He could not help himself from doing so, clinging onto her hard, feeling the strength of her answering embrace.

She pulled away and looked up at him. “William, I have solved the murder of Nolan Baltimore, at least in part. I don’t know exactly who did it, but I know why.”

He could not help smiling. “We all know that, my darling. We always knew. Ask any bootboy or peddler. He didn’t pay his bills. Some pimp took exception and there was a fight.”

“Not quite,” she said like a displeased governess. “That is only an assumption. I told you there is a brothel where one partner hands money to respectable young women who have got into debt for one reason or another . . .”

“Yes, you did. What has that to do with it?”

“He was the partner!” she said. Then, seeing the disgust in his face. “I thought you’d think so. He lent the money, and Squeaky Robinson ran the brothel. But Baltimore was a client as well! That was why he was killed, for taking his tastes too far. One of the girls rebelled, and pushed him out of a top-floor window. Squeaky had the body moved to Abel Smith’s place.”

“Have you told the police?”

“No! I had a much better idea.”

She was glowing with satisfaction. He had a sinking dread that he would have to destroy it. “Better?” he said guardedly.

“Yes. I have burnt the IOUs and put Squeaky Robinson out of business. We shall take over the premises, without rent, and the young women there can nurse the others who are sick or injured.”

“You did that?” he said incredulously. “How?”

“Well, not by myself . . .”

“Indeed?” His voice rose in spite of himself. “And whose help did you enlist? Or would I very much prefer not to know?”

“Oh, it is perfectly respectable!” she protested.

“Margaret Ballinger and Oliver!”

“What?” He could not grasp it.

She smiled up at him and kissed him gently on the cheek. Then she told him precisely what they had done, ending with an apology. “I’m afraid it doesn’t help with the railway fraud. It doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“No,” he agreed, but there was a tiny spark of pride warm inside him. “I have to go back to Liverpool for that.”

“Oh . . .”

Then, in turn, he told her what Runcorn had said.

“It isn’t proof, is it?” she agreed. “But they must have rerouted the track for some reason, and Miss Harcus said they were expecting an enormous profit which must be kept secret.” She looked at him very steadily. “What are you going to do?”

It made it easier for him that without question she assumed he was going to do something.