Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [56]
Then he let go, and went into the room he used as a study, and closed the door.
She was asleep in exhaustion when he came to bed. She woke in the night and he was beside her, but he did not move or touch her, even when she turned closer to him.
In the morning he was gone. There was a note on the dresser:
Hester,
I am going to investigate more into land purchase for the railway, partly because it is the only fraud I can see in the Baltimore case, but mostly because I know that Arrol Dundas was convicted of land fraud in what seems to have been almost identical circumstances. It may even have been the same company, Baltimore and Sons. I don’t know that beyond question, but I am fairly certain. I hope you will understand why I need to know absolutely.
If there is anything at all I can do to make sure Dalgarno does not end up in prison as Dundas did, for something of which he is innocent, then I must do so. I will not fail him in the same way. I may have to return to the railway itself, in Derbyshire.
Please, Hester, be careful! It is enough that you work in the Coldbath area, helping people who are troubled and are incapable of repaying you, even by telling you the truth. Certainly they cannot protect you if you attract the interest of the kind of men who so abuse them.
If you won’t look after yourself for your own sake, or for mine, at least do it for theirs. If you are injured, or worse, to whom could they turn?
You have in the past eloquently criticized the Crimean generals who wasted their troops in quixotic gestures. And rightly. You have often said a woman would have been more practical and less glory seeking—now prove it!
I hope to see you minding your business—and not mine—when I return, when, if I can, I shall help you to find whoever killed Nolan Baltimore—if the police have not already done so.
Even if it does not always seem as if I do, I love you profoundly, and I admire you far more than you realize.
William
She held the paper in her hands as if it could bring her some part of him, or he would know the emotions inside her, the love and the need, the loneliness for him, the longing to be able to help with whatever private battle he was fighting.
Why could he write so much, and yet not tell her face-to-face? She knew the answer even as the question formed. It was obvious—because she could hold a letter in her hands, read it and reread it, carry it with her, but she could not demand any further answers of it. Monk himself was gone . . . alone.
And she was here . . . equally alone. He loved her, certainly. But why was it he could not trust her also—her loyalty, her understanding, her courage? What was it in her he feared might fail him?
It hurt too much to think of. She would go back to Coldbath Square and work. There would be something to do, even if it were only to seek more ideas for raising money. Perhaps they should start to look for other premises? Margaret’s friendship was valuable, although it no longer had quite the uncomplicated ease she had thought it did before they had gone to Rathbone’s office.
She must not show jealousy. That would be small-minded and unbelievably ugly! She would despise herself for that.
And of course she must try to learn all she could about Nolan Baltimore’s death, taking reasonable care not to antagonize anyone.
* * *
Margaret was late in to Coldbath, but that was of no importance at the moment. Tempers were short throughout the area so there were many quarrels and several people lashed out in frustration and fear, but it was more often men who were the victims, and the injuries were of the nature that heal with time and very little care—mostly bruises, shallow cuts, and sore heads. Pimps were getting more careful about scarring or bruising their women, their only asset in a shrinking market.
Of course everyone knew it would not go on indefinitely, but it had already been long enough to blow a chill of bitter reality into the lives of all manner of people. The end of it still lay in some unknown time in the future.