"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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s.

"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 pa.s.sion 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 a.s.sisted 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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s 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. G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sistance, 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 embarra.s.sed, 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 bra.s.s plate saying "Hector Loomis, M.D." beside the bell pull. She glanced around at Monk, then reached out and yanked the bra.s.s k.n.o.b, a little too hard. They heard it ringing with a clatter inside.

It was answered by an elderly housekeeper with a crisp white ap.r.o.n 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 s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.sured 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."