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“It’s all gone,” she pointed out, her mouth tight, her eyes sad. “Will they dig her up again, do you suppose?”
He had to be honest. There was not the slightest chance, not on the belief he had now. No one would want to consider it, to raise such a hideous possibility, face the suit for criminal libel if they were wrong.
“No.”
She looked at his empty plate. “Do you want some more soup?”
“No! I want to think of a way to prove what happened to Keelin Melville and find some justice for those two abandoned and unloved children!” He sighed. “And I want some kind of vengeance … some balancing of the scales.”
She sat in silence for a while again, cupping her chin in her hands.
He waited, searching for an answer in his mind, going over the details of the case, all the questions and answers. He was warm, physically comfortable, but exhaustion was creeping over him and he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate.
The door opened and Martha came in carrying a tray with fresh tea on it. Her eyes were bright and calm and there was a glow in her cheeks. She set the tray down on the table, smiling at him. She was almost too full of emotion to find words.
“Mr. Monk … I—I can’t…” She shook her head. “I just don’t know how to say what you’ve done for me. You’re … the best man I know. I never truly thought it was possible … but you found them. I wish I could give you more….” She was clearly embarrassed, feeling nothing she had was sufficient reward for him.
“I don’t need any more payment, Miss Jackson,” he said without even having to think about it. “You already gave me sufficient for all my expenses.” That was not quite true, but close enough.
She hesitated.
“Except the tea,” he added.
She remembered and poured it immediately. It was steaming and fragrant.
“Are they all right?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured, nodding. “Oh, yes … they will be. Everyone’s very good. Finding them clothes and boots and so on. Tillie gave Phemie one of her dresses, and Agnes found one for Leda, and a petticoat with frills on it. Sarah gave them both stockings.” She blinked hastily. “And she was looking for sheets and blankets for them, and deciding which room would be best. Put them in together, in case they get lonely, or frightened in a new place. And then Miss Perdita came down and she was so nice to them.” She said it as if she hardly dared believe it was true. “She said they could stay here all the time.”
Monk smiled back at her. “I know.”
She hesitated only a moment longer, then excused herself and turned back to the kitchen and the excitement again.
Monk sipped his tea gratefully.
“I wonder what would have happened if Samuel Jackson hadn’t died….” Hester said thoughtfully.
“They would have lived ordinary, uncomfortable lives, laughed at by their peers, and possibly found service of some sort,” he answered. “Possibly not. He would have loved them, perhaps taught them to read and write. But he did die, so it makes no difference now. We can’t undo that. They’ll be all right here.” He said it with assurance, thinking of the kindness in the kitchen already, everyone trying to help, willing to give of their own few possessions.
“That’s not what I meant.” Hester was frowning, hardly listening to 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?”
