A Breach of Promise (50 page)

“Some of the neighbors,” he answered. “A doctor must have been called. There’ll be a death certificate.”

She frowned. She was sitting very straight, her hands in her lap. She looked a little like a governess. She was angry and nervous, afraid they would not succeed. He knew her so well. Anyone else might have thought her rather prim, but he knew she was boiling with emotion, all kinds of fears and furies at the pain and the injustice, and their helplessness to reach it.

“I suppose we could find that,” she replied without looking at him.

He was watching her face profiled against the light of the window. What was she thinking about the whole business of beauty and the notion of young women being too plain to be acceptable, or loved at all, because they were not considered marriageable? Phemie and Leda were disfigured. But what about Zillah Lambert? She was now unmarriageable, in her mother’s eyes, because two men in a short space of time had been attracted to her and then at the last moment withdrawn. Perhaps society would discount Keelin, knowing the truth now. But what about Sacheverall? Did it make any difference that he was a shallow, selfish opportunist who had not loved her, only her position and her money? Would she find Hugh Gibbons again? He had not even told Hester about that!

“When she was very young, Zillah had a great romance with a man called Hugh Gibbons,” he said aloud.

Hester looked at him with surprise.

He realized his remark seemed to come from no previous thought or word.

“I only say so because he never lost touch with her—I mean, he never forgot her,” he amended. “He might still care for her very much. And she obviously thinks of him with kindness. I remember her smile when she spoke of him.”

“You mean she might marry him?” she asked.

“Well … it is possible.”

She turned back towards the window. “Good.”

He looked at her and could not read her expression. Had he sounded as if marriage were so important? Zillah, at least, would not be left behind by happiness, social acceptability, living out her days dependent upon other people or earning her own living, pitied by her more fortunate sisters.

That was not what he had meant.

“It will…” he began. He was going to say it would matter to Zillah in a way it would not to Hester. But why not? That was a ridiculous thing to say, and insulting. He had no idea how important it might be to Hester to be married. He had always purposely avoided thinking of what hopes or dreams she might have, what secret wounds. He wanted to think of her as she was: strong, capable, brave, well able to care not only for herself but also for others.

And he did not want to consider her in that light; it was too complicated. They were friends, as honest and candid and uncomplicated as if they had been two men, at least some of the time. She was sharper-tongued than most men, quicker of thought, and then sometimes almost willfully obtuse. But she was wise and brave, and sometimes very funny. And she was generous—when it came to care for others, she was the most generous person he had ever known. She just did not know how to be mysterious or alluring, how to flirt and flatter and intrigue. She was too direct. There was nothing unknown about her.

Except that he had no idea what she was thinking now as she stared straight ahead of her. He could see the open stretch of Eel Brook Common through the window past her head.

How could he take back his clumsiness and say something to undo his words? Everything that came to his mind only made it worse, sounding as if he knew he had made a mistake and was trying to climb out of it. Which, of course, was the truth. She would know that.

Better to try something completely different.

“We’ll have to see if we can find the doctor,” he said aloud.

She looked back at him. “He won’t appreciate our suggesting it was poison. We will be saying he was incompetent, that one of his patients was murdered twenty years ago, and he missed it. Even if it is a different doctor, they defend one another. It is a form of mutual self-defense.”

“I know that. Have you a better idea?”

“No.” She sat silently for a few moments. The sun was shining brightly and the trees and the common were in full leaf at last. They could have been miles from London. They passed several people out walking, women in pale and pretty dresses, splashes of pink and blue and gold, men more somber stems of grays and browns. Two dogs chased each other, barking madly. A child sent a hoop whirling along too fast to catch it. It sped down the incline, bounced over a stone and fell flat when it hit a tussock of grass.

“Hester…”

“Yes?”

He had no idea what he wanted to say. No, that was not entirely true. He had a hundred things to say, he was just not certain he wanted to say them, not yet, perhaps not at all. Change was frightening. If he committed himself he could not go back. What did he really want to say, anyway? That her friendship was the most valuable thing in his life? That was true. But would she see that as a compliment? Or would she only see that he was treating her like a man, avoiding saying anything deeper, anything with passion and vulnerability in it, anything that bared his soul and left him undefended?

“Perhaps we’d better just tell them the truth,” he said instead.

She sat a little straighter in her seat, uncomfortable as the wheels jolted over a roughness in the road. Her back was like a ramrod, her shoulders stiff, pulling her jacket tight across the seams.

“How much of it?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s find someone first.”

They were coming into Parsons Green and rode in silence
through its streets, which were rapidly getting busier now that it was mid-morning. They crossed over Putney Bridge. The river was dazzling in the sun, full of noisy traffic, water swirling under the piers as the current gathered speed in the increasing tide.

On the far side, in Putney High Street, Monk alighted and paid the driver with a very generous tip, sufficient to get himself a nice luncheon and something for the horse. It had been an extraordinarily long journey. Then he held out his arm and assisted Hester to alight.

As the cab drew away they looked at each other. The awkwardness was gone. They had a common purpose and it was all that mattered. Personal issues were forgotten.

“The churchyard,” Hester said decisively. “That will be the best record of his death. We can go from there.”

He agreed. “Which church?”

“Pardon?” She had not thought of that.

“Which church? We passed St. Mary’s on the way in. There are bound to be others. I remember a Baptist church on Wester Road, there’s a St. John’s on Putney Hill. That’s three at least.”

She looked at him with slight chill. “Then the sooner we begin, the better. St. Mary’s is the closest. We’ll work along, unless you know anything about Samuel? I don’t suppose you know what his faith was, do you?”

“No,” he admitted with a slight smile. “But I’d wager hers is as orthodox as possible.”

It took them the rest of the morning to ask politely at St. Mary’s, visit the Baptist church on Wester Road, go along Oxford Road a few hundred yards to the Emanuel Church on Upper Richmond Road, and then move along that same considerable distance to the Wesleyan Chapel, just past the police station. At least they were saved the journey up Putney Hill to St. John’s. In the Wesleyan Chapel an elderly gentleman directed them to the chapel graveyard, and there they found a simple marker that said “Samuel Jackson, beloved husband of Dorothy, died September 27th, 1839.” No mention was made
of daughters, but that might have been for financial reasons as much as discretion. Carving cost money.

Monk and Hester stood side by side in the sharp sun and cold wind for several minutes. It seemed inappropriate to speak, and unnecessary. Hester reached up her hand and put it very lightly on Monk’s arm, and without looking sideways at her, he knew the emotions that were going through her mind, just as they were through his.

Eventually it was an old man walking through the grass with a bunch of daffodils in his hand who broke the spell.

“Knew ’im, did yer?” he said quietly. “Nice chap ’e were. Hard to die like that, when yer’ve got little ones.”

“No, we didn’t know him,” Monk answered, turning to the man and smiling very slightly. “But we know his sister … and we know the girls.”

“Them two poor little things! Do you?” The old man’s face lit with amazement. “Y’know, I never reckoned as they’d still be alive. Yer didn’t take ’em in, did yer?” He looked at Hester, then blushed. “I’m sorry Mrs….?” He did not know, and left it hanging. “Of course you didn’t! They’d be twenty an’ odd now. I didn’t mean to be impertinent, like.”

Hester shook her head quickly. “No, of course, Mr….”

“Walcott, Harold Walcott, ma’am.”

“Hester Latterly,” she replied. “But I know Martha Jackson, Samuel Jackson’s sister. I know her quite well.”

Mr. Walcott shook his head, the breeze ruffling his thin hair.

“I always liked Sam. Quick, ’e was, but kind, if you know what I mean? Loved them little girls something fierce.”

“They had a terrible time after he died,” Hester said bleakly. “But we’ve just found them and taken them to Martha. They’ll be all right now. They’re in a very good house, with a distinguished soldier from the Indian army. He was badly injured in the Mutiny, scarred in the face, so they’ll not be misused or made little of.”

“I’m right ’appy to ’ear that.” Mr. Walcott beamed at her. “You and yer ’usband are real Christian people. God bless yer both.”

The color was brighter on Hester’s face than could be accounted for by the wind, but she did not argue. “Thank you, Mr. Walcott.”

Monk felt a curious wrench in his chest, but he did not argue either. There were more important issues, and far more urgent ones.

“You are very gracious, Mr. Walcott,” he answered, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “Since you knew Samuel, would you be kind enough to answer a few questions about the way he died? Martha is still troubled by it. It would set her mind at rest … perhaps.”

Walcott’s face darkened and his lips compressed. “Very sudden, it were.” He shook his head. “I suppose there in’t many good ways ter go, but bleedin’s always scared me something awful. Just my weakness, I suppose, but I can’t stand the thought of it. Poor Sam bled terrible.”

“What did the doctor say caused it?” Hester asked quietly. The situation would not be unknown to her. God knew what she had seen in the battlefield, but looking sideways at her face, Monk saw the horror in her eyes too. Experience had not dulled it. It was one of the things about her he cared for most. He had never known her to deny or dull her capacity to feel. She exasperated him, irritated him, was opinionated, but she had more courage than anyone else he had ever known. And she could laugh.

Mr. Walcott was shaking his head again. The wind was sharper and his hands were turning white holding the daffodils.

“I never ’eard. Not sure as ’e knew for certain,” he answered the question.

“Who was he?” Hester asked, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice—and not succeeding.

But if Mr. Walcott noticed he did not take offense.

“That’d ’ave bin Dr. Loomis, for certain.”

“Where might we find him?” Monk asked.

“Oh …” Mr. Walcott considered for a moment. “Well… ’e were gettin’ on a bit then. ’E lived in Charlwood Road, I
’member that. Nice ’ouse, wi’ a big may tree in the front garden. Smell something marvelous in the late spring, it does.”

“Thank you,” Monk said with feeling. “You’ve been of great assistance, Mr. Walcott.” He held out his hand.

Walcott shook it. “A pleasure, Mr. Latterly.”

Monk winced but kept his peace.

“Ma’am.” Mr. Walcott bowed to Hester, and she smiled back at him, biting her lips to stop herself from laughing. All the same there were tears in her eyes, whether they were for Samuel Jackson, for the bereavement which had brought Mr. Walcott here with the flowers in his freezing hands, or due to the wind itself, Monk had no way to know.

He took her arm and turned her to walk back through the gravestones to the street again, and left towards Charlwood Road. They went for some distance in silence. He felt curiously at ease. He ought to have been embarrassed, filled with urgency to rectify Mr. Walcott’s mistake, and yet every time he drew breath to say something, it seemed the wrong time, the words clumsy and not what he really meant to say.

Eventually they had walked all the way along Upper Richmond Road and around the corner right into Charlwood Road and down as far as the unmistakable house with the ancient, spreading may tree leaning over the fence and arching above the path to the front door.

“This must be it,” Hester said, glancing up at him. “What do we say?”

He should have been thinking about that, and he had not, not with any concentrated effort.

“The truth,” he answered, because he must appear as if he had been silent in order to turn over the matter and make a wise judgment. “I don’t think anything else will serve at this point.”

“I agree,” she said immediately.

She must have been thinking about it. She would never be so amenable otherwise. Why was he faintly disappointed?

He stood back for her to go first up the path.

She saw the brass plate saying “Hector Loomis, M.D.” beside the bell pull. She glanced around at Monk, then reached
out and yanked the brass knob, a little too hard. They heard it ringing with a clatter inside.

It was answered by an elderly housekeeper with a crisp white apron and cap.

“Good morning,” Monk said straightaway.

“Good … morning, sir, ma’am,” she replied, hesitating momentarily because it was now well into the afternoon. “May I help you?”

“If you please,” Monk responded. “We have come a very long way to see Dr. Loomis on the matter of a tragedy which happened some time ago and which we have just learned may involve a very serious crime … the crime of murder. It is essential we are certain of our facts beyond any reasonable doubt. Many people may be irreparably hurt if we are not.”

“We are sorry to trouble you without warning or proper appointment,” Hester added. “If there had been another way, we should have taken it.”