Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [51]
“Yes, I suppose you would. So he must have been attacked by someone he thought was safe.”
“Yeah. Like someone what had come to pay him money for something they’d want more of in another little while. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
She let out her breath slowly. “Unless you have a temper you can’t control and you don’t think very far ahead. And also you are used to having someone else clean up behind you so you get out of paying the consequences. I think I had better find out a lot more about Rupert Cardew, if I can.”
“And help him,” Squeaky confirmed. “I don’t mind dealing in women what wants to be in the business anyway, but kids is another thing. And blackmail’s bad for business. Charge a fair price, and when it’s paid, you’re square, I say.”
She gave him a weary look.
He shrugged. “Fair’s fair,” he retorted. “You save Mr. Cardew for any reason you like. I say save him because Mickey Parfitt needed putting away anyhow. He gives the business a bad name, and ’cos Mr. Cardew was very generous to us. We could get used to living this way. Does a lot of good to them that can’t get nobody else to help them.”
“Very pious, Squeaky,” Hester said.
“Thank you,” he replied. It had indeed been a compliment, rather than sarcasm, but there was a gleam in his eye that was definitely understanding, and might even have been humor.
There was a brief knock on the door, and before Hester could reply, it opened and Margaret Rathbone came in. She was dressed in very smart deep green, but there was little color in her face, and her eyes were cold.
“Good morning, Hester. Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” Hester assured her. “I was about to leave.” She felt more awkward than she could explain to herself, as if she were being devious in intending to help Rupert Cardew as much as was possible. Why? It had nothing to do with Margaret’s father, except that in her mind she still at least half believed that he had some interest in the boat, even if only to find the vulnerable men who would participate.
“I wouldn’t consider buying any more new crockery than necessary,” Margaret continued. “I’m afraid our source of funds has been radically reduced.” There was a look in her face that might have been pity, but Hester felt it was distaste.
“I am aware of that,” she responded as expressionlessly as she could manage, but there was still a touch of asperity in her voice. “But it is only an accusation so far. It has yet to be proved.”
Margaret’s brows rose. “Surely you don’t think Mr. Monk is mistaken?” She too was trying to keep the irony from her tone, and like Hester was not entirely successful.
“I don’t think he is mistaken,” Hester retorted. “But I am aware, as he is, that it is always a possibility. Evidence can be interpreted more than one way. New facts emerge. Sometimes what people say proves to be untrue.”
Margaret gave a tight little smile. “I’m sorry, Hester, but you are deluding yourself. I understand that you found Rupert charming, but I’m afraid he is a thoroughly dissolute young man. If you could see him as he really is, I cannot believe that you would have such pity for him. It belongs far more to his victims.”
“Like Mickey Parfitt?” Hester snapped back. “I cannot agree with you.” She turned briefly to Squeaky Robinson. “However, Lady Rathbone is quite correct about the funds. In the meantime we shall spend only as necessary, and then with due caution.” She swept past Margaret on the way out, without inquiring whether it was she or Squeaky whom Margaret had come to see, disliking herself for her anger, and unable to control it.
She went first to the kitchen for a mug of tea, then back upstairs into the first room along the corridor. In it was Phoebe Weller, a woman somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, with lovely auburn hair, a lush body, and a face disfigured by the scars of pox.
“How are you, Phoebe?” Hester said conversationally.
Phoebe was lying back in the bed, her eyes half closed, a tiny smile on her face. She was not in a half coma, as a casual observer might have