Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [115]
“For you, in your position?” she asked.
“Me!” he snapped. “He’s . . .” Then the derision vanished from his face and he conceded everything. “Me,” he repeated.
It was a second or two before she realized what he was saying, then it came in a flood of understanding—he was alone. For some reason the partner was no longer there. That was his panic—the fact that he did not know how to run the business by himself.
The wild idea gained at Marielle Courtney’s house hardened into close to a certainty. Nolan Baltimore had been Squeaky’s partner, and his death, murder or accident, had left Squeaky without anyone to run the usury side of the business.
He needed a new partner, someone with access to the sort of young women who might get into debt, the polished manner to earn their confidence, and the business acumen to loan them money and insist on its repayment in this way.
An even wilder idea came almost unbidden into her mind. It was outrageous, but it just might work. If it did, if she could persuade him, it could solve their own problem. It would not reveal who killed Baltimore, or get the police out of the area, but she found to her surprise that she did not care greatly. If Baltimore had been the usurer, and also a client of his own appalling trade, then she could not mourn his death.
“I will consider your offer, Mr. Robinson,” she said with aplomb. She rose to her feet. Now that she had thought of a plan, she was in a fever to put it to the test.
He looked vaguely hopeful. Was that for the money or the prospect of seeing Jessop severely frightened? Either would do. “Let me know,” he said with a very faint smile.
“I will,” she promised. “Good day, Mr. Robinson.”
Hester had to wait until the evening before she could put her idea to Margaret. After the initial business of the house was over, Alice and Fanny were resting fairly easily. The two were actually talking to one another; Hester heard the occasional soft giggle. Hester sat down with Margaret to a cup of tea, and she could contain herself no longer.
Margaret stared at her wide-eyed with disbelief. “He’ll never do it! Never!”
“Well, he might not,” Hester admitted, reaching for the butter and jam for her toast. “But it could work, don’t you think—if he would?”
“If . . . do you think . . .” Margaret could scarcely admit the possibility, but she was glowing with excitement, her cheeks pink.
“Will you come with me to try?” Hester asked.
Margaret hesitated. Her eagerness was plain in her face, also her fear of embarrassment, and of failure. She might be thought too forward, and invite a rebuff which would hurt more than she would find easy to accept.
Hester waited.
“Yes,” Margaret agreed, then took a deep breath as if to retract it, and let it out in a sigh and picked up her tea.
“Good.” Hester smiled at her. “We’ll go tomorrow morning. I shall meet you at Vere Street at nine o’clock.” She gave Margaret no chance to change her mind. She stood up and, carrying her toast with her, went to speak to Fanny as if the whole matter were settled and there could be nothing more to discuss.
The morning was bright and chilly again, and Hester dressed smartly in a plain dark blue dress and coat. She took a hansom to Vere Street to be there just before nine. She knew Margaret would be on time, and trembling with tension. She cared for her feelings, but apart from that, she did not wish to give her any opportunity to retreat.
Actually, Margaret was late, and Hester had begun to pace up and down the pavement anxiously. At last the hansom drew up and Margaret, beautifully dressed, scrambled out with less grace than usual.
“I’m sorry!” she said hastily after paying the driver. “The traffic was terrible. Somebody clashed wheels and broke an axle in Trafalgar Square, and they started shouting at each other. What a mess. Are we . . .”
“Yes,” Hester replied, too relieved to be angry. “We are! Come on!” And she took Margaret by the arm and entered Rathbone’s chambers.