William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

house where they were born and had lived until their father died. It was in Coopers Arms Lane, off Putney High Street, south of the river. It was quite a long journey, and rather than waste time in traveling back and forth he had packed a light bag and taken with him sufficient funds to stay overnight at an inn should there prove to be anything worth pursuing. He did not wish to spend any more time than necessary on this case, and to be honest, he wished it over with as soon as possible, consistent with keeping his word.
    It was a very pleasant day, warm and bright, and if undertaken for any other reason, he would have enjoyed the journey. He arrived in Putney a little before half past ten and found Coopers Arms Lane without having to ask anyone for directions. The tavern after which it had taken its name looked a promising place for luncheon—and for picking up any relevant gossip.
    First he would try the house itself, simply to exclude it from his investigations. After twenty-one years no one would remember anything. Probably they would not have after twenty-one weeks.
    He found the right house, a modest residence of the sort usually occupied by two or three families behind its shabby, well-cared-for walls. The step was scrubbed and whitened, the pathway swept. The curtains at the front windows were clean, and even from the outside he could see where they had been carefully mended. It all spoke of ordinary, decent lives lived on the razor’s edge between poverty and respectability, always aware that the future could change, illness strike with its unpayable bills, or employment vanish.
    Had it been the same in Samuel Jackson’s day? All the houses up and down the street looked like this one. He felt a wound of sadness as he thought how tragedy had struck, without warning and without mercy. He found he was cold, even in the sunlight, as he put out his hand to lift the knocker.
    The woman who answered was not pretty in any conventional sense, but clear eyes and a gentle nature made her appealing. She spoke with a soft Irish accent.
    “Yes sir? Can I help you?”
    “Good morning, ma’am,” he answered with more courtesy than he would have used in his days as a policeman. He had no power to demand anymore. “I am making enquiries on behalf of a friend whose brother used to live in this house twenty-one years ago. I realize it is unlikely anyone will know what became of him now. It is really his children I am concerned with. She lost touch….” He saw the look of concern and disbelief in the woman’s face. Twenty years was too long to account for renewed interest now without an explanation. He made himself smile again. “Her own circumstances were difficult. She had not the financial means to employ anyone to seek after them, nor the time or knowledge to do it herself.”
    “And she has now?” the woman said, skepticism still evident in her voice.
    “No,” Monk admitted. “I am doing it as a favor. She is inservice in a house where a friend of mine is nursing an injured soldier.”
    “Oh.” The answer seemed to satisfy. “Twenty-one years ago, did you say?”
    “Yes. Were you in this house then?” The moment he had said it he realized it was a foolish question. She could not be much more than twenty-five herself.
    She smiled and shook her head. “No sir, that I wasn’t. Sure I was still at home in Ireland then, but my pa was. He worked here, and he lodged over the road with Mrs. O’Hare. He’d maybe know who was here then. Missed us all, he did, and were terrible fond o’ the little ones. If you’d like to come away in, I’ll ask him for you.”
    “Thank you Mrs….”
    “Mrs. Heggerty, Maureen Heggerty. Come away in, then, sir.” And she backed into the passageway, pulling the door wide for him to follow. “Pa!” she called, lifting her voice. “Pa! There’s a gentleman here as would like to see you.”
    “William Monk,” he introduced himself. She turned her back to him and was awaiting her father’s answer to her summons, so it seemed inopportune to offer her a card.
    “Welcome, Mr. Monk. Pa! Are you fallen asleep again now? It’s only half past ten in the morning.”
    A man of about sixty came lumbering from the back of the house, pushing a large hand through thick silver-white hair. He was dressed in shapeless trousers and a collarless shirt with its sleeves rolled up. He denied it indignantly, but obviously to Monk, he had indeed been asleep. He looked like a bear woken