A Breach of Promise

chapter 12
Monk thanked the fishermen, unnecessarily for them. In their eyes the act had been its own reward. One of them had a sister who was blind. His imagination told him all too clearly how such a fate could have happened to her. They even helped Monk find a hansom and get the two terrified girls into it and made sure Monk had sufficient money for the fare to Tavistock Square.

It was late afternoon and still raining hard. They were all filthy and shivering with cold. Perhaps it would have been more reasonable to go around to the back door, but Monk was so fired with triumph he did not even consider it. He paid the driver and helped the girls down onto the curb. He had actually given little thought as to what Martha would do with them, or what Gabriel Sheldon's reaction would be to these two ragged and all but uncivilized creatures brought unannounced to his home. But surely he, of all people, would at least accept their deformities without mockery or revulsion.

All the journey from the Surrey Docks, as he had sought to comfort and reassure the girls, his mind had been filled with the shattering realization that Delphine Lambert must be the same person as Dolly Jackson. The turmoil of emotions in her heart he could barely guess at! Now he set all thought of her aside and knocked on the door, then stood, holding the girls on either side of him, his arms around their shoulders. They were thin, undernourished, nothing like Zillah Lambert. But then Zillah was no blood relative, as he knew.

The door was opened by Martha Jackson. At first she did not recognize Monk, let alone the two young women with him. Her face showed weariness and impatience, not unmixed with pity.

"If you go to the kitchen door Cook will give you a hot cup of soup," she offered with a shake of her head.

"Miss Jackson," Monk said clearly, grinning at her in spite of himself. He had meant to retain some dignity and detachment. "These are your nieces, Leda and Phemie." He kept his arms around them. "They've had a bad experience, and they are cold and hungry and frightened, but I told them they were coming home and that you would be very pleased to see them."

Martha stared at him, unable to grasp or believe. She looked at the two girls in front of her, their faces wide with wonder, not daring to hope that Monk's words were true. They were dazed with exhaustion and the speed with which things had happened. And they only heard part of what was said. They needed to see a face, read an expression. They had to have words said slowly and with clear enunciation.

Martha searched their expressions, their features beneath the dirt, and slowly her eyes widened and filled with tears. She took a gulp of air and with a mighty effort controlled herself.

"Phemie?" she whispered, swallowing again. "Leda?"

They nodded, still clinging to Monk.

"I'm... Martha... I'm your papa's sister." The tears spilled over as she said it, a rush of memory overwhelming her.

"M-Martha?" Phemie said awkwardly. Her voice was not unpleasant, but she found speech difficult as no one had taken the time to try to teach her to master her disability.

"That's right," Monk encouraged her. He looked at Leda, the younger, and he already knew her the more serious, more conscious of her affliction.

"M-Mar-tha?" Leda tried hard, licking her misshapen lip.

Martha smiled through her tears, taking a step forward instinctively, then stopping. It was plain in her face she was afraid of moving too quickly. They did not know her. They might not wish to be touched by a stranger... and she was a stranger to them still.

Phemie held out her hand in response, slowly at first.

Martha took it gently, holding out her other hand to Leda.

There was a moment's silence as the lights inside the hallway shone out into the gray afternoon, reflecting in the drifting rain and the cabs and carriages splashing along the street behind the sodden man with hair plastered across his face in dark streaks, his clothes sticking to him, and two gaunt and ragged young women, hair like rats' tails, clothes torn and thin.

Then Leda stretched her hand and gave it to Martha, holding on to her with surprising strength.

"Come inside," Martha invited. "Get warm and dry... and have some hot soup."

Monk found himself grinning idiotically. He wanted to laugh with joy.

"I think you had better come too, Mr. Monk," Martha said in a very unbusinesslike tone. "You look terrible. I'll find you some better clothes before you see Miss Latterly. I'm sure something of Mr. Gabriel's will fit you, for the time being. Then I'll let Miss Latterly know you are here."

He wanted to tell Hester himself, see her face when he said he had found the girls. It was perhaps childish, but it mattered to him with a fierceness that startled him.

"I..." he began, then did not know what to say. How could he explain what he felt without sounding absurd? Then he remembered Delphine Lambert. "I have something very urgent to tell her."

Martha looked at him doubtfully, but she was too grateful to deny him anything at all.

"I'll tell her you are here," she agreed. She regarded his filthy and disreputable state ruefully. "You'd better wait in the pantry. But don't stand on the carpet... and don't sit down!"

"I won't," he promised, then followed her obediently as she led the two girls towards the green baize door through to the servants' quarters, guiding them as they stared in awe. They had never been inside a house so large or so clean-or so warm-in their lives.

Martha pointed to the butler's pantry, which was presently empty, and promised to send the maid up with a message to Hester.

It was less than five minutes before she came down, only the most momentary surprise on her face when she saw his state. She closed the door.

"What happened?" she demanded, her face eager. "Tillie said Martha has two fearful-looking girls with her, wet as rats and about as pretty. Did you find them?" Her eyes were wide, her whole expression burning with hope.

He had meant to be calm, to have dignity, to behave as if he had been in control of himself all the time. It slipped away without his even noticing it.

He did not speak, he simply nodded, smiling so widely he could hardly form the words.

She abandoned any thought of restraint and ran forward, throwing her arms around him, holding him so fiercely she knocked the breath from him.

He hesitated a moment. This was not really what he had intended to do. It was impulsive, too careless of consequence. But even while the thoughts were in his mind, his arms tightened around her and he held her close to him, feeling the strength of her. He bent his head to her cheek, her hair, and smelled its sweetness. She was crying with relief.

"That's... wonderful!" She sobbed, sniffing hard. "You are superb! I didn't think you could do it. It's marvelous. Are they going to be all right?" She did not let go of him or look up, but left her head buried on his shoulder and her grip around him as if letting go might destroy the reality of what he had said.

"I don't know," he answered honestly, still holding her too. He had no need to, but it seemed natural. He thought of letting go, of straightening up, but he really did not want to. "I've no idea what she's going to do with them. They're not fit for ordinary service."

"We'll have to find something," she answered, as if it were a simple thing and to be taken for granted.

"That is not all," he said more thoughtfully. He had to tell her the other fact, the one which now was beginning to make such hideous sense.

She was quite still. "What else is there?"

"You remember Martha told us their mother abandoned them... Dolly Jackson, Samuel's widow?"

"Yes?"

"I know where she is."

This time she did move. She straightened up and pulled away, staring up at him, her face defiant, eyes blazing.

"She can't have them back! She left them... that is the end of it for her!" Her indignation dared him to argue.

"Of course it is," he agreed. "Except that that is not all..."

She caught the emotion in his face, the sense of something new and of vital and different meaning.

"What?" she demanded. "What is it, William?"

"Delphine Lambert," he answered.

She blinked. She had no idea what he meant. The truth had not entered her mind as a possibility.

"Delphine Lambert," he repeated. "I am almost certain, certain in my own mind, that she and Dolly Jackson are the same person."

She gasped. "That's absurd! How could they be? Dolly Jackson was... well-" She stopped. He could see in her eyes that now she was considering it. "Well... she... why? Why would you think that?"

"If you had seen her and then seen those girls, you wouldn't ask. When Samuel died, Dolly Jackson put the two girls into an orphanage and disappeared, to try to improve her position, marry again, presumably as well as possible. She was a very pretty and ambitious woman. She succeeded superbly. She married Barton Lambert, who gave her everything she wanted."

She looked at him with slowly dawning comprehension.

"But she did not dare to give him the one thing he wished: children," he went on. "She had already had two deformed children. So she adopted a child-a perfect child-and she groomed her for the perfect marriage."

Hester did not speak, but her face reflected her sense of awe and pity.

The door opened and Perdita burst in in a flurry of skirts, breathless.

"Martha says you've found the girls! They are down in the kitchen right now!"

Reluctantly, Monk let go of Hester, amazed that he was not more self-conscious of being seen in such a position.

Perdita looked at his filthy appearance with surprise. A month ago she would have been scandalized. Now she was only concerned.

"Is it true? Have you?"

"Yes," Monk answered. "Only just rescued them from being shipped abroad as white slaves." He heard Hester gasp. "I found them actually on the boat." He glanced down at the floor where he had created a pool of water. "I'm sorry. I half fell in the river." He smiled ruefully.

"You must be frozen!" Perdita exclaimed-the white slave trade was not in her knowledge as it was in Hester's. "I'll have someone draw you a hot bath. I'm sure you can borrow some of Gabriel's clothes. Then we must think what to do with these girls."

Hester swallowed, unconsciously smoothing down her dress, now thoroughly wet, also more than a little dirty, where she had pressed against Monk.

"Can you train them to work here?" She turned from Perdita to Monk and back again. "Can you?" There was a faint flush in her cheeks at the presumption.

Before Perdita could reply, Monk interrupted. Hester had not seen them. She had no idea of the reality of their disfigurement, or their deafness, their sheer uncouthness from a lifetime of neglect and abuse. In their entire lives they had seen and heard nothing but the insides of taverns, gin mills and brothels.

"You can't use them as-" He stopped again. How could he say this? Hester was watching him with anxiety and disbelief. "They're..." He glanced down at his filthy clothes, then up at Perdita. There was no point in anything but the truth. "They've spent their lives in gin mills and brothels. They're deaf-and they're disfigured."

Perdita's face filled with horror, then pity. Her chin lifted. "Well, we don't have much company at present, maybe not at all. This could be the very best house in which to train such people." She did not add any note of anger or bitterness, nor was there any in her face. There was no thought of self.

Hester looked at her with a respect which was wholehearted and full of joy.

Perdita recognized it, and it was the final seal upon her resolve.

"Shall we go and tell Gabriel?" she suggested. "Then you really must get warmed up, Mr. Monk. You must be feeling wretched."

"Of course," he agreed. He wished to see Gabriel's reaction himself. He could not rest until he did. He followed Perdita and Hester out of the butler's pantry and along the corridor to the servants' stairs, up them and then through the top door to the main wing. He was aware of squelching with every step, and that someone else would have to clean up after him, but perhaps it was worth it this time.

Perdita threw open Gabriel's door. "It's right!" she said without waiting. "He has got them! They're here!"

Gabriel looked at Monk, his eyes bright.

Monk nodded. "They're in the kitchen, getting cleaned up and fed." Gabriel would know what he meant. "They've been on the streets since they were three years old."

Gabriel's face also filled with pity, and a hard, hurting rage. Even his own disfigurement could not mask it.

"We'll look after them," he said without hesitation.

Monk did not argue. He was so cold that in spite of the pleasure he felt, the almost overwhelming sense of exhilaration and relief, he was now shaking and his legs had almost lost sensation. Shivers were running through him and his teeth were chattering.

Hester must have noticed, because she excused them and took him to the guest bathroom and sent for hot water while she then went to Gabriel's wardrobe to find him clean, dry clothes.

Afterwards Martha sent up a bowl of hot thick soup from the kitchen and Monk sat in a chair by the banked-up fire in Hester's sitting room enjoying the heat inside and out, and the savory taste in his mouth of chicken and herbs.

Hester was watching him, her eyes narrowed, her brows drawn together.

"Did you really mean it that you believe Delphine Lambert is the same person as Dolly Jackson?"

He had no doubt. "Yes. If you look at those girls, especially Leda, the resemblance is startling. It is almost a mirror image, only distorted by the mouth. But you can see what she was meant to be. No one could look at them both and not think of it. She had not only one deformed child, Hester, she had two! No wonder she had to leave them behind her if she was going to make her way. She could never admit that to anyone. It's like having madness in the blood. What chance would Zillah have of marrying well?"

"But she's not related!" Hester protested, though her voice was hollow. She knew, as Monk did, that even if they knew Zillah was adopted people would not make that distinction. She was looking at him steadily, searching his face, waiting for him to go on.

"She knew I was looking into the family past, anything I could find that could have put Melville off marrying Zillah. She must have known that if I went on long enough I should find that Zillah was adopted. Perhaps if Melville had gone on fighting the case, I would even have traced her back as far as Putney... and Samuel Jackson."

"If Keelin had lived?" She repeated the words in a voice little more than a whisper. "Are you saying that Delphine Lambert could have killed her?"

"I don't know... perhaps I am." He watched her face, seeing her eyes widen and slowly belief follow incredulity.

"But how?" she breathed softly. "How did she do it? She was never alone with her... you said so. In fact, you said there was no way anyone could have poisoned her. She didn't eat or drink anything in the court all afternoon." She shook her head. "You couldn't even work out how she could have taken it herself."

"So obviously we missed something." He poked his finger at the table in which his empty soup bowl rested. "She did take it. That is the one thing we can be certain of. It was done... whomever by. We missed it."

She thought for a few moments in silence, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands.

"Tell me about the day in court," she asked at length. "Describe it for me as if you wanted me to draw it for you, knowing I wasn't there. Treat it as if I had never been in a court before. Don't leave out anything you saw."

There was no point in it, but he obliged. He told her what the room was like, where everyone sat, how they were dressed and what function they filled. She listened intently, even though most of it was already familiar to her.

"And the adjournment?" she asked. "What happened then?"

He laughed abruptly. "Keelin came out of the courtroom and stood a little to the left of the doorway talking to Rathbone for a few minutes. Then Rathbone left with Sacheverall to go and argue again. I don't know where they went, only that it was entirely fruitless."

"How long were they gone?" she interrupted, looking hopeful.

He shook his head. "About ten minutes, maybe fifteen. But Keelin didn't eat or drink anything, nor did she go to the cloakroom. She was there in the hall all the time, in full public view."

"Alone?" she persisted, refusing to give up.

"Yes..." He pictured it vividly, it seemed so unnecessarily, publicly hurtful. "Except that Delphine went over to her with a packet, spoke to her for a moment, then when Keelin held up her hands, Delphine opened the packet and tipped it out into her cupped palms. It was jewelry she had given Zillah. They were dusty..."

"Dust?" Hester said slowly.

"Possibly powder... I don't know."

"But something?"

"Yes... why? It wasn't anything edible. Delphine did not pass her anything she could eat or drink-just the jewelry. She tipped it out so she could itemize each piece and make Keelin acknowledge that she had received it all back-count out each item."

"What did Melville do then?" Hester was leaning forward now.

"She put the jewelry in her inside pocket," he continued. "She looked... wretched... as if she had been kicked."

Hester winced. "And then what?"

"Then Rathbone came back, spoke to Keelin for a few moments, and they returned to court."

Hester sat for a while thinking silently. It did not seem to make any sense. Monk thought of the afternoon session, the tension and despair. He could picture Keelin Melville safely next to Rathbone, her face tense, the light reflecting in her clear eyes, which were almost the color of aquamarine. Her skin was very fair, spattered with freckles, her features fine but with a remarkable inner power. It was the face of a visionary. And her hands were beautiful too, strong and slender, perfectly proportioned... except that she bit her nails-not badly, but enough to make them too short. It seemed to be in moments of greatest anxiety. He could recall her hands in her mouth when... Hands in her mouth!

"She bit her nails!" he almost shouted, leaning towards Hester and clasping her hand where it lay on the table, turning it over. "She bit her nails!"

"What?" She looked startled.

He rubbed his fingertips along the tabletop, then put them to his lips.

"The powder..." she breathed out the words. "If that was the belladonna, then she put it to her lips... into her mouth. Her hands were covered in it from the jewelry!"

"Would it be enough?" He barely dared ask.

"It could be..." she said slowly, staring back at him. "If it were pure... to act within a few hours. Especially if she ate nothing." Her voice rose a little, getting more urgent. "She didn't wash her hands after touching the jewelry?"

"No. She went straight back into court. I don't imagine at that point she would think of such a thing... still less of a taste."

"I don't think it tastes unpleasant," she answered. "Children sometimes eat the fruit by mistake."

"Does it kill them?" he asked.

"Yes, it does, usually. And this would be concentrated."

"Where would she have got it?" He tried to keep the sense of victory out of his voice, but it was there in spite of him.

"An herbalist, or even distill it herself," she replied, not taking her eyes from his.

"There won't be berries this time of the year."

"You don't need the berries. Any part of it is poisonous... berries, flowers, roots, leaves, anything at all!"

Monk clenched his fist. "That's it! That's how she did it! By God, she's clever! Now, how can we prove it?" He sat back on the chair. He was warm at last, and very comfortable in Gabriel's shirt and trousers. He felt elated. He knew the truth! And Keelin Melville had not killed herself. She had not died in drowning despair, surrendering. It had not even been directly his, or Rathbone's, failure which had been responsible.

"Is she buried yet?" Hester asked. "Perhaps if they haven't washed her hands... under the nails..."

"Yes," he answered before she finished. "They buried her." The words hurt. "As a suicide... in unhallowed ground. Even Wolff was not permitted to be there."

"God won't care," she said with unwavering conviction. "But without her hands to look at... what about the suit she wore? Do you think we could see that? Or did they bury her in it?" There was finality in her voice, as if she expected the answer even before he gave it.

"I don't know, but I expect they did bury her in it. Why would they be bothered to change it? And Delphine took the packet back. She was careful enough for that."

"What about the jewelry itself?" she asked, but without hope.

"It wouldn't prove anything much, except to us," he replied. "Only that she had belladonna in the same pocket... not that anyone else put it there. Delphine would simply say that Melville had a packet of belladonna powder in her pocket and it burst or came undone. We couldn't prove otherwise- even if we knew it!"

"Then I don't think we can prove it," Hester said slowly.

"Not-not prove it? We've got to!" He was outraged. It was monstrous! Unbearable! Delphine Lambert had abandoned two tiny children to the cruelty of strangers-two vulnerable, damaged children who needed her even more than most. Then she had murdered the most brilliant, dazzling, creative architect of the age, all to further her own comfort and ambition, and to find a good marriage for her adopted daughter-whether she wanted it or not. Appearance had been everything, beauty, glitter-as shallow as the skin. The passion and hope and pain of the heart beneath had been thrown away. He could not let himself think it could all just happen and no one could call for any accountability, any justice, any regret at all. All kinds of arguments raged through his head, and even as he thought of each one, he knew it was no use.

"Can we?" Hester asked, her face puckered. She had not known Keelin Melville; she had not even been at court this time, as she had in most of the other cases he had cared about deeply. It was strange, and he realized now he had missed her. But Gabriel Sheldon was tied inextricably to it, because Martha Jackson was part of his household, part of Perdita's life, and because he too knew what it was like to be disfigured, to know his face, the outer part of him everyone saw and judged him by so easily, filled people with revulsion, even with fear. He was an outcast of the same kind, a victim of a world where sight ruled so much. Hester understood it.

And she understood Keelin Melville, a woman fighting to succeed in a world where men made all the rules and judged only by the yardstick of their own preconceptions, not by reality of courage or skill or achievement. She had seen others sacrificed to it, and eventually crushed.

"We must!" he said fiercely, leaning farther forward. "We must find a way."

"It's all gone," she pointed out, her mouth tight, her eyes sad. "Will they dig her up again, do you suppose?"

He had to be honest. There was not the slightest chance, not on the belief he had now. No one would want to consider it, to raise such a hideous possibility, face the suit for criminal libel if they were wrong.

"No."

She looked at his empty plate. "Do you want some more soup?"

"No! I want to think of a way to prove what happened to Keelin Melville and find some justice for those two abandoned and unloved children!" He sighed. "And I want some kind of vengeance... some balancing of the scales."

She sat in silence for a while again, cupping her chin in her hands.

He waited, searching for an answer in his mind, going over the details of the case, all the questions and answers. He was warm, physically comfortable, but exhaustion was creeping over him and he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate.

The door opened and Martha came in carrying a tray with fresh tea on it. Her eyes were bright and calm and there was a glow in her cheeks. She set the tray down on the table, smiling at him. She was almost too full of emotion to find words.

"Mr. Monk... I-I can't..." She shook her head. "I just don't know how to say what you've done for me. You're... the best man I know. I never truly thought it was possible... but you found them. I wish I could give you more..." She was clearly embarrassed, feeling nothing she had was sufficient reward for him.

"I don't need any more payment, Miss Jackson," he said without even having to think about it. "You already gave me sufficient for all my expenses." That was not quite true, but close enough.

She hesitated.

"Except the tea," he added.

She remembered and poured it immediately. It was steaming and fragrant.

"Are they all right?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she murmured, nodding. "Oh, yes... they will be. Everyone's very good. Finding them clothes and boots and so on. Tillie gave Phemie one of her dresses, and Agnes found one for Leda, and a petticoat with frills on it. Sarah gave them both stockings." She blinked hastily. "And she was looking for sheets and blankets for them, and deciding which room would be best. Put them in together, in case they get lonely, or frightened in a new place. And then Miss Perdita came down and she was so nice to them." She said it as if she hardly dared believe it was true. "She said they could stay here all the time."

Monk smiled back at her. "I know."

She hesitated only a moment longer, then excused herself and turned back to the kitchen and the excitement again.

Monk sipped his tea gratefully.

"I wonder what would have happened if Samuel Jackson hadn't died..." Hester said thoughtfully.

"They would have lived ordinary, uncomfortable lives, laughed at by their peers, and possibly found service of some sort," he answered. "Possibly not. He would have loved them, perhaps taught them to read and write. But he did die, so it makes no difference now. We can't undo that. They'll be all right here." He said it with assurance, thinking of the kindness in the kitchen already, everyone trying to help, willing to give of their own few possessions.

"That's not what I meant." Hester was frowning, hardly listening to him. "They would have been laughed at, wouldn't they? I mean, it would have been hard for them, for their family... for Dolly Jackson."

"Of course. But she's done very well indeed. She's a wealthy woman in society, beautiful, respected, has a husband who loves her and a beautiful daughter no one knows is not hers, except us."

"Exactly," she agreed, looking at him.

"Hester...?" A thought began in his mind.

"What did he die of?" she asked softly.

"Bleeding... bleeding in the stomach."

"What caused it?"

"I-I don't know. Illness?" His mouth was suddenly dry.

"How convenient for Dolly Jackson," Hester said, looking at him very steadily.

He put his cup down. His hands were clumsy, stiff. "Poison?"

"I don't know. But I want to know. Don't you?"

"Yes... and I'm going to find out."

"I'm coming with you...."

"I don't know that I-I don't know what..." he began.

"I can help." Her face was set in immovable determination. "We'll start tomorrow. When I tell Gabriel he'll insist." She stood up.

"I'm not sure you should. We may be wrong."

She looked at him with eyes wide, her mouth twisted in a mixture of urgency and anger. "We'll need money. I haven't any. Have you?"

"No." He was too tired to argue. And anyway, she was right.

"Then it's settled. I'll go and talk to Gabriel about it, and he'll give us some. We'll start tomorrow morning-early!" She wrinkled her nose at him, and she went out of the room with a swish of skirts, held high. He heard her heels light and rapid along the corridor.

They did start out very early the following day. By half past eight on a blustery spring morning they were in a hansom on the way east and south to Putney. Gabriel had been generous with all he could spare, his only regret being that he was not yet well enough to come with them, and an acute awareness that his disfigurement might prove a hindrance. Meeting strangers was a difficulty he had yet to overcome. It would always be painful. No matter how many times he did it, for them it would always be the first time. The horror and embarrassment would be new.

Now Monk and Hester were sitting side by side in the hansom bowling along at a smart pace through the elegant streets of Chelsea, with the river glinting in the light. To the left lay Battersea Reach, curving away from them. They would pass the gas works and go along the Kings Road with Eel Brook Common to the right. Beyond that was Parsons Green and the Putney Bridge to the south. It was a very long journey.

There was so much to say, and yet he was uncertain where to begin. From Tavistock Square, where he had picked her up, she had told him how Leda and Phemie were this morning, and how changed they seemed already, with clean clothes, washed hair and good food. They were still terrified, expecting each moment to wake up and discover it was all a cruel dream. But they did seem to understand quite a lot, if spoken to slowly and in simple words. The thing that was most apparent was their affection for each other-and their awe and wonder at the thought that Martha actually liked them, rather than simply wished to use them. They flinched if approached too quickly, and it might take some time before they understood that food would be given them regularly and did not need to be stolen or defended.

They were moving away from the river. The street was busy with early traffic, other hansoms, several private carriages. This was an affluent area. Four perfectly matched bays went past at a brisk pace, pulling a magnificent coach, footmen in livery riding behind.

"Where shall we begin?" Hester asked, staring ahead of her. "It all happened twenty years ago. Who will still be there now?"

"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. Tt 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."

"Oh! Bless my soul! Well... you had better come in." The housekeeper stepped back and invited them to enter. "Dr. Loomis is busy with a patient this minute, but I'll tell him as you're here and it's important. I'm sure he'll see you."

"Thank you very much," Monk accepted, following Hester to where the housekeeper led them to wait and then left them. It was a most agreeable room, but very small, and looked onto the back garden of what was apparently a family home. Children's toys lay neatly stacked against the wall of a potting shed. A hoop and a tiny horse's head on a stick were plainly discernible.

Hester looked at Monk, the question in her eyes.

"Grandchildren?" he suggested with a sinking feeling of disappointment.

She bit her lip and said nothing. She was too restless to sit down, and he felt the same, but there was not room for them both to pace back and forth, and even though she wore petticoats without hoops, her skirts still took up what little space there was.

When Dr. Loomis appeared he was a mild-faced young man with fast receding hair cut very short and a friendly look of enquiry in his very ordinary face.

"Mrs. Selkirk says you have come a great distance to ask about a crime?" he said, closing the door behind him and looking from one to the other of them with a frown. "How can I help you? I don't think I know anything at all."

"It happened twenty-one years ago," Monk answered, rising to his feet.

"Oh..." Loomis looked disappointed. "That would be my father. I'm so sorry."

Monk felt a ridiculous disappointment. It was so strong it was physical, as if his throat had suddenly tightened and he could barely catch his breath.

"Perhaps you have his records?" Hester refused to give up. "It was about a Samuel Jackson, who died of bleeding. He had two small daughters, both of them disfigured."

"Samuel Jackson!" Loomis obviously recognized the name. "Yes, I remember him speaking of that."

Monk's hope surged up wildly. Why else would a man speak of a case many years afterwards, except that it worried him, was somehow incomplete?

"What did he say?" he demanded.

Loomis screwed up his face in concentration.

Monk waited. He looked at Hester. She was so tense she seemed scarcely to be breathing.

Loomis cleared his throat. "He was troubled by it..." he said tentatively. "He never really knew what caused him to bleed the way he did. He couldn't connect it with any illness he knew." He looked at Monk earnestly. "But of course we know so little, really. A lot of the time we are only making our best guess. We can't say that." He shrugged and gave a nervous laugh. His pale, blue-gray eyes were very direct. "I think, to be honest, his greatest concern was because he couldn't help, and Samuel was so desperate to stay alive because of his children. And as it turned out, Mrs. Jackson did lose them. She couldn't care for them, poor woman. She was left with almost nothing. She was obliged to make her own way, and she couldn't do that with two small children... especially not ones that weren't... normal." He looked as if he hated saying it. There was a tightness in him, and his hands moved uneasily.

"She did very well for herself," Hester assured him acidly. "Could Samuel Jackson have died of any sort of poison?"

Loomis regarded her curiously. "Not that I know of. What makes you ask that? Look... Mrs. Selkirk mentioned a crime. I think she actually said murder. Perhaps you had better explain to me what you are seeking, and why." He waved to them to sit down, and then sat on the chair opposite, upright, leaning forward, listening.

Monk outlined to him all that he knew about Samuel Jackson, but he began with a brief history of the case of Keelin Melville and her death from belladonna poisoning. It took them nearly three quarters of an hour, and neither Hester nor Loomis interrupted him until he had finished.

"What you are saying"-he looked at Monk grimly-"is that you think Dolly Jackson-Delphine Lambert, as she is known now-murdered Samuel in order to escape her situation because he insisted on keeping the children, and she couldn't bear to have them. She wanted perfection and wouldn't settle for anything less."

"Yes," Monk agreed. "That is what I'm saying. Is it true?"

"I don't know," Loomis admitted. "But I'm prepared to do everything in my power to find out." He stood up. "We can begin with my father's records. He never destroyed them. They are all in the cellar. Do you know exactly when he died?"

"Yes!" Hester said straightaway. "September twenty-seventh, 1839. It's on his gravestone."

"Excellent! Then it will be a simple matter." Loomis led the way out into the hall, calling his intentions to Mrs. Selkirk and instructing her that he was not to be interrupted for anything less than an emergency. "I'm glad you came today," he went on, going to the cellar door and opening it. "We'll need a light. There's no gas down here. I have very few patients today, and my wife has taken the children for a day or two to see her father. He is not very well and does not travel, but he is very fond of my daughters." He smiled as he said it, and his own affection was clear in his eyes. Perhaps that was some of his feeling for Samuel Jackson.

He found a lantern and lit it, then led the way down the narrow stone steps to the cellar where rows of boxes filled with papers lay neatly stacked.

It took them only ten minutes to find the right box for the month of September in the year 1839, most of the work moving the boxes above it.

"Here it is!" Loomis exclaimed, lifting out a handful of papers. "Samuel Jackson..." He held it closer to the light, and Hester and Monk both peered over his shoulder while he read the generous, sprawling hand.

"You are right-he didn't know," Hester said the moment she came to the end. She stared at Loomis. "He wasn't satisfied. He just couldn't prove there was anything wrong. Can we get an order for an exhumation?"

Loomis chewed his lip. "Difficult..."

"But possible?" she insisted.

"I don't know."

"Where do we begin?" Monk asked urgently. "We can't just let this go!"

"With the police," Loomis answered, meeting his eyes. "We'll go up to the station and speak to Sergeant Byrne. He'll remember Sam Jackson-and Dolly. I won't let this go, I promise you. But it'll be very hard..."

Hester straightened up. "We'll find Sergeant Byrne, then we'll find the judge."

Monk looked dubious. "The question is, if it was poison, will it still be there to find, even if we can dig him up?"

"Depends what it is," Loomis answered, putting away the rest of the papers and closing the box. He handed all the papers on Samuel Jackson to Hester. "Depends on the quality of his coffin, if it's all dry inside, and what's in the surrounding earth. I don't know what chance we have of proving anything this long after. Arsenic remains, I know that. But this doesn't sound like arsenic. I think my father would have seen that. This was bleeding... more like an internal ulcer burst, or an artery, or something of that sort. I don't know why he wasn't satisfied, but from his accounts here, he wasn't."

"Probably because Samuel had no history of earlier illness," Hester suggested. "There's no mention of pain before, or difficulty with eating, no nausea or earlier signs of blood."

Loomis looked at her quickly.

"I am a nurse," she explained. Then, as if she recalled the general reputation of nurses as women who scrubbed floors and emptied slops, she added, "In the Crimea. F ve done a good deal of field surgery." She said it with pride. It was not boasting but a statement of fact.

Loomis nodded slowly, his face full of admiration.

"Then we had better take these papers and see if we can get Sergeant Byrne on our side, and then persuade a judge that we have reasonable cause to suspect a murder. I warn you, it may be a long and fruitless task, but I am ready, if you are."

"We are!" Monk said without hesitation, including Hester automatically and without even bothering to glance at her.

Sergeant Byrne at the local station was quite easily persuaded. He was a middle-aged man who had known and liked Samuel Jackson, and Jackson's death had shocked him. He took little convincing that there was cause for further investigation. He was more than willing to leave his tedious paperwork and go immediately with Hester, Monk and Dr. Loomis to call upon Judge Tomkinson across the river in Parsons Green.

The judge occupied a large house with an excellent view over a sweep of lawn towards the water, and he did not appreciate being taken from the dinner table.

Loomis had been right in that it was difficult and frustrating to a point close to loss of both temper and hope to persuade Judge Tomkinson to order an exhumation of the body of Samuel Jackson, decently buried, without question, twenty-one years before. He argued with every point they raised, shaking his head and tapping his fingers on the top of his cherrywood desk.

They tried every line of reasoning they could think of, relevant and irrelevant, based on logic or emotion, anger, pity or the desire for justice. The judge dismissed them all, for one cause or another. Even Sergeant Byrne's presence moved him not at all.

Finally, at quarter to seven in the evening, it was Monk's impassioned anger at the death of Keelin Melville which won him over.

"Melville?" the judge said slowly, letting out his breath in a sigh. "The Melville who built that marvelous hall for Barton Lambert? That place full of light?"

"Yes!"

Hester held her breath.

Loomis looked nonplussed.

The judge frowned at Monk. "Are you saying you believe this woman murdered Melville to stop the case, and thus you from pursuing her past, and probably finding these wretched children of hers?" he asked with rising emotion.

"Yes... my lord."

"Then-then perhaps we had better find the truth of the matter," the judge said with a sigh. "Not that I imagine it will do any good now. About the only justice you will get will be to spread the news around that she was once Dolly Jackson of Putney and that Leda and Phemie are her natural children." There was a hard edge to his voice. "For whatever satisfaction that may bring you."

"Very little," Monk replied. "It sounds like vengeance, and would hurt her present husband and daughter for very little reason."

"Then you'd better make the best of your exhumation," the judge replied with a tight shrug. "Although if you find poison, that won't help his present family very much."

Loomis took the paper as the judge signed it.

Monk pushed his hands into his pockets. "Thank you."

"It may not help anybody now," Hester acknowledged. "But if he was murdered, we can't look away because it will hurt. It always hurts." The judge did not reply.

The rest of the evening was spent in frantic organization. They had barely half an hour to eat a hasty supper, then Loomis went to the local police station to inform them of their intentions and show them the judge's order.

When he had gone, Monk searched his pockets, then turned to Hester.

"How much money have you?"

She looked in her reticule. "About two shillings and four-pence," she answered. "Why?"

"We've got to pay the grave diggers," he answered grimly. "It's hard work, and we haven't got the time to haggle. I've only got half a crown and a few pence. We'll need more than that. There'll be the local sexton as well." He looked anxious, his eyes bleak, mouth tight.

She understood his reluctance to ask Loomis. He had given a great deal already. But who else was there? Callandra was still on holiday.

They stared at each other.

"Gabriel?" she suggested "He'd lend it-even give it. How much do we need?"

"Another thirty shillings at least! Maybe two pounds."

"I'll ask him." She started to move even as she spoke.

"He's miles away," he protested.

"Then the sooner I start, the better chance of being back in time." She smiled with a little twist. "At least we know he'll be at home."

"You stay here," he ordered. "I'll go!"

"Don't be stupid!" She dismissed the idea with unaccustomed brusqueness, even for her. "I know him, you don't. You can't turn up on the doorstep and ask for two pounds."

"And you can't go..." he stalled.

"Yes, I can! Come with me as far as getting a hansom, and I'll be perfectly all right. Hurry up and don't waste time arguing."

For once he conceded, and putting on coats they walked swiftly together along the footpath to the main road, and within ten minutes he had hailed a cab and she was on her way back east again towards London and the Sheldon house.

She sat upright in the back of the cab, her back stiff, her hands clenched in her lap. She felt as if they stopped at every cross street while traffic passed. The horse seemed to amble rather than trot. She was frantic with urgency, muttering under her breath, fingernails digging into her palms.

When at last she got there she ordered the cabby to wait, paid him nothing, in spite of his protests, just so she would be certain he would not leave. She ran across the footpath and up the steps, leaning on the doorbell in a most uncivil fashion.

As soon as Martha answered she greeted her with barely a word, then went across the hall and up the stairs. She knocked on Gabriel's door and, without waiting for an answer, opened it.

"Hello?" he said with surprise. Then, reading her face, "What is it?"

"I need some money to pay grave diggers for an exhumation." She wasted no words on niceties. "Please? I don't know who else to ask. It's terribly important!"

His eyes were level and curious, but without hesitation.

"Of course. Tell me about it afterwards. How much do you need?"

"Three pounds." Better to be safe.

"There's four guineas on the dresser." He pointed to the chest near the wall. "Take it Just promise me you'U tell me about it afterwards."

"I will! I swear." She flashed him a heartfelt smile. "Thank you." And without waiting any further, she ran out of the room again and down the stairs.

The cabby was standing by the horse, grumbling and staring at the house door.

"Back to Putney," she ordered him, scrambling in again. "As quick as you can! Please hurry!"

In accordance with custom and law, the exhumation was to begin at midnight. Five minutes to twelve found them at the graveyard gates with an ashen-faced sexton, Dr. Loomis, three local police from the station along High Street, including, of course, Sergeant Byrne, three grave diggers, Monk, and after much indignant protest, Hester as well.

It was a chilly night with a damp wind blowing up from the river and the distant sound of foghorns like lost souls out of the rising mist over the water.

The sexton unlocked the gates, and their lanterns swayed as they made their way through and up the path. A constable, blessing his luck, was left on guard in case any curious person should be drawn to investigate what was happening. The grave diggers carried their spades over their shoulders, their feet making soft thuds on the earth path. As if in silent commiseration they walked in unison, unhappy shadows denser against the shifting darkness of the sky.

The sexton stopped at Samuel Jackson's grave.

"Right," he said, grunting. "Yer'd best be gettin' started, then. Nowt ter wait fer."

Obediently the grave diggers set to work.

Monk stood close to Hester, Loomis on the other side, shivering, arms folded across his chest, Byrne beside him. There was no sound but the faint whispering of the wind around the stones and the noise of the spades and the fall of earth.

It seemed to go on forever.

Hester moved a little closer to Monk, and he slipped his arm around her. She must be cold. The lantern light reflected on her face, eyes wide and dark, mouth closed, lips pressed together.

The noise of foghorns drifted up on the wind from the river again.

One of the lanterns guttered out. It must have been short of oil.

At last the spades struck the wood of the coffin lid.

A grave digger standing on the side taking a moment's rest crossed himself.

They put the ropes underneath and began to pull the coffin up, grunting with the strain, and after a short awkwardness, laid it on the earth beside the gaping hole.

It was Loomis's turn to act. He moved forward, rubbing his hands together to try to get the circulation going again.

The sexton opened the lid for him and stepped back.

One of the constables came forward, holding up a lantern but looking away.

Monk could feel his heart beating almost in his throat.

The silence prickled.

Byrne shifted his feet.

Loomis looked in. His skin was garish in the yellow light of the lantern, impossible to read. He moved aside what was left of the clothes. They could not see what he was doing, only the tensing of his shoulders and the expression on his face.

No one spoke.

Monk held Hester even closer, hardly aware that he was almost crushing her.

Minutes passed.

It was bitterly cold.

Loomis looked up at last.

"I'm afraid there isn't enough left to tell anything," he said quietly, his voice hoarse, almost breaking with disappointment. "I can take samples, but I doubt it will prove anything. Too many years... it's just... gone!"

Hester loosed herself from Monk's grasp and went forward to the coffin. She leaned over and looked in. Byrne lowered the lamp for her. Very slowly she put her hands down and moved the strands of clothes aside herself, going deeper than Loomis had.

Monk waited. He could feel his teeth chattering.

The wail of the foghorn came up from the river again.

One of the constables whispered the Lord's name to himself.

Hester lifted her hand high under the lantern, looking at something in it, showing it to Loomis.

"Glass!" she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. "Ground glass. It's still here. Under where the stomach used to be. She fed him ground glass. That's why he bled to death!"

Monk felt the sweat break out on his skin, and found he was shaking.

"Got her!" Loomis said softly and with infinite satisfaction. "Sexton, put a guard on this, exactly as it is. On pain of complicity in murder, don't move that body! Do you understand me?"

Very gently, Hester replaced the glass where she had found it.

The sexton nodded. The police moved closer, lanterns wavering, held high.

Loomis rubbed his hands down the sides of his trousers. Perhaps he too was sweating.

Hester turned around and came back to Monk. Loomis and the others were gradually moving away. There was only one lantern left for them to follow.

"We did it," she said softly. She held her hands down, away from him. He had to reach for them to hold them in his. She was so cold they were like ice.

"Yes, we did," he whispered back. "Thank you."

She turned to pull away, but he held on to her. This was not the time, after all they had seen of prejudices and facile judgments, and it was most certainly not the place, but the words came to his lips and would not be stopped.

"Hester?"

"What?" She was shuddering with cold and shock.

He wanted to hold her closer but he knew she would refuse.

"Hester, will you marry me?"

She was silent for so long he thought she was not going to answer, possibly even that she had not heard him. He was about to repeat it when she spoke.

"Why?" she asked, looking at him, although she could hardly have seen his face in the light of the single lantern sitting on the gravestone to their side.

"Because I love you, of course!" he said sharply, feeling vulnerable and suddenly terrified she would refuse. A pit of loneliness loomed up in front of his imagination worse than the yawning grave beside them. "And I don't want ever to be without you," he added.

"I think that's a good reason," she said very softly. "Yes, I will." And she did not resist in the slightest when he drew her closer to him and kissed her again, and again, and again.