She went into the house in Coldbath Square, really only to tell Bessie where she intended to be, so that if she was needed she could be sent for, and also so that someone would know where she had gone. It was the nearest she could come to any kind of security. Not that she thought Squeaky Robinson was any threat to her. He had no reason to wish her harm—they were ostensibly on the same side, at least he thought they were. Still, it was a kind of precaution.

Bessie was highly dubious about it. She stood with her arms folded, her lips pursed. “Well, all I can say is if yer in’t back ’ere safe an’ sound in two hours—an’ I can tell the time—then I’m goin’ fer Constable ’Art! An’ I’ll not mince me words! I’ll let’im know w’ere yer are an’ wot’s goin’ on. I swear! An’ ’e’ll come right arter yer! Likes yer, ’e does!” She said that fiercely, as if it were a threat in itself. But that Bessie would speak willingly to a policeman at all, let alone confide in him and ask his help, was eloquent witness to the gravity with which she viewed Hester’s undertaking.

Satisfied that she had made her point, Hester thanked her, and wrapped her shawl over her head in spite of the sun, and set out for Portpool Lane.

Squeaky received her stiffly, sitting upright in his chair behind the desk. A tray of tea sat in the only space clear of papers. He had spectacles perched on the end of his long nose, and there were ink stains on his fingers. He seemed profoundly unhappy. His hair stood on end as if he had been continually running his fingers through it.

“What do you want?” he said abruptly. “I haven’t got anything to tell you. I haven’t seen Jessop.”

“I have,” Hester said quickly, sitting down on the chair opposite him and arranging her skirts more elegantly, as if she meant to stay for some time. “He is still greedy for more money . . . which we don’t have.”

“Nobody has money!” Squeaky said resentfully. “I certainly don’t, so there’s no use looking to me. Times are hard. You of all people ought to know that.”

“Why me?” Hester asked innocently.

“ ’Cos you know there’s hardly a soul on the streets!” he said savagely. “Toffs are starting to go other places for their pleasure. We’re all going to end up in the workhouse, an’ that’s a fact!” It was an exaggeration. He would steal long before he allowed such a disaster to happen, but there was an underlying note of panic in his voice which was real.

“I know it’s serious,” she said gravely. “Political pressure is still keeping the police all over the place, although no one expects them to find out now who killed Baltimore.”