Death Of A Stranger

He hesitated before he replied, surprised by how decisive his answer was. She was watching him with interest, her fork poised in the air.

“I don’t know whether there is any fraud or not,” he replied steadily. “But if there is, I would find it hard to believe he was duped. He seemed knowledgeable, intelligent, and far too ambitious to leave anything to chance-or to anyone else’s judgment. I would think him the last man to trust his welfare to another.”

“Then Miss Harcus’s opinion of him is formed more by being in love than the reality?” She smiled a trifle ruefully. “We all tend to see people we care about rather more as we wish them to be. Are you going to tell her he is very well able to care for his own reputation?”

“No,” he said with his mouth full. “At least not until I know if there is any land fraud or not. I’m going to Derbyshire tomorrow to look at the survey reports, and then at the site.”

She frowned. “Why is she so convinced that there is something wrong? If it is not Dalgarno, who is it she thinks is to blame?” She put her fork down, forgetting her meal altogether. “William, is it possible that it was Nolan Baltimore, the man who was killed in Leather Lane, and his death had to do with land fraud, and not prostitution at all? I know he probably wasn’t there because of land,” she went on quickly. “I do know what Abel Smith does for a living!” Her mouth twisted in a tight little smile. “And I assume he went there for that purpose. But it would make sense, wouldn’t it, if whoever killed him followed him there and chose that place in order to disguise his real motive?”

This time she ignored the quickening of his interest.

“And left Baltimore there so anyone would assume exactly what they do,” she went on. “Except his family, of course. Did I tell you his daughter came to me in Coldbath Square to ask if I knew anything that could help clear his name?”

“What?” He jerked forward. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“Oh… well, I meant to,” she apologized. “Not that it makes any difference. I can’t, of course. Tell her anything, I mean. But the family would want to believe it was nothing to do with prostitution, wouldn’t they?”

“They wouldn’t be keen to think it was land fraud either,” he said with a smile. But the thought took fire in his mind. It fitted with what he had seen of the two younger men in Baltimore’s offices, what Katrina Harcus believed of Dalgarno, and it made more sense of Nolan Baltimore’s death than a prostitute’s or a pimp’s having killed him.

Hester was looking at him, waiting for his response.

“Yes,” he agreed, taking more fish and potato. “But I still don’t know if there is any fraud-or, if you’re right, I suppose I should say was! I must go to Derbyshire tomorrow and see the site. I need all the maps, in large detail, and I need to look at exactly what they are doing.”

She frowned. “Will you know from that? I mean, just looking at the maps and the land?”

This was the time to tell her of his jolting memory, his sense of familiarity with the whole process of surveying for railways, and the land purchase with its difficulties. He had told her long ago of the snatches he had remembered of Arrol Dundas and his helplessness to prove the truth at the time. She would understand why he was compelled now to learn the truth about Baltimore and Sons, whether Katrina Harcus needed it or not. If he explained his fears it would make it easier if he had to admit later on that he had been at least partly implicated in the fraud-and the disaster afterwards which it may have caused.

He thought of her work with the women in Coldbath Square. She would be going back there tonight. She was dressed for it already, a long night’s hard and thankless labor. He might not see her again until after he came back from Derbyshire. It should wait until another time, when he would have the opportunity to be with her, to assure her of… what? That whatever he had been in the past, he was no longer that man anymore?

“I don’t know,” he said. That was in essence true, even if not all of it. “I don’t know what better to try.”

She picked up her knife and fork and started to eat again. “If I hear anything more about Nolan Baltimore, I’ll tell you,” she promised.

CHAPTER FIVE

Hester had spent a strange, unhappy evening after Monk’s return, aware that there was something powerful in him that she could not reach. He was either unwilling or unable to share it. She had missed him while he was away, and taken the opportunity to put in as much work as possible at the house on Coldbath Square, and she would have been happy to go there far later, or even not at all, had he said only once that he wished her to stay.

But he did not. He was brittle, absorbed in thought, and he seemed almost relieved when she said good-bye just before ten o’clock and went out into the lamp-lit darkness and took the first passing hansom to Coldbath Square.

The night was chill and she was glad of the warmth that enveloped her when she pushed the door of the clinic open and went inside. Bessie was sitting at the table stitching buttons onto a white blouse, and she looked up, her face filling with pleasure when she saw Hester.

“Yer look pinched,” she said with concern. “Nice ’ot cup o’ tea’ll do yer good.” She put the sewing down and rose to her feet. “Like a drop o’ the ’ard stuff with it?” She did not even reach for it, knowing Hester would refuse. She always did, but Bessie always offered. It was a sort of ritual.

“No, thank you,” Hester replied with a smile, hanging her damp coat on the hook on the wall. “But don’t let me stop you.”

That was ritual also. “Now that you mention it,” Bessie agreed, “don’t mind if I do.” She went to the stove to make sure the kettle was on the boil, and Hester went to look at the patients.

Fa

“Have you eaten anything?” Hester asked her.

Fa

Bessie was coming toward them, a wide, benign shadow between the beds, away from the light of the far end of the room.

“Mr. Lockhart was right pleased with ’er,” she said with pleasure. “ ’E come about midday. Sober as a judge.” She added that last bit with pride, as if it were partially her achievement. Perhaps it was.

“Did you give him luncheon?” Hester asked without looking up at Bessie.

“What if I did?” Bessie demanded. “We can spare’im a bit o’ bubble an’ squeak, an’ a sausage or two!”

Hester smiled, knowing Bessie had brought it out of her own meager pantry. “Of course we can,” she agreed, pretending she did not know. “Small enough reward for all he does.”

“Yer right!” Bessie said vehemently, darting a slightly suspicious look at Hester, and then away again. “An’ ’e looked at Alice, an’ all, poor thing. Said as she’s doin’ as well as yer could expect. Spent a fair time talkin’ to ’er. ’E an’ Miss Margaret put arnica poultices on ’er, jus’ like me an’ yer did, an’ it seemed ter ’elp ’er some.” There was fear in Bessie’s voice. Hester knew she wanted to ask if Alice was going to live, and yet she was too afraid of the answer to do it.

The fact that Alice had already survived three days since her injuries was the most hopeful sign. Had there been the internal bleeding they feared, she would have been dead by now.

Hester went to her and saw that she was half asleep, dozing fitfully, muttering under her breath as if troubled by dreams. There was nothing to do to help her. Either her body would heal in time, or she would develop fever or gangrene and die. In a while, when she was more wakeful, they would give her a little more to drink, then sponge her down with cool water and give her a fresh nightgown.