William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

been a rotten night.”
    “I’ll have my coachman take you,” he answered.
     
    Monk flung the front door open almost before the carriage had stopped. When Hester alighted he strode out into the street, disregarding the rain.
    “Where have you been?” he demanded. “You’re soaked and you look terrible. You were supposed to…” Then he saw the expression on her face and stopped. “What is it?”
    Hester thanked the coachman and went inside. She was shivering again, so she sat down in the chair nearest the fire and huddled into herself. Now that she was no longer faced with Morgan Applegate’s grief or Rose’s urgent need, a profound sense of defeat settled over her. She wondered how she could ever have been so stupid as to think they could beat such vested interests. Her hubris had created her own downfall, and in her unthinking ignorance she had taken Rose with her.
    “What happened?” Monk said again.
    She described it as accurately as she could remember, although she left out a good deal of what Rose had said and summarized the rest. “Argyll must have put alcohol in her lemonade,” she finished. “I don’t know how—I didn’t see anything more than his hand over it for a moment. After tonight’s performance she’ll have to disappear, and neither she nor her husband will be able to give evidence of anything. And we won’t force anything out of Jenny Argyll, either. I won’t have any way of getting back into society without Rose. In fact…” The heat rose in her face. “In fact, I may be remembered rather unkindly for my part in this. I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry.”
    He was startled. “You’re…why are you apologizing? What else is there that you haven’t told me, Hester?”
    She stared at him. “Nothing! But they knew who I was, that I’m your wife. Aren’t policemen’s wives supposed to behave rather better than that?”
    He gazed at her, wide-eyed, then he started to laugh. It was a deep, full-throated howl of incredulous hilarity.
    “It’s not that funny!” she said indignantly.
    But he laughed even more, and there was nothing she could do but lose her temper or join him. She chose the latter. They stood together in front of the fire, the tears running down their cheeks.
    “I think you had better forget politics,” he said at last. “You aren’t any good at it.”
    “I’m not usually as bad as this!” she defended herself, but without conviction. There was still defeat in her eyes.
    “Yes, you are,” he replied, suddenly gentle again. “I think you should go back to nursing. At that you are superb.”
    “No one will have me,” she told him ruefully.
    “Yes, they will. In Portpool Lane, every one of them loves you—even Squeaky Robinson, in his own way.”
    There was disbelief in her face, hesitation, then hope. “But you said—”
    “I know. I was wrong.” He did not add anything because she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him, kissing him long and hard.

TEN
    I n spite of her personal joy, Hester woke in the morning with the utmost remorse over Rose. She packed up Rose’s borrowed clothes and returned them. Her army experiences had taught her something of the suffering incurred after overindulgence in alcohol, and she knew how to minister to those afflicted. She spent several hours doing what she could for Rose, to both her and her husband’s intense gratitude, then she wished them every possible happiness and took her leave.
    She arrived at the Argyll house shortly after noon.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Monk,” Jenny said with some uncertainty when Hester was shown into the withdrawing room.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Argyll,” Hester replied with a slight smile. “I thought that after last night’s disaster you would naturally be concerned for Mrs. Applegate. I know that you and she were friends.” A fraction of a second later she realized she had already put it in the past. “And I owe you something of an apology. Had I been aware of her susceptibility, I might have been able to prevent it. There are some people to whom even a drop of alcohol is a kind of poison.”
    Jenny cleared her throat. She was obviously profoundly uncomfortable. She was still wearing black, of course, but relieved at the neck and wrists with lavender. She was not handsome, as Monk had said Mary was, but the possibilities of life, passion, and laughter were still there in her face, masked by discretion.
    “I suppose it must be.” She sounded acutely uncertain,