William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

say? What did they do?”
    “Who was there?” Enid repeated thoughtfully, staring past Hester at the curtains. “Well … I remember John Pickering, because he told that awful story about the bishop, and …” She reminisced with a short smile and a dry, not unkind observation, and gradually Hester knew from her what she needed, committing every relevant fact to memory.
    The next day she found Monk at home, looking weary, irritable and frightened. She might have tried to comfort him, had she had time and not been so afraid he would somehow realize what she meant to do, and stop her.
    “Do you still have the wretched letter that woman wrote to you?” she asked hastily.
    He was standing by the fire, effectively shielding her from the warmth, although that had probably not occurred to him.
    “Why?” he asked. “I’ve read it several times. It doesn’t give any clues at all as to why it is she hates me, or who she really is, beyond the obvious.”
    “Do you have it or not?” Hester said sharply. “Please don’t argue with everything I say. There really isn’t time.”
    “You haven’t said anything else,” he pointed out.
    “And I won’t have time to, if you keep on being so persnickety. Do you have the letter?”
    “Yes!”
    “Then may I see it please?”
    “What for?” He did not move.
    “Get it!” she ordered.
    He hesitated, as if to argue further, then decided it was not worth the emotional effort. He went to the bureau drawer and took out the letter, passing it to her with a look of distaste.
    “Thank you.” She put it into her pocket, then unfolded the piece of paper on which she had written the addresses of eighteen gentlemen who would serve her purpose. “I need the London addresses of as many of these as you can find, unless they are in the country at present,” she instructed, holding it out to him. “Then it will be no use. I want at least twelve, and by tomorrow midday, if you please. It is of the utmost importance. You may leave them at my lodgings, in a sealed envelope. Don’t fail.” She turned to leave. “I am sorry I cannot remain, but I have a great deal to do. Good night.”
    “Hester!” he shouted. “What for? What on earth do you want them for? What are you doing?” He strode to the door after her, but she had her hand on the knob already.
    “I have told you, I have no time to discuss it now,” she replied briskly. “I shall explain it all later. Please do as I have asked you, and as rapidly as possible. Good night.”
    She began as soon as she reached her lodgings, where her landlady was quite surprised to see her, as she had been there so little of late. Hester spoke to her graciously, said how pleasant it was to be home again, and announced that she would spend the evening writing letters. In the unlikely event anyone should call, she was not available to receive them.
    Her landlady looked both alarmed and fascinated, but did not let down her own dignity sufficiently to ask for an explanation. It was beneath a lady, and she wanted to be thought a lady, which prevented her exhibiting anything so vulgar as curiosity.
    As soon as she had eaten, Hester began her task, doing her best to imitate Drusilla’s flowery, erratic hand.
    My dearest love,
    I am still on fire from the joy of our last meeting. Of course I do understand the necessity for secrecy, at least for the time being, but the tenderness of your eyes was enough to thrill me to my very heart …
    This was quite fun to write in such an unbridled strain. She would never in the world write like this if she were putting her own name to it, no matter what she felt. She continued.
    I long for the time when we may be alone together, so that this pretense may no longer be, when you can take me in your arms and we can give ourselves to each other with the passion which I know you feel, as I do, tearing me apart. I ache for you. My dreams are filled with the sight of you and the sound of your voice, the touch of your skin against mine, the taste of your mouth …
    Oh, dear! Had she gone too far?
    But the aim of this was to be as excruciatingly embarrassing as possible. The man who received this must regard Drusilla Wyndham with an abhorrence verging on terror.
    She proceeded.
    I know all the things you dare not say. I do not misunderstand your occasional coldness towards me when we chance to meet in public. I burn inside, my heart melts to be able to tell the world that we are lovers, albeit yet to dare