Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [85]
His eyes narrowed. “You knew him?” he said suspiciously.
“Not at all,” she answered. “I say unfortunate because it has interrupted what was a fairly satisfactory state of affairs in the area and has brought a police presence we would all prefer to be without.”
He seemed to consider saying something and then changed his mind. She saw his breathing quicken a little, and again he shifted his position very slightly, as if easing aching bones.
“They apparently intend to remain until they find who killed him,” she went on. “And I do not foresee any success for them. They appear to think he died in Abel Smith’s house in Leather Lane.” She did not move her eyes from his. “I think that is unlikely.”
Robinson seemed scarcely to breathe. “Do you?” He was weighing everything he said, which made her wonder if he was frightened, and if so, of what, or of whom.
“There are several possibilities.” She kept her voice light, as if they were discussing something of only moderate interest. “None of which anyone will assist them to find out,” she added. “He will have been killed somewhere else, either intentionally or by accident. And whoever was responsible, very naturally, did not wish to be blamed or to attract the attention of the police, so equally naturally, they moved the body. Anyone would have done as much.”
“That has nothing to do with me,” Robinson replied, but she noticed the knuckles of his hand were white.
“Except that, like all of us, you would like to see the police leave and allow us to get back to our normal lives,” she agreed.
Hope flashed for a moment in his eyes, briefly but quite unmistakably.
“And you have some way of doing that, Mrs. Monk?” he asked. Now his fingers were motionless, as if he could not divert even that much of his energy from her.
She wished she had! Any plan would be worth sharing now. If this was the place where Fanny and Alice had worked, she would give a very great deal to finish him legally, so he and anyone who was his partner would spend the rest of their lives in prison, preferably on the treadmill.
“I have certain ideas,” she equivocated. “But my immediate concern is to acquire better terms for leasing premises. Since it will be in your interest that women who have . . . accidents . . . are treated quickly, freely and with total discretion, I thought you might be a good person to approach for . . . advice on the matter.”
Robinson sat quite still, studying her while the seconds stretched into one minute, then two. She tried to judge him in return. She did not expect any assistance with accommodation; that was only an excuse to allow her to meet him and to see something of the place. Was this where Fanny and Alice, and others like them, had worked? If at least she could give Rathbone a name and address, then he would have something to pursue. Was this narrow-faced man with his stringy shoulders and carefully shaven face the intelligence behind the usury, the profit and the vicious punishment she had seen? Or simply another brothel owner with a rather-better-than-average establishment?
He was nervous about something. The way his long, thin fingers constantly moved, the pallor of his face, his rigid body, all betrayed anxiety. Or was it simply that he was unwell, or preoccupied with something quite different? Perhaps he never went out in daylight anyway, and his pallor was part of the way of his life.
She had learned little. If she was to accomplish anything she must take more risk. “You must be losing money,” she stated boldly.
Something in him changed. It was so subtle she could not have described it, but it was as if some hidden fear had clamped a tighter hold on him. Her heart sank. She must be in the wrong place. Squeaky Robinson had not the nerve or the intelligence to plan something as bold or complicated as the scheme Alice had described. It would take planning with long-term profit in view,