Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [53]
“Because they make people uncomfortable,” Hester replied without hesitation, but giving Margaret a crooked, sympathetic smile.
“Can you imagine anything lonelier than being married to someone who always says what he thinks you want to hear, regardless of whatever it is that he thinks?” Margaret asked, her brows puckered in a frown. “It would be like living in a room full of mirrors, where every other face you saw was simply a reflection of your own.”
“I think it would be a very particular kind of hell,” Hester answered with a rush of wonder and pity that anyone could imagine they desired such a thing, and yet she knew many who thought they did. “You have a gift to put it into such vivid words,” she added with admiration. “Perhaps you should try to convey it visually sometime?”
“That would be something really worth drawing,” Margaret responded. “I am so bored with doing the predictable, just reproducing what I see in front of me, with no greater meaning.”
“I can barely draw a straight line,” Hester admitted.
Margaret flashed her a sudden smile. “There are no straight lines in art—except perhaps the horizons at sea. Would you like me to go out and see if I can find us some hot pies for luncheon? There is a good peddler on the corner of Mount Pleasant and Warner Street.”
“What an excellent idea,” Hester said enthusiastically. “One with flaky pastry—and lots of onions . . . please?”
In the late afternoon Bessie came in carrying a basket with herbs, tea, a bottle of brandy, and a loaf of bread. She set it down on the table and looked around the room before taking off her hat and cape.
“Nobody!” she said with disgust, hanging the cape and bonnet on the hooks near the door. “ ’Ardly a bleedin’ soul out in the streets neither, ’ceptin’ damn bluebottles! An’ bin like that all night too, they say.” She looked at Hester reproachfully, as if somehow she had failed to do anything about it.
“I know!” Hester replied tartly. “The pressure is still on them to find whoever killed Nolan Baltimore.”
“Some pimp ’e crossed up!” Bessie retorted. “What else? Der they think as someone’s goin’ ter tell ’em that if they asks often enough? Don’t s’pose nob’dy knows, ’ceptin’’im wot done it. An’ ’e in’t gonna tell. ’E’d be dancin’ at the end of a rope ’fore ’e can say ’knife.’ “ She walked over to the cupboard and started to rearrange the things inside it so she could put the new groceries away. “Funny, innit? Some bleedin’ usurer can beat a girl ’alf ter death, an’ nob’dy gives a toss! But kill some toff wot’s refused ter pay ’is debts an’ ’alf the rozzers in Lunnon’s out in the streets wastin’ their time askin’ questions they know nob’dy’s gonna answer. Sometimes I think they’re sittin’ on their brains an’ thinkin’ wi’ their backsides!” She glared at the basket. “Couldn’t get no butter. Yer’ll ’ave ter do wi’ bread an’ jam.”
Margaret stopped riddling the stove and moved the kettle over onto the hob.
“Nob’dy’s workin’!” Bessie went on relentlessly. “Them as brings the money in are frit o’ bein’ done by the rozzers . . . all this ’keep the streets decent’ thing. An’ them as if livin’ ’ere in’t got no trade ’cos no one’s got no money! It’s wicked—that’s wot it is.”
There was no answer to make. There was not even any purpose in either Hester’s or Margaret’s remaining for the rest of the afternoon. Hester said as much, and Bessie agreed with her.
“Yer get orff.” She nodded. “There’s nothin’ much gonna ’appen ’ere. If that fat slug Jessop comes ’round lookin’ fer yer, I’ll give’im a nice ’ot cup o’ tea!” She grinned demonically.
“Bessie!” Hester warned.
“Wot?” She opened her eyes wide. “If it don’t agree wif’im, I know ’ow ter give summink ter make’im