kept on coming. He made them wary; he represented authority, no matter how distantly. Hester pointed that out to him and asked him to leave. He smiled with satisfaction and remained the longer, until Bessie lost her temper and filled the bucket with hot water, lye, and vinegar. She started to scrub the floor, splashing the bucket’s contents all over his boots deliberately, and he left in umbrage. Bessie then made a very slapdash effort at cleaning a couple of yards of the floor, then threw the good water away. She and Hester curled up on two of the empty beds and slept on and off, undisturbed by patients for most of the night, only getting up twice to help Alice.

“I put a weapon into his hand, didn’t I!” Margaret said with chagrin when Hester told her about Jessop’s visit early on the following morning when she arrived just after nine o’clock, and Bessie had gone for some shopping.

Margaret was too honest for Hester to patronize her with an excuse. Today of all days she felt a burning need for candor.

“I’m afraid so,” she agreed, but with a rueful smile to rob it of offense. They were busy seeing what bandages could be saved from those used and washed. They were not in a position to afford any unnecessary supplies. “But I don’t think it will make any difference in a while. We’ll have to find a new place as soon as we can. He’ll put us out at the first opportunity. He was always going to do that.”

Margaret did not reply. Her fingers moved nimbly over the rolls of cloth, sorting some out and throwing them away, keeping the others. “What are we going to do about the usurer and the women who are being beaten?” she said at last.

Hester had been thinking about just that since she had first learned the truth from Alice, and had come to the conclusion that by themselves there was nothing they could do that did not risk making the situation worse. The usury was not a crime that the law could reach in the ordinary way. She had toyed with other ideas, but never formed any coherent plan they might be capable of carrying out.

This morning she felt even more helpless in the face of pain, because her own happiness was dimmed, her confidence in herself shadowed by the fact that Monk had placed a distance between them. Something hurt him, and he was not able to share it with her.

“We need help,” she said aloud. Already her mind was made up. “Someone who knows the law far better than we do.”

“Mr. Monk?” Margaret said quickly.

“No, I meant a lawyer.” Hester refused to allow herself to be hurt by the thought that it was not Monk she would turn to. “Someone who knows about usury, and that kind of thing,” she answered. “I think we should go as soon as legal offices will be open. Bessie will be back by then, and it is not very likely anyone will come in during the morning who can’t wait for us to return.”

“But who could we find who would be interested in cases like Fanny or Alice?” Margaret asked. “And we have no spare money to pay with. Everything is already committed to rent and supplies.” She said that firmly, just in case Hester should be inclined to be impractical and forget their priorities.

“I know at least where to begin,” Hester replied soberly. “I won’t spend our supply money, I promise.” She did not yet want to tell Margaret that she was planning to see Sir Oliver Rathbone. He had been on the verge of asking Hester to marry him once. He had hesitated, and then not spoken the words. Perhaps he had seen in her face that she was not yet ready to make such a decision, or even that she would never love anyone else with the fierceness or the magic with which she loved Monk. She could not help that, whether Monk ever returned her feeling or not, and at that time she had not known. It was only after that that she had discovered Monk did return her feelings, passionately and profoundly, and he had accepted that to deny his own emotions would be to deny all the best in himself, as well as the most vulnerable.

They were friends, all three of them, in a fashion. Rathbone still felt a deep affection for her. She knew that, and Monk had to be aware of it also. But they were allies in a cause which overrode personal wounds and losses. Rathbone had never turned down a case he believed in, however difficult or against whatever odds, and certainly not because it was brought to him by Monk.

She and Margaret would go to Vere Street and tell Oliver all that they knew. At least it would be a burden shared. Suddenly she knew how good it would feel to see him, to be aware of the warmth of his regard for her, and his trust.

Actually, it was after eleven o’clock before Hester and Margaret were ushered into Rathbone’s office with its beautiful leather inlaid desk and cabinets full of books, and the long windows overlooking the street.

Rathbone came forward toward Hester, smiling broadly. He was not much more than average height. His charm lay in the intelligence in his face, in his wry, delicate humor and the supreme confidence of his bearing. He was a gentleman, and he had the ease of privilege and education.

“Hester, what a pleasure to see you, even if it has to be a problem that brings you here,” he said sincerely. “Who is wrongly accused of what? I imagine it is murder? It usually is, with you.”

“Not yet,” she replied, warmth engulfing her just to hear the gentleness in his voice. She turned to introduce Margaret, and as he turned also she saw a sudden interest spark in his dark eyes, as if already he recognized her, or something in her that he was happy to see. “This is Miss Margaret Ballinger,” she said quickly. “Sir Oliver Rathbone.”

Margaret drew in her breath to reply, a very faint flush in her cheeks.

“We have met already,” Rathbone said before Margaret could speak. “At a ball, I forget where, but we danced. It was just before that miserable business with the architect. It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Ballinger.” The expression in his face suggested that he was speaking honestly, not simply as a matter of good manners.

Margaret took a deep breath, just a trifle shakily. “Thank you for seeing us with no notice at all, Sir Oliver. It is very gracious of you.”

“Hester always brings me the most fascinating problems,” he demurred, inviting them with a gesture to sit down, and when they had done so, taking the seat behind the desk himself. “You said no one has been murdered yet. Should I deduce from that that you expect someone will be?” There was no mockery in his tone; it was light, but perfectly serious.

“Two people have been very badly injured, and more will be,” Hester said a fraction more quickly than she had meant to. She was aware that Rathbone was at least as conscious of Margaret as he was of her. She realized with a yawning hollow inside her how much of his life lay beyond her knowledge. The material facts of it did not matter, it was the wealth of people he knew, the emotions, the laughter and hurt, the dreams that were the man inside.

He was waiting for her to continue.

“Miss Ballinger and I have rented a house in Coldbath Square in which to offer medical treatment to women of the street who are injured or ill,” she said, ignoring the look in his eyes, the strange mixture of tenderness, admiration, and horror. “Lately at least two women have come in very seriously beaten,” she went on. “One of them has said that she used to be a governess, then married, and her husband led her into debt. She borrowed money, and then could not repay it.” She was speaking too quickly. Deliberately, she slowed herself. “The usurer offered her a position as a prostitute, catering to men who like to humiliate and abuse women who were once respectable.” She saw the disgust in his face. If he could have listened to her and felt nothing she would have despised him for it.

Rathbone glanced at Margaret, saw the anger in her, and something in him softened even further.

“Go on,” he said, turning back to Hester.

“I daresay you are aware that a Mr. Nolan Baltimore was murdered in Leather Lane just over a week ago?” she asked.

He nodded. “I am.”

“Since then the police have patrolled the area with more men than usual, with the result that there is far less trade possible for such women. They are earning little or no money, and cannot pay the usurer. They are being beaten for their delinquency in their debts.” Memory of the two women momentarily obliterated any sense of her own loneliness. She leaned forward earnestly. “Please, Oliver, there must be something we can do to stop it. They are far too terrified and ashamed to fight back for themselves.” She watched him struggle for something to say to let her down gently. She was asking too much. She would have liked to withdraw, be reasonable, but the reality of their pain burned too hotly inside her.

“Hester…” he began.

“I know the whole world of Coldbath Square and Leather Lane are outside the law,” she said quickly, before he could dismiss her. “It shouldn’t be! Do we always have to wait until people come to us before we can help them? Sometimes we have to see the problem and address it anyway.” She was aware of Margaret’s slight stiffening. Perhaps she was unaccustomed to such frankness from a woman to a man. It was unbecoming, not the way either to win or to keep a husband.

“You mean decide for them?” Rathbone said with a wry smile. “That doesn’t sound like you, Hester.”

“I’m a nurse, not a lawyer!” she said sharply. “Quite often I have to help people when they are beyond knowing anything for themselves. It is my skill to know what they need, and do it.”

This time his smile was full of warmth, a genuine sweetness in it. “I know that. It is a kind of moral courage I have admired in you from the day we met. I find it a little overwhelming, because I don’t possess it myself.”