William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

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 roomwith 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 wentpast 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