Death of a Stranger (20 page)

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.

“Except that, like all of us, you would like to see the police leave and allow us to get back to our normal lives,” she agreed.

Hope flashed for a moment in his eyes, briefly but quite unmistakably.

“And you have some way of doing that, Mrs. Monk?” he asked. Now his fingers were motionless, as if he could not divert even that much of his energy from her.

She wished she had! Any plan would be worth sharing now. If this was the place where Fanny and Alice had worked, she would give a very great deal to finish him legally, so he and anyone who was his partner would spend the rest of their lives in prison, preferably on the treadmill.

“I have certain ideas,” she equivocated. “But my immediate concern is to acquire better terms for leasing premises. Since it will be in your interest that women who have… accidents… are treated quickly, freely and with total discretion, I thought you might be a good person to approach for… advice on the matter.”

Robinson sat quite still, studying her while the seconds stretched into one minute, then two. She tried to judge him in return. She did not expect any assistance with accommodation; that was only an excuse to allow her to meet him and to see something of the place. Was this where Fanny and Alice, and others like them, had worked? If at least she could give Rathbone a name and address, then he would have something to pursue. Was this narrow-faced man with his stringy shoulders and carefully shaven face the intelligence behind the usury, the profit and the vicious punishment she had seen? Or simply another brothel owner with a rather-better-than-average establishment?

He was nervous about something. The way his long, thin fingers constantly moved, the pallor of his face, his rigid body, all betrayed anxiety. Or was it simply that he was unwell, or preoccupied with something quite different? Perhaps he never went out in daylight anyway, and his pallor was part of the way of his life.

She had learned little. If she was to accomplish anything she must take more risk. “You must be losing money,” she stated boldly.

Something in him changed. It was so subtle she could not have described it, but it was as if some hidden fear had clamped a tighter hold on him. Her heart sank. She must be in the wrong place. Squeaky Robinson had not the nerve or the intelligence to plan something as bold or complicated as the scheme Alice had described. It would take planning with long-term profit in view, a steady mind and a cool head to carry out such a thing. Squeaky Robinson did not impress her as having any of those qualities. The panic in him was too close beneath the surface now as they sat staring at each other.

But it could not be she whom he feared. She had posed no threat at all, open or implicit. She had no power to hurt him, and had not suggested that she wished to.

Was it his partner he was afraid of? The man who had set this up, and relied on him to run it profitably and without attracting the law? Was that it?

“Perhaps you should consult your partner before you reach any decision?” she said aloud.

Squeaky stiffened so violently he poked himself with the paper knife and gave a sharp yelp. He started to say something, then abruptly changed his mind. “I don’t have a partner!” He glared at the red mark on his hand, then resentfully at her, as if it were her fault he had hurt himself.

She smiled disbelievingly.

“You looking for other premises?” he said guardedly.

“I could be,” she replied. “But I would want very good rates, and no chopping and changing them when it suited you-a proper business arrangement. If you have no one else to consult, then consider what I have said and see if you can be of assistance. It is in your interest.”

Squeaky chewed his lip. He was only too obviously in a quandary, and the pressure of a decision was taking him ever closer to panic.

Hester leaned forward a little. “It is going to get worse, Mr. Robinson. The longer the police are here, the more likely it is that your clients will be obliged to find other places in which to entertain themselves, and then…”

“What can I do?” he burst out, and now his voice was high and sharp enough to have given him his nickname. “I don’t know who killed him, do I?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps you do. I’m sure a man with the skill to run a house like this must have his ear to the ground. You could not succeed if you did not-” She stopped. He looked so acutely uncomfortable she was afraid he was actually in physical pain. There was a sheen of sweat over his skin and his knuckles were white.

“… if you did not have an excellent knowledge of the area and everything that goes on in it,” she finished. There was such a tension in the man a few feet from her that suddenly she wanted to escape. The emotion in his face, the desperation, had a physical presence almost at odds with the sly knowledge of his mind. It was as if he had been robbed of a safety he had known for so long he was still only half aware of his new nakedness and had had no time to shield himself or deal with it.