Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [84]
The man sitting in the leather-upholstered chair was thin-faced, sharp-eyed, with straggling gray-brown hair and very slightly hunched shoulders. He regarded Hester with intelligent wariness, but none of the curiosity she would have expected had he no idea who she was. Presumably word of the Coldbath house had reached him, which she should have expected.
“Well, Mrs. Monk,” he said smoothly. “And what business is it that could concern both you and me?” His voice was light and soft, a little nasal, but not sufficiently so to account for his nickname. She wondered what had given him that.
She sat down without being invited, in order to let him know she did not intend to be fobbed off but would stay until the matter was settled to her satisfaction.
“The business of keeping as many women as possible in a fit state to work, Mr. Robinson,” she replied.
He moved his head a trifle to one side. “I thought you were a charitable woman, Mrs. Monk. Wouldn’t you rather see all the women back in factories or sweatshops, earning a living the law and society would approve?”
“You don’t earn a living at all with broken bones, Mr. Robinson,” she countered. She tried to sound as casual as possible, suppressing her emotions of anger and contempt. She was there to accomplish a purpose, not indulge herself. “And my interests are not your concern, except where they meet with your own, which I presume is to make as much profit as possible.”
He nodded very slowly, and as the light flickered on his face she saw the lines of tension in it, the grayness of his skin in spite of being close-shaven, even at this time in the early evening. There was a tiny flicker of surprise in him, so small she might have been mistaken.
“And what kind of profit are you looking for?” he enquired. He picked up a paper knife and fiddled with it, his long, ink-stained fingers constantly moving.
“That is my concern,” she said tartly, sitting up very straight, as if she were in a church pew.
He was taken aback, it was clear in his face. A trifle more masked was the fact that she had also woken his curiosity.
She smiled. “I have no intention of becoming your rival, Mr. Robinson,” she said with some amusement. “I assume you are aware of my house in Coldbath Square?”
“I am,” he conceded, watching her closely.
“I have treated some women who I think may have worked for you, but that is only a deduction,” she continued. “They do not tell me, and I do not ask. I mention it only to indicate that we have interests that coincide.”
“So you said.” His fingers kept rolling the paper knife around and around. There were papers scattered on the desk which looked like balance sheets. There were lines ruled on them in both directions, and what seemed more like figures than words. The lack of trade must be affecting him more than most, as she had already thought. It added to her strength.
“Business is poor for everyone,” she observed.
“I thought you did yours for nothing,” he replied flatly. “So far you are wasting my time, Mrs. Monk.”
“Then I’ll come to the point.” She could not afford to have him dismiss her. “What I do serves your interests.” She made it a statement of fact and did not wait for him to agree or disagree. “In order to do it I have to have premises, and I am at the present time having a degree of difficulty with my landlord. He is obstructive and keeps threatening to increase the rent.”
She saw his body tighten under the thin jacket, a distinct alteration in his position in the big chair. She wondered just how much the present situation had cost him. Was he short of money? Was he the usurer, or merely the manager of this place? Quite a lot might depend upon the answer to that.
“I practice business, not charity, Mrs. Monk,” Robinson said sharply, his voice rising in pitch, his hand clutching the paper knife even more rigidly.
“Of course,” she said without the slightest change in her expression.