Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [113]
Why did he still not trust her to be generous of spirit, to hold back willingly and genuinely from needing to know that which was better buried? Did part of him still think she was critical, self-righteous, all the cold and pinched things of which he used to accuse her, before either of them would acknowledge that they were in love?
Or had she somehow failed to let him know that she had accused him of arrogance, cynicism, and opportunism only because she was afraid of her own vulnerability? She had been looking for something comfortable, a man she could love while retaining her inner independence. A love which would be agreeable, safe, never take from her more than she wished to give, never cause her pain that was as great as the laughter and the joy.
He had pulled back for the same reasons!
He had pursued women who were soft and compliant, pretty, who did not challenge him or hurt him or demand of him all he had to give, and more, who did not strip away the pretenses and the shields to reach his heart.
When he was back she would do better—stop playing games of accommodation, politeness, skirting around the truth. She would get back to the passion of honesty they had had in the beginning, things shared with such intensity that touch, words, even silence, was like an act of love.
But for now she must occupy herself, and do something about the women who owed money to the usurer and were being beaten because they could not pay. She was almost certain that Squeaky Robinson was the culprit. But until she had spoken to him again and probed a good deal deeper, her suspicions were not enough. He was afraid of something. It would be very helpful to know what it was.
It was a warm day outside. She barely needed a shawl, let alone a coat, and the streets were crowded as far as the Tottenham Court Road, where she looked for a hansom.
She thought of buying a peppermint water from a peddler—it looked inviting—but then she thought better of spending the money. She passed a newsboy and her eye caught an article on the war in America. Guiltily she hesitated in her step long enough to read at least the beginning, remembering with vivid horror being caught up in that war’s first fearful battle. It seemed that the Union forces had been profoundly embarrassed that many of the guns bristling out of miles of Confederate fortifications were actually only painted logs of wood. The cannoneers had retired south some considerable time before.
She smiled at the irony of it and hurried on, finding a hansom at the next corner.
She went into the house in Coldbath Square, really only to tell Bessie where she intended to be, so that if she was needed she could be sent for, and also so that someone would know where she had gone. It was the nearest she could come to any kind of security. Not that she thought Squeaky Robinson was any threat to her. He had no reason to wish her harm—they were ostensibly on the same side, at least he thought they were. Still, it was a kind of precaution.
Bessie was highly dubious about it. She stood with her arms folded, her lips pursed. “Well, all I can say is if yer in’t back ’ere safe an’ sound in two hours—an’ I can tell the time—then I’m goin’ fer Constable ’Art! An’ I’ll not mince me words! I’ll let’im know w’ere yer are an’ wot’s goin’ on. I swear! An’ ’e’ll come right arter yer! Likes yer, ’e does!” She said that fiercely, as if it were a threat in itself. But that Bessie would speak willingly to a policeman at all, let alone confide in him and ask his help, was eloquent witness to the gravity with which she viewed Hester’s undertaking.
Satisfied that she had made her point, Hester thanked her, and wrapped her shawl over her head in spite of the sun, and set out for Portpool Lane.
Squeaky received her stiffly, sitting upright in his chair behind the desk. A tray of tea sat in the only space clear of papers. He had spectacles perched on the end of his long nose, and there were ink stains on his fingers. He seemed profoundly unhappy. His hair stood on end as if he had been continually running