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She would not mention the small room in which they had been trapped, or anything that had happened between them there. That would be so indelicate as to be inexcusable. She knew it had been occasioned by what had seemed the knowledge of certain death, and not an emotion which could be carried into their succeeding lives. To refer to it would be both clumsy and painful.
But women were peculiar where emotions were concerned, especially emotions that had anything to do with love. They were unpredictable and illogical.
How did he know that? Was that some submerged memory, or simply assumption?
Not that Hester was very feminine. He would find her more appealing if she were. She had no art to charm, or the kind of subtle flattery that is only a selection and amplification of the truth. She was much too direct … almost to the point of challenge. She had no idea when to keep her own counsel and defer to others. Intellectual women were remarkably unattractive. It was not a pleasing quality to be right all the time, most particularly in matters of logic, judgment and military history. She was at once very clever and remarkably stupid.
“Is something wrong?” Her voice interrupted his thoughts. She looked from Callandra to Monk and back again.
“Does something have to be wrong for me to come here?” he said defensively, rising to his feet.
“Here?” Her eyebrows rose. “Yes.”
“Then you’ve answered your own question, haven’t you,” he said tartly. She was quite right. No one would come to a pesthouse in the East End without a desperate reason. Apart from the physical unpleasantness of the smell, the cold, the drab, damp surroundings and the sounds of pain, it was the best way in the world to contract the disease yourself. He looked at her face. She must be exhausted. She was so pale her skin was almost gray, her hair was filthy and her clothes too thin for the barely heated room. She would not have the strength to resist illness.
She bit her lip in irritation. It always annoyed her to be verbally outmaneuvered.
“You’ve come for Callandra’s help.” Her tone was waspish. “Or mine?”
He knew that was meant sarcastically. He was also aware how often she had helped him; sometimes, as in the first occasion they had met, when he was truly desperate and his life hung in the balance. He had never been able to forget how it was her courage and her belief in him which had given him the strength to fight.
Several answers flashed through his head, most of them offensive. In the end, largely for Callandra’s sake, he settled for the truth, or close to it.
“I have a case which seems to fade out two streets away,” he said, looking at her coldly. “But since the man I am trying to trace was the brother of a well-known local character, and presumably on his way to see him, I thought you might be of assistance.”
Whatever other thoughts were in her mind—and she looked both irritable and unhappy beneath the weariness—she chose to acknowledge the interest.
“Who is the local character? We haven’t had much time for conversation, but we could ask.” She sat down on the chair he had vacated, not bothering to rearrange her skirts.
“Caleb Stone, or Stonefield. I don’t suppose—” He stopped. He had been about to say that she would know nothing of him, but the changed expression in her face made it perfectly obvious that she did know, and that it was ill. “What?” he demanded.
“Only that he is violent,” she replied. “Callandra will already have told you that. We were discussing it last night. Who are you looking for?”
“Angus Stonefield, who is his brother.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s disappeared,” he said tartly. It was absurd to allow her to make him feel so uncomfortable, almost guilty, as if he were denying part of himself. And it was not so. He liked and admired many of her qualities, but there were others which he deplored and which were a constant source of annoyance to him. And he had always been perfectly frank about it, as indeed so had she. There were certain debts of honor between them, on both sides, but that was all. And for heaven’s sake, that was all she wished also. But perhaps part of that obligation was to tell her of the dangers she faced spending her time in a pesthouse like this.
“Is he wanted for something?” she said, interrupting his thoughts.
His temper broke. “Of course he’s wanted,” he said. “His wife wants him, his children, his employees want him. That’s an idiotic question!”
The color washed up her pale cheeks as she sat hunched a little with cold, her shoulders rigid.
“I had meant was he required by the law,” she said icily. “I had temporarily forgotten that you also chase after errant husbands for their wives’ sakes.”
“He is not errant,” he responded with equal venom. “The poor devil is almost certainly dead. And I would do that for anybody … his wife is out of her mind with grief and worry. She has every bit as much right to be pitied as any of your unfortunates here.” He jabbed angrily with his finger towards the great hall filled with its straw and blankets, although even as he said it, pity of a far harsher sort twisted inside him for its occupants. Not many of them would live through it, and he knew that. He was angry with Hester, not with them.
“If her husband is dead, William, there is nothing you can do to help her except find proof of it,” Callandra interposed calmly. “Even if Caleb killed him, you may never find evidence of that. What will the police require to accept death? Do they have to see a corpse?”
“Not if we can find witnesses adequate to assume death,” he replied. “They know perfectly well that the tide may carry bodies out and they are never seen again.” He faced Callandra, ignoring Hester. The dim lights, the smells of tallow, gin, vinegar and damp stone permeating through everything, were sickening. And through it all the consciousness of illness was making him even more tense. He was not afraid in his brain. He would despise that in himself. Callandra and Hester were here day and night. But his body knew it, and all his instinct told him to go, quickly, before it could reach out and touch him. Hester’s courage awoke emotions in him he did not want. They were painful, contradictory and frightening. And he loathed her for making him vulnerable.
“If we learn anything, we shall let you know,” Callandra pro
mised, rising to her feet with something of an effort. “I am afraid Caleb Stone’s reputation makes your theories more than possible. I’m sorry.”
Monk had not said all he intended. He would like to have spent longer in her company, but this was not the time. He thanked her a little stiffly, nodded to Hester but could think of nothing he wanted to say. He took his leave, feeling as if he had left something undone that would matter to him later. He had found none of the easing of his mind that he had hoped.
