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“Tea!” Margaret gasped. “And somewhere to sit down, somewhere dry!”
“Wouldn’t you rather get back to Coldbath?” Hester said in concern. “I’m not sure what sort of a place around here would offer-”
“I want to draw him before I forget!” Margaret hissed at her. “I can’t do that standing up in the rain!”
Hester was taken completely aback. “Can you… I mean, could…”
“Of course I can! If I do it while he’s still sharp in my mind! Which right now I feel will be forever, but common sense and profound hope say it will not.” Margaret stared around and started to walk more briskly in an effort to reach just such a place, and Hester had to skip a couple of steps to catch up with her, and then seize her by the arm to stop her from bumping into a peddler who was hoping for a sale of bootlaces.
Eventually they found a tavern where they settled for a table in the corner, two half pints of cider and two hot pies. As soon as they were served, Margaret took out the paper and pencil and began to draw. Every now and then she sipped from her glass, but she ignored the pie. Perhaps the thought of eating while she saw the face of a dead man was too much for her.
Hester was suddenly profoundly hungry. In her case, relief outweighed more delicate feelings, and all she could think of was how clever Margaret was to bring character and life into a representation created out of lines on paper. In front of her, Nolan Baltimore’s face took shape until she felt as if she must have known him.
“That’s marvelous!” she said with deep respect, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief, then drinking the last of her cider. “If we show people that, they will certainly know whether they have seen him or not.”
Margaret looked up at her, her eyes bright with pleasure for the praise. “I had better do another,” she said gravely. “If we were to lose it we should be in difficulty.” And immediately she set about depicting Baltimore from a slightly different angle, more three-quarter face.
Hester fetched her another glass of cider, and one more for herself, and watched patiently while Margaret did a third drawing as well, in remarkable detail, and shaded to show an almost three-dimensional likeness.
Then, before they ran even greater risk of attracting anyone’s attention, they put the drawings away and left, going out into the damp streets, but with a clear sky above and a mild breeze promising to keep it so.
They had a very quiet afternoon at Coldbath. Hester deliberately took a short sleep in preparation for her plans, which might involve much of the night. She knew Monk would not be at home, and therefore needed no explanation as to why she was not either. She had no intention of taking Margaret with her. Margaret had already done magnificent work today.
Also, of course, it was necessary to have two people here, just in case there should be some need for help from Mr. Lockhart. Someone had to go for him, and that was almost always Bessie. She seemed to have a great ability to find him at any time. Perhaps his friends sensed her affection for him, and her own past had taught her neither to question nor to judge.
Margaret argued a little, but Hester could see in her eyes a certain relief when it was pointed out that Bessie could not manage alone should someone seriously injured come in.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said with genuine reluctance. “But what about you? You shouldn’t go alone either! Anything could happen to you, and we wouldn’t even know. Why don’t you-” She stopped.
Hester smiled. “Why don’t I what? You can’t think of a better idea any more than I can. I shall be very careful indeed, I promise you. I look pretty much like the women who live in the area, and they go around by themselves. There are police all over the streets just now. We know that as well as anyone. As long as I don’t look as if I am soliciting for trade, which I shall take care not to, I shall be as safe as anyone.” And without waiting for further argument from Margaret, Bessie, or a voice of caution inside her own head, she took an old shawl from the cupboard of spare clothes and went out into the street. The evening was fine now, and quite warm. Looking straight ahead of her, she walked quickly in the direction of Leather Lane.
She intended to begin with the place where Nolan Baltimore’s body had been found, but she must be careful. She did not wish to draw the attention of any police patrolling the streets and alleys, and particularly not of Constable Hart, who would recognize her in an instant, and probably have a very good idea of her purpose.
She slowed her step to something more like that of the middle-aged woman in front of her, keeping about twenty feet between them, and trying to appear to a casual eye to be much the same sort of person. She reached the angle where Bath Street becomes Lower Bath Street, then crosses the wide thoroughfare of Theobald’s Road and becomes Leather Lane.
There was a constable on the corner, looking tired and dispirited. How was she going to show anyone a picture without drawing his attention? It would have to be done under one of the few street lamps. One could hardly be expected to recognize anybody in the dusk and shadows closer to the walls, or in a doorway or alley.
The constable watched her without speaking and without apparent interest. Good. That meant he took her for an ordinary resident. That was not flattering, but it was what she needed at the moment. With a tight little smile to herself, she walked on down Leather Lane.
There was a girl standing close to the next lamppost. The light shone on her bare head, making a bright mass of her hair. She was probably well under twenty, not particularly pretty, but there was still a certain freshness to her. She was not someone Hester knew, and she found herself suddenly very nervous about asking a complete stranger the questions she needed to.
But the answers might be known only by strangers, and she was not going back to Coldbath to tell them that she had been too cowardly to try! That would be worse than anything this girl could say to her.
“Excuse me,” she began tentatively.
The girl looked at her, hostility already in her eyes. “Don’t stop ’ere, luv,” she said in a low, steady voice. “This is my patch, an’ me man’ll mark yer face if yer try it ’ere. Find yer own patch.” She regarded Hester with more care. “Yer looks are nothin’, but yer walk with yer ’ead ’igh. There’s some as likes that. Try up that way.” She pointed back up toward the huge mass of the brewery on Portpool Lane.
Hester swallowed her temper with difficulty. The insult stung, which was ridiculous. She knew her own passion well enough, there were too many remembered nights not to, but she still did not like to be told her looks were nothing. But this was no time to give back as good as she received.
“I don’t want your patch,” she said levelly. Her better sense knew the girl was only fighting for survival. She probably had to fight for everything she got, and then fight again to keep it. “I just want to know if you have seen a particular man in the area.”
“Look, luv,” the girl answered pityingly, “if yer ol’ man comes ’ere fer ’is pleasures, just look the other way an’ ’ang on t’ yer ’ouse an’ yer kids. If yer got a roof over yer ’ead an’ food in yer belly, don’ go ’owlin’ fer the moon. Yer won’t get nothin’ but a sore froat-an’ if yer go upsettin’ other folk, a bucket o’ cold water thrown at yer, or worse.”
Hester hesitated. What story could she make up that this girl would believe and still give her the information she needed? The girl was turning away already. Perhaps the only answer was the truth.
“It’s the man who was murdered,” she said abruptly, feeling the heat run through her body, and then the cold as she committed herself irrevocably. “I want the police out of the area so everything can get back to normal.” She saw the look of disbelief on the girl’s face. There was nothing for it but to go on now. “They aren’t finding out who did it!” she said abruptly. “The only way to see the back of them is if somebody else does.” She fished in her pocket and brought out the picture of Nolan Baltimore.