Squeaky Robinson was sitting in the same room as when Hester had seen him before. Piles of papers were strewn around him, and one gas lamp was lit, throwing a pool of yellow onto the desk. And again there was the tray with tea. He looked tired to the point of exhaustion; his skin was papery with dark smudges under his eyes. Had he been in ordinary trade Hester would have been sorry for him, but she was too aware of Fanny and Alice, and others like them, to allow herself such a feeling.

Squeaky stood up slowly, only glancing at Hester, then his eyes went straight to Rathbone. He barely noticed Margaret at all. Perhaps women were largely invisible to him if he was not inspecting them as goods.

“Good evening, Mr. Robinson,” Hester said as calmly as she could. “I have brought this gentleman, whose name you do not need to know as yet, because he is interested in investing money in a business a little out of the ordinary, where he can have a fast and safe return. It will also be desirable if it can escape the attention of the tax inspectors and not have to be explained to certain members of his family with whom he might otherwise have to share it.” She indicated Margaret. “And this lady is good with books and figures, always an advisable attribute to have when considering an investment.”

Squeaky stood up slowly, his face like that of a man who has walked long across an arid plain and at last thinks he sees water. He stared at Rathbone, taking in his immaculate boots, his perfectly cut suit with its excellent cloth, his cravat as clean as snow, the humor and intelligence in his face.

“How do you do, Mr. Robinson.” Rathbone did not offer his hand. “Mrs. Monk tells me that your previous partner in business met with an unfortunate accident, and therefore the position is now vacant. Is she correct?”

Squeaky licked his lips. His indecision was palpable. Whatever answer he made, there was risk attached. On one hand he might give away too much about himself, on the other he might lose Rathbone’s interest, and thus the new partner necessary for his survival.

The silence was heavy in the room. The building seemed to sag and creak as if settling itself deeper into unseen mire beneath it.

Rathbone glanced at Hester impatiently and frowned.

Squeaky saw it. “Yes!” he said abruptly. “He died. Suddenly.”

“A euphemism, surely?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “Was he not murdered?”

“Ah!” Squeaky gulped, his throat jerking. “Yes. Nothing to do with his investment here! A purely private matter. A quarrel . . . his own . . . appetites. Most unfortunate.”