William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

known and liked Samuel Jackson, and Jackson’s death had shocked him. He took little convincing that there was cause for further investigation. He was more than willing to leave his tedious paperwork and go immediately with Hester, Monk and Dr. Loomis to call upon Judge Tomkinson across the river in Parsons Green.
    The judge occupied a large house with an excellent view over a sweep of lawn towards the water, and he did not appreciate being taken from the dinner table.
    Loomis had been right in that it was difficult and frustrating to a point close to loss of both temper and hope to persuade Judge Tomkinson to order an exhumation of the body of Samuel Jackson, decently buried, without question, twenty-one years before. He argued with every point they raised,shaking his head and tapping his fingers on the top of his cherry wood desk.
    They tried every line of reasoning they could think of, relevant and irrelevant, based on logic or emotion, anger, pity or the desire for justice. The judge dismissed them all, for one cause or another. Even Sergeant Byrne’s presence moved him not at all.
    Finally, at quarter to seven in the evening, it was Monk’s impassioned anger at the death of Keelin Melville which won him over.
    “Melville?” the judge said slowly, letting out his breath in a sigh. “The Melville who built that marvelous hall for Barton Lambert? That place full of light?”
    “Yes!”
    Hester held her breath.
    Loomis looked nonplussed.
    The judge frowned at Monk. “Are you saying you believe this woman murdered Melville to stop the case, and thus you from pursuing her past, and probably finding these wretched children of hers?” he asked with rising emotion.
    “Yes … my lord.”
    “Then—then perhaps we had better find the truth of the matter,” the judge said with a sigh. “Not that I imagine it will do any good now. About the only justice you will get will be to spread the news around that she was once Dolly Jackson of Putney and that Leda and Phemie are her natural children.” There was a hard edge to his voice. “For whatever satisfaction that may bring you.”
    “Very little,” Monk replied. “It sounds like vengeance, and would hurt her present husband and daughter for very little reason.”
    “Then you’d better make the best of your exhumation,” the judge replied with a tight shrug. “Although if you find poison, that won’t help his present family very much.”
    Loomis took the paper as the judge signed it.
    Monk pushed his hands into his pockets. “Thank you.”
    “It may not help anybody now,” Hester acknowledged. “Butif he was murdered, we can’t look away because it will hurt. It always hurts.”
    The judge did not reply.
    The rest of the evening was spent in frantic organization. They had barely half an hour to eat a hasty supper, then Loomis went to the local police station to inform them of their intentions and show them the judge’s order.
    When he had gone, Monk searched his pockets, then turned to Hester.
    “How much money have you?”
    She looked in her reticule. “About two shillings and four-pence,” she answered. “Why?”
    “We’ve got to pay the grave diggers,” he answered grimly. “It’s hard work, and we haven’t got the time to haggle. I’ve only got half a crown and a few pence. We’ll need more than that. There’ll be the local sexton as well.” He looked anxious, his eyes bleak, mouth tight.
    She understood his reluctance to ask Loomis. He had given a great deal already. But who else was there? Callandra was still on holiday.
    They stared at each other.
    “Gabriel?” she suggested. “He’d lend it—even give it. How much do we need?”
    “Another thirty shillings at least! Maybe two pounds.”
    “I’ll ask him.” She started to move even as she spoke.
    “He’s miles away,” he protested.
    “Then the sooner I start, the better chance of being back in time.” She smiled with a little twist. “At least we know he’ll be at home.”
    “You stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll go!”
    “Don’t be stupid!” She dismissed the idea with unaccustomed brusqueness, even for her. “I know him, you don’t. You can’t turn up on the doorstep and ask for two pounds.”
    “And you can’t go…” he started.
    “Yes, I can! Come with me as far as getting a hansom, andI’ll be perfectly all right. Hurry up and don’t waste time arguing.”
    For once he conceded, and putting on coats they walked swiftly together along the