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He tried to think of something to say which would not be evasive, or banal, nor yet commit him to anything he would regret. His mind filled with Keelin Melville, and Zillah Lambert, and the tragic, destructive farce of beauty and the urge to be suitably married, or if that failed, to be married at all costs, anything but remain single.
“Now you are free to look for Martha’s brother’s children,” Hester said quietly. “But don’t run up a debt she cannot pay. Just do what you are able to.”
“I wasn’t going to charge her!” he said a little sharply. Why had she thought he would? Did she not know him better than that?
“And be careful what you tell her,” she added anxiously. “It is almost certain to be very bad.”
“Are you paying me?” he asked sarcastically.
“No …”
“Then stop giving me orders!” he retorted. He jammed his hands into his pockets. This was going to get worse if he remained. He was not saying what he wanted to, what he meant. He was raw inside with the knowledge of failure, of life and opportunity and brilliance and love wasted forever. Perhaps Hester was too, and it frightened her. “I’ll tell you what I find out, if there is anything,” he said aloud. “In a day or two.”
“Thank you.”
He went to the door and turned. He half smiled at her, then went out.
9
MONK SET ABOUT the task of searching for the two children with a feeling of self-disgust for having been stupid enough to accept such a ludicrous case. His chances of learning anything provable were remote, and even if he did it would be something poor Martha Jackson would be infinitely better not knowing. But there was no escape now. It was his own fault for listening to his emotions rather than his intelligence. His fault—and Hester’s.
There was only one place to begin: the last news Martha herself knew of them, which was the house where they were born and had lived until their father died. It was in Coopers Arms Lane, off Putney High Street, south of the river. It was quite a long journey, and rather than waste time in traveling back and forth he had packed a light bag and taken with him sufficient funds to stay overnight at an inn should there prove to be anything worth pursuing. He did not wish to spend any more time than necessary on this case, and to be honest, he wished it over with as soon as possible, consistent with keeping his word.
It was a very pleasant day, warm and bright, and if undertaken for any other reason, he would have enjoyed the journey. He arrived in Putney a little before half past ten and found Coopers Arms Lane without having to ask anyone for directions. The tavern after which it had taken its name looked a promising place for luncheon—and for picking up any relevant gossip.
First he would try the house itself, simply to exclude it from his investigations. After twenty-one years no one would remember anything. Probably they would not have after twenty-one weeks.
He found the right house, a modest residence of the sort usually occupied by two or three families behind its shabby, well-cared-for walls. The step was scrubbed and whitened, the pathway swept. The curtains at the front windows were clean, and even from the outside he could see where they had been carefully mended. It all spoke of ordinary, decent lives lived on the razor’s edge between poverty and respectability, always aware that the future could change, illness strike with its unpayable bills, or employment vanish.
Had it been the same in Samuel Jackson’s day? All the houses up and down the street looked like this one. He felt a wound of sadness as he thought how tragedy had struck, without warning and without mercy. He found he was cold, even in the sunlight, as he put out his hand to lift the knocker.
The woman who answered was not pretty in any conventional sense, but clear eyes and a gentle nature made her appealing. She spoke with a soft Irish accent.
“Yes sir? Can I help you?”
“Good morning, ma’am,” he answered with more courtesy than he would have used in his days as a policeman. He had no power to demand anymore. “I am making enquiries on behalf of a friend whose brother used to live in this house twenty-one years ago. I realize it is unlikely anyone will know what became of him now. It is really his children I am concerned with. She lost touch….” He saw the look of concern and disbelief in the woman’s face. Twenty years was too long to account for renewed interest now without an explanation. He made himself smile again. “Her own circumstances were difficult. She had not the financial means to employ anyone to seek after them, nor the time or knowledge to do it herself.”
“And she has now?” the woman said, skepticism still evident in her voice.
“No,” Monk admitted. “I am doing it as a favor. She is in service in a house where a friend of mine is nursing an injured soldier.”
“Oh.” The answer seemed to satisfy. “Twenty-one years ago, did you say?”
“Yes. Were you in this house then?” The moment he had said it he realized it was a foolish question. She could not be much more than twenty-five herself.
She smiled and shook her head. “No sir, that I wasn’t. Sure I was still at home in Ireland then, but my pa was. He worked here, and he lodged over the road with Mrs. O’Hare. He’d maybe know who was here then. Missed us all, he did, and were terrible fond o’ the little ones. If you’d like to come away in, I’ll ask him for you.”
“Thank you Mrs….”
“Mrs. Heggerty, Maureen Heggerty. Come away in, then, sir.” And she backed into the passageway, pulling the door wide for him to follow. “Pa!” she called, lifting her voice. “Pa! There’s a gentleman here as would like to see you.”
“William Monk,” he introduced himself. She turned her back to him and was awaiting her father’s answer to her summons, so it seemed inopportune to offer her a card.
“Welcome, Mr. Monk. Pa! Are you fallen asleep again now? It’s only half past ten in the morning.”
A man of about sixty came lumbering from the back of the house, pushing a large hand through thick silver-white hair. He was dressed in shapeless trousers and a collarless shirt with its sleeves rolled up. He denied it indignantly, but obviously to Monk, he had indeed been asleep. He looked like a bear woken from winter hibernation. He blinked past his daughter at Monk standing in the passage, silhouetted against the light from the still-open front door and the sunlit street beyond.
“Sure and what is it I can be doin’ for yer, sir?” he said pleasantly enough. He narrowed his eyes to focus on Monk’s face and try to read something beyond his beautifully cut jacket and shining boots.
