Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [81]
Hester had a glimpse of a young Margaret, her hair in pigtails, her skirts tucked up, shinning up the apple trees in someone else’s orchard, forbidden by her parents, and encouraged by a young woman willing to risk her employment to please a child and give her a little illicit but largely harmless fun. She found herself smiling. It was another life, another world from this one, where children stole to survive and would not have known what a governess was. Few of them ever attended even a ragged school, let alone had personal tuition or the luxury of abstract morality.
“But I don’t think even Miss Walter would have found anything to redeem Mr. Jessop,” Margaret finished. “I wish with a passion that we did not have to rent accommodation from him.”
“So do I,” Hester agreed. “I keep looking for something else so we can be rid of him, but I haven’t found anything yet.”
Margaret looked away from Hester, and there was a very faint pinkness in her cheeks. “Do you think Sir Oliver will be able to help us with the women like Alice who are in debt to the usurer?” she asked tentatively.
Hester felt the odd sinking feeling of change again, a very slight loneliness that Rathbone no longer cared for her quite as he had. Their friendship was still the same, and unless she behaved unworthily, it always would be. And she had never offered him more than that. It was Monk she loved. If she were even remotely honest, it always had been. The love of friends was different, calmer, and immeasurably safer. The heat did not burn the flesh, or the heart, nor did it light the fires which dispelled all darkness.
And that was the core of it. If she cared for either Rathbone or Margaret, and she cared for them both, then she should be happy for them, full of hope that they were on the edge of discovering the kind of happiness that required all the strength and commitment there was to give.
Margaret was looking at her, waiting.
“I know he will do his best,” Hester said aloud. “So if it can be done, then yes, he will do it.” She breathed in deeply. “But before that, and apart from it, I want to make some more enquiries as to where Mr. Baltimore was killed, because I believe Abel Smith that it was not in his house.”
Margaret looked at her quickly, a different kind of anxiety in her eyes now. “Hester, please be careful. Shall I come with you? You shouldn’t go alone. If anything happened to you, no one would ever know—”
“You would know,” Hester replied, cutting off her argument. “But if you come with me, then no one would, except perhaps Bessie. I think I would rather rely on you to rescue me.” She smiled to rob the remark of sting. “But I promise I shall be careful. I have an idea which, even if I don’t learn anything, could be of benefit to us. A little more in the way of funds, anyhow. And even a spoke in Mr. Jessop’s wheel, which I would dearly like.”
“So would I,” Margaret agreed. “But not at the cost of danger to you.”
“There’s no more danger than coming here every night,” Hester assured her, with something less than the truth. But she thought the risk was worth it, and it was slight, all things considered. She stood up. “Tell Bessie I should be back no later than midnight. If I’m not, then you can inform Constable Hart and send out a search party for me.”
“I shall be here myself,” Margaret retorted. “Tell me where you are going, so I shall know where to begin looking.” She half smiled, but her eyes were perfectly serious.
“Portpool Lane,” Hester replied. “I have an idea to see a Mr. Robinson who keeps an establishment there.” She felt better for telling Margaret that, and as she put on her shawl and opened the door