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Except that he had no idea what she was thinking now as she stared straight ahead of her. He could see the open stretch of Eel Brook Common through the window past her head.
How could he take back his clumsiness and say something to undo his words? Everything that came to his mind only made it worse, sounding as if he knew he had made a mistake and was trying to climb out of it. Which, of course, was the truth. She would know that.
Better to try something completely different.
“We’ll have to see if we can find the doctor,” he said aloud.
She looked back at him. “He won’t appreciate our suggesting it was poison. We will be saying he was incompetent, that one of his patients was murdered twenty years ago, and he missed it. Even if it is a different doctor, they defend one another. It is a form of mutual self-defense.”
“I know that. Have you a better idea?”
“No.” She sat silently for a few moments. The sun was shining brightly and the trees and the common were in full leaf at last. They could have been miles from London. They passed several people out walking, women in pale and pretty dresses, splashes of pink and blue and gold, men more somber stems of grays and browns. Two dogs chased each other, barking madly. A child sent a hoop whirling along too fast to catch it. It sped down the incline, bounced over a stone and fell flat when it hit a tussock of grass.
“Hester…”
“Yes?”
He had no idea what he wanted to say. No, that was not entirely true. He had a hundred things to say, he was just not certain he wanted to say them, not yet, perhaps not at all. Change was frightening. If he committed himself he could not go back. What did he really want to say, anyway? That her friendship was the most valuable thing in his life? That was true. But would she see that as a compliment? Or would she only see that he was treating her like a man, avoiding saying anything deeper, anything with passion and vulnerability in it, anything that bared his soul and left him undefended?
“Perhaps we’d better just tell them the truth,” he said instead.
She sat a little straighter in her seat, uncomfortable as the wheels jolted over a roughness in the road. Her back was like a ramrod, her shoulders stiff, pulling her jacket tight across the seams.
“How much of it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s find someone first.”
They were coming into Parsons Green and rode in silence through its streets, which were rapidly getting busier now that it was mid-morning. They crossed over Putney Bridge. The river was dazzling in the sun, full of noisy traffic, water swirling under the piers as the current gathered speed in the increasing tide.
On the far side, in Putney High Street, Monk alighted and paid the driver with a very generous tip, sufficient to get himself a nice luncheon and something for the horse. It had been an extraordinarily long journey. Then he held out his arm and assisted Hester to alight.
As the cab drew away they looked at each other. The awkwardness was gone. They had a common purpose and it was all that mattered. Personal issues were forgotten.
“The churchyard,” Hester said decisively. “That will be the best record of his death. We can go from there.”
He agreed. “Which church?”
“Pardon?” She had not thought of that.
“Which church? We passed St. Mary’s on the way in. There are bound to be others. I re
member a Baptist church on Wester Road, there’s a St. John’s on Putney Hill. That’s three at least.”
She looked at him with slight chill. “Then the sooner we begin, the better. St. Mary’s is the closest. We’ll work along, unless you know anything about Samuel? I don’t suppose you know what his faith was, do you?”
“No,” he admitted with a slight smile. “But I’d wager hers is as orthodox as possible.”
It took them the rest of the morning to ask politely at St. Mary’s, visit the Baptist church on Wester Road, go along Oxford Road a few hundred yards to the Emanuel Church on Upper Richmond Road, and then move along that same considerable distance to the Wesleyan Chapel, just past the police station. At least they were saved the journey up Putney Hill to St. John’s. In the Wesleyan Chapel an elderly gentleman directed them to the chapel graveyard, and there they found a simple marker that said “Samuel Jackson, beloved husband of Dorothy, died September 27th, 1839.” No mention was made of daughters, but that might have been for financial reasons as much as discretion. Carving cost money.
Monk and Hester stood side by side in the sharp sun and cold wind for several minutes. It seemed inappropriate to speak, and unnecessary. Hester reached up her hand and put it very lightly on Monk’s arm, and without looking sideways at her, he knew the emotions that were going through her mind, just as they were through his.
Eventually it was an old man walking through the grass with a bunch of daffodils in his hand who broke the spell.
“Knew ’im, did yer?” he said quietly. “Nice chap ’e were. Hard to die like that, when yer’ve got little ones.”
“No, we didn’t know him,” Monk answered, turning to the man and smiling very slightly. “But we know his sister … and we know the girls.”
“Them two poor little things! Do you?” The old man’s face lit with amazement. “Y’know, I never reckoned as they’d still be alive. Yer didn’t take ’em in, did yer?” He looked at Hester, then blushed. “I’m sorry Mrs….?” He did not know, and left it hanging. “Of course you didn’t! They’d be twenty an’ odd now. I didn’t mean to be impertinent, like.”
