The Hogarth Conspiracy by Alex Connor

four bedrooms because most of the fifteen employed girls were sent out to entertain clients in hotels, on trips abroad, or on private flights. Knowing that it was in the police’s interest to turn a blind eye to her activities, Mrs. Fleet had enough sense not to provoke the undue curiosity of her neighbors and kept the in-house business to a minimum.
    â€œHave you heard about Kit Wilkes?” she asked Liza, her tone remote. “He’s in the Friars Hospital—”
    â€œIn a coma!” Liza blurted out. “He was on the plane with us! First Marian and now Kit Wilkes.”
    She sounded unnerved, but Mrs. Fleet remained cool, irritated that she should have to play nursemaid to an unstable whore. Determined that Liza shouldn’t find out about Bernie Freeland’s accident, she passed the girl a coffee and sat down. Accident? Like hell it was , she thought. Bernie Freeland had been killed . Calmly, Mrs. Fleet studied Liza Frith. The girl had always proved reliable and sweet-natured, with little temperament. Popular with the clients and sexually uninhibited even for a working girl,
    Liza had chosen to go into prostitution because she liked sex, a lazy life, and even lazier money. Intelligent enough to win a place at the University of Manchester, she had left after the second term and drifted into the outer periphery of Mrs. Fleet’s radar. A known party girl who loved clubbing, Liza had been recommended by a friend who had worked for Mrs. Fleet’s competitor in Argentina. Within a week she was ensconced at the Park Street premises.
    But if her employer had an instinct for talent, she also had an instinct about weakness. Mrs. Fleet was never a woman to succumb to a hard luck story or show generosity in supplying second chances; vulnerability resonated in her head like a bee humming against a locked window. And she could sense it now in Liza Frith.
    â€œI think you should stay here for a while, Liza,” she said simply. “Have a rest. Perhaps you’re tired.”
    â€œMarian’s dead, and Kit Wilkes is in the hospital!”
    And you don’t even know about Bernie Freeland yet, Mrs. Fleet thought. She would make sure that Liza remained in ignorance or she might react badly, even become indiscreet. And in a business run on discretion, any intimation of trouble—anything that took the client’s mind off pleasure—was bad for the profit margin.
    â€œLiza, don’t get yourself worked up,” Mrs. Fleet continued, staring at the girl calmly. “Accidents happen.”
    â€œMarian was murdered!” Liza snapped. “Her head was bashed in. What do the police think?”
    â€œThat it was a client.”
    â€œNo!” Liza said, shaking her head.
    â€œSomeone left thirty pieces of silver with her.”
    â€œMeaning what?” Liza asked, her childish voice raised. “What’s that supposed to mean? Marian didn’t betray anyone—unless she told people what she overheard on the plane.”
    â€œWhich was?”
    â€œI don’t know, ” Liza said vehemently. “I couldn’t hear what was going on from where I was sitting. Annette was next to me, and we were talking, coming in to land. Bernie going off like that was a shock. I turned and saw him leaning down to Sir Oliver Peters, but I couldn’t hear what he said, just caught the name Hogarth; that was all.”
    Mrs. Fleet studied the girl closely. “Nothing else?”
    â€œNo. Anyway, where is Annette?” Liza asked suddenly, glancing at her employer and wondering why she was so calm. Wasn’t it obvious that something was wrong, that the flight had been jinxed in some way? “When we last spoke, she said she was coming here.”
    â€œSo she’ll come,” Mrs. Fleet replied, composed. She had not seen or heard from Annette Dvorski, but she wasn’t going to show concern. Not yet, anyway.
    â€œShe wouldn’t have still gone,