William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

boiling inside her was only too apparent in her eyes.
    Hester, on the other hand, stood as if frozen.
    Monk could barely believe he had said what he had. His first instinct, almost taking his breath away, was to deny it, somehow qualify it all so it did not apply to him. The desire to escape was so urgent it was like a physical compulsion.
    He saw Hester’s back and shoulders, the dress still pulled tight, her neck muscles stiff. As clearly as if he could see her eyes, he knew she was waiting for him to deny his words, to withdraw or disclaim.
    If he did, would it be because they were untrue or because he was an emotional coward?
    She would not know the answer to that, but he did. What he had revealed was not untrue.
    “If you offer Miss Latterly an apology, I am sure she will accept it,” he said more stiffly than he intended.
    Hester took a deep breath.
    “Oh …” Perdita sighed. “Oh … yes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m behaving very badly.” Her eyes filled with tears.
    Hester moved forward. “Not nearly as badly as you think. And you are at least partly right. We do love people for their vulnerabilities as well as their strengths. We must have both, even to understand each other, never mind anything more. Just keep trying. Remember how important it is.” Her voice dropped. “Killian Melville is dead. It was probably suicide. Last night.”
    Perdita stared at her in horror, then her eyes flew to Monk’s.
    “Oh … I’m so sorry! Because of the case? Because of what he was, and because it is illegal?”
    “More than that,” he answered her. “Actually, Melville wasn’t a man at all; her name was Keelin, and she was a woman. She dressed as a man and behaved as one in all respects, except towards Isaac Wolff, because it was the only way she would be allowed to practice her profession and use the talents God gave her.” He used the word
God
without thinking about it until he had said it. Then it was too late to take it back, and perhaps it was what he meant.
    Perdita did not move. Her face was filled, and changed withgrowing realization of what he had said, and something of what it meant. Then she shook her head, at first minutely, then a little more, then more again. Then she turned around and went to the door.
    “I’m going back to Gabriel. I’ll tell him. He’ll be terribly sorry. It really is so—so final. It’s too late to get anything back now, to … say anything, mend anything.” And she went out quickly, hand fumbling on the knob to turn it.
    Hester finally turned to look at Monk. Her eyes searched his.
    He tried to think of something to say which would not be evasive, or banal, nor yet commit him to anything he would regret. His mind filled with Keelin Melville, and Zillah Lambert, and the tragic, destructive farce of beauty and the urge to be suitably married, or if that failed, to be married at all costs, anything but remain single.
    “Now you are free to look for Martha’s brother’s children,” Hester said quietly. “But don’t run up a debt she cannot pay. Just do what you are able to.”
    “I wasn’t going to charge her!” he said a little sharply. Why had she thought he would? Did she not know him better than that?
    “And be careful what you tell her,” she added anxiously. “It is almost certain to be very bad.”
    “Are you paying me?” he asked sarcastically.
    “No …”
    “Then stop giving me orders!” he retorted. He jammed his hands into his pockets. This was going to get worse if he remained. He was not saying what he wanted to, what he meant. He was raw inside with the knowledge of failure, of life and opportunity and brilliance and love wasted forever. Perhaps Hester was too, and it frightened her. “I’ll tell you what I find out, if there is anything,” he said aloud. “In a day or two.”
    “Thank you.”
    He went to the door and turned. He half smiled at her, then went out.

9
    M
ONK SET ABOUT
the task of searching for the two children with a feeling of self-disgust for having been stupid enough to accept such a ludicrous case. His chances of learning anything provable were remote, and even if he did it would be something poor Martha Jackson would be infinitely better not knowing. But there was no escape now. It was his own fault for listening to his emotions rather than his intelligence. His fault—and Hester’s.
    There was only one place to begin: the last news Martha herself knew of them, which was the