“No, it was not!” Squeaky said angrily, his voice rising alarmingly in pitch. “It was already a very good concern when he came in.” He resented her intrusion.

“That’s hard to believe,” she said scathingly.

Squeaky pointed his finger at her. “Look, miss, you just keep to your good works in Coldbath and leave the business to them as know about it. I had a very good thing going here before Mr. Baltimore ever came along. I was just unlucky. My partner then, Preece, his name was, was a greedy man. He tried to blackmail one or two of the better-off customers. That’s a fool thing to do. Kill the goose that way. Enough’s enough.” He sliced the air with his stringy hand and its ink-stained fingers. “Anyway, Baltimore got very angry and they set at each other like prizefighters.” His lips pursed in a gesture of disgust, but he looked a little pale at the memory. “Preece was a big fat bastard, and he took an attack. Went all colors and fell down on the floor, clutching his chest. Died right there.” He looked past Hester, directly at Rathbone. “Heart!” he said savagely. “Too much belly and no brain. His own fault.”

Rathbone nodded. “Apparently,” he agreed.

Hester saw him relax so very slightly it was barely perceptible. She shot a glance at Margaret in the shadows behind him, and read the relief in her face also.

“Anyway,” Squeaky resumed, “I needed someone to take his place, and Baltimore needed the business to continue—in his own interest, like. We were the only ones offering exactly the service he wanted, otherwise he’d have to start all over again, looking from scratch, as it were. Worked out very well all ’round.”

“Until he died as well. . . .” Rathbone observed.

“That was his own fault too!” Squeaky said immediately. “He got stupid, and thought just because he had a share in the place that he could go as far as he liked with the girls.”

“One of them killed him?” Rathbone said very softly.

“Yeh. But she’s gone. Too wild, that one. Pushed him out o’ the window. Top story, an’ all.” He winced. “What a mess! It’s all right, though, the police don’t even know it happened here.” He grinned. “We put the body in old Abel Smith’s place, like he fell down the stairs.”

“Very tidy,” Rathbone observed. “You have a gift for making the best of bad luck.”

“Thank you.” Squeaky bowed.

Margaret drew in her breath sharply.

“Now all I require is to look at your accounts, if you please,” Rathbone asked.

Squeaky hesitated, staring at Rathbone as if to hold his attention while he deliberated. He glanced at Hester, then Margaret in the background, barely moving, then at Rathbone again.