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Hester shook her head quickly. “No, of course, Mr….”
“Walcott, Harold Walcott, ma’am.”
“Hester Latterly,” she replied. “But I know Martha Jackson, Samuel Jackson’s sister. I know her quite well.”
Mr. Walcott shook his head, the breeze ruffling his thin hair.
“I always liked Sam. Quick, ’e was, but kind, if you know what I mean? Loved them little girls something fierce.”
“They had a terrible time after he died,” Hester said bleakly. “But we’ve just found them and taken them to Martha. They’ll be all right now. They’re in a very good house, with a distinguished soldier from the Indian army. He was badly injured in the Mutiny, scarred in the face, so they’ll not be misused or made little of.”
“I’m right ’appy to ’ear that.” Mr. Walcott beamed at her. “You and yer ’usband are real Christian people. God bless yer both.”
The color was brighter on Hester’s face than could be accounted for by the wind, but she did not argue. “Thank you, Mr. Walcott.”
Monk felt a curious wrench in his chest, but he did not argue either. There were more important issues, and far more urgent ones.
“You are very gracious, Mr. Walcott,” he answered, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “Since you knew Samuel, would you be kind enough to answer a few questions about the way he died? Martha is still troubled by it. It would set her mind at rest … perhaps.”
Walcott’s face darkened and his lips compressed. “Very sudden, it were.” He shook his head. “I suppose there in’t many good ways ter go, but bleedin’s always scared me something awful. Just my weakness, I suppose, but I can’t stand the thought of it. Poor Sam bled terrible.”
“What did the doctor say caused it?” Hester asked quietly. The situation would not be unknown to her. God knew what she had seen in the battlefield, but looking sideways at her face, Monk saw the horror in her eyes too. Experience had not dulled it. It was one of the things about her he cared for most. He had never known her to deny or dull her capacity to feel. She exasperated him, irritated him, was opinionated, but she had more courage than anyone else he had ever known. And she could laugh.
Mr. Walcott was shaking his head again. The wind was sharper and his hands were turning white holding the daffodils.
“I never ’eard. Not sure as ’e knew for certain,” he answered the question.
“Who was he?” Hester asked, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice—and not succeeding.
But if Mr. Walcott noticed he did not take offense.
“That’d ’ave bin Dr. Loomis, for certain.”
“Where might we find him?” Monk asked.
“Oh …” Mr. Walcott considered for a moment. “Well… ’e were gettin’ on a bit then. ’E lived in Charlwood Road, I ’member that. Nice ’ouse, wi’ a big may tree in the front garden. Smell something marvelous in the late spring, it does.”
“Thank you,” Monk said with feeling. “You’ve been of great assistance, Mr. Walcott.” He held out his hand.
Walcott shook it. “A pleasure, Mr. Latterly.”
Monk winced but kept his peace.
“Ma’am.” Mr. Walcott bowed to Hester, and she smiled back at him, biting her lips to stop herself from laughing. All the same there were tears in her eyes, whether they were for Samuel Jackson, for the bereavement which had brought Mr. Walcott here with the flowers in his freezing hands, or due to the wind itself, Monk had no way to know.
He took her arm and turned her to walk back through the gravestones to the street again, and left towards Charlwood Road. They went for some distance in silence. He felt curiously at ease. He ought to have been embarrassed, filled with urgency to rectify Mr. Walcott’s mistake, and yet every time he drew breath to say something, it seemed the wrong time, the words clumsy and not what he really meant to say.
Eventually they had walked all the way along Upper Richmond Road and around the corner right into Charlwood Road and down as far as the unmistakable house with the ancient, spreading may tree leaning over the fence and arching above the path to the front door.
“This must be it,” Hester said, glancing up at him. “What do we say?”
He should have been thinking about that, and he had not, not with any concentrated effort.
“The truth,” he answered, because he must appear as if he had been silent in order to turn over the matter and make a wise judgment. “I don’t think anything else will serve at this point.”
“I agree,” she said immediately.
She must have been thinking about it. She would never be so amenable otherwise. Why was he faintly disappointed?
