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“Good morning, sir,” Monk said respectfully. “Mrs. Heggerty tells me you lived in this street twenty-one years ago—in the house opposite this one?”
“Two doors along,” he corrected. “On t’other side.” His brow creased. “Why would that be interestin’ to you?”
“I believe a Mr. Samuel Jackson lived here then,” Monk explained. Mrs. Heggerty stood between them, the light on her fair hair, her hands tucked under her apron. “He had two children,” Monk went on. “I am making enquiries on behalf of Mr. Jackson’s sister, who is at last in a position to attempt to trace those children. Since she is their only living relative, as far as she knows, she has a care that if there is any chance whatever of finding them, she may be able to offer them some … some affection, if that is possible.” He knew it sounded foolish even as he said it, and wished he had thought of something better.
“For sure, poor little things,” the older man said with a shake of his head. “A bit late now, mind you.” The criticism was only mild. He was a man who had seen much tragedy of a quiet domestic kind, and it was written in his weathered face and his bright, narrowed eyes as he regarded Monk.
“You knew them?” Monk said quickly.
“I saw them,” the man corrected. “Knew them’d not be the right word. They were only tiny things.”
“Would you not like a cup o’ tea, Mr. Monk?” Mrs. Heggerty interrupted. “And you, Pa?”
“For sure I would.” Her father nodded. “Come away to the kitchen.” He beckoned to Monk. “We’ll not be standing here for the neighbors to stare at. Close the door, girl!” He held out his hand. “Me name’s Michael Connor.”
“How do you do, sir,” Monk responded, allowing Mrs. Heggerty to move behind him and close the door as instructed.
The kitchen was a small, cluttered room with a stone sink under the window, two pails of water beside it, presumably drawn from the nearest well, perhaps a dozen doors along the street, or possibly from a standpipe. A large stove was freshly blacked, and on it were five pots, two of them big enough to hold laundry, more of which hung from the rail winched up to the ceiling on a rope fastened around a cleat at the farther wall. A dresser carried enough crockery to serve a dozen people at a sitting, and in the bins below were no doubt flour, dried beans and lentils, barley, oatmeal and other household necessities. Strings of onions and shallots hung from the ceiling on the other side of the room. Two smoothing irons rested on trivets near the stove, and large earthenware pots were labeled for potash, lye, bran and vinegar.
Mrs. Heggerty pointed to one of the upright wooden chairs near the table and then moved to the stove to replace the kettle on the hob and fetch the tea caddy.
“What happened to the children, Mr. Connor?” Monk asked.
“After poor Sam died, you mean?” Connor resumed his seat in the largest and most comfortable chair. “That was all very sudden, poor devil. Right as rain one minute, dead the next. At least that’s what it looked like, although you can never tell. A man doesn’t talk about every pain he gets. Could’ve been suffering for years, I suppose.” He looked thoughtfully into the middle distance, and on the stove the kettle began to sing.
Mrs. Heggerty scalded the teapot, then put the tea in it—sparingly, they had not means to waste—and added water to the brim, leaving it to steep.
“Yes, after he died. What happened?” Monk prompted.
“Well, Mrs. Jackson was left all on her own,” Connor answered. “Seems she had no one else, poor little thing. Pretty creature, she was. Charming as the sunshine. Never believed those poor misshapen little things were hers. But o’course they were, sure enough. Looked like her, in her own way.” He shook his head, his face sunk in sorrow and amazement. Absentmindedly he made the sign of the cross, and in a continuation of the movement accepted a cup of tea from his daughter.
Monk had already been given his. It did not look very strong, but it was fresh and piping hot. He thanked her for it and looked again at Connor.
“What happened to them?”
“Bleedin’ from the stomach, it was.” Connor sighed. “It happens. Seen it before. Good man, he was, always a pleasant word. Jackson loved those two little girls more, maybe, than if they’d been perfect.” Again he shook his head, his eyes welling over with sadness.
Behind him, Mrs. Heggerty’s face was pinched with sorrow too, and she dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron.
“But always anxious,” Connor went on. “I suppose he knew what kind of life lay ahead for them and he was trying to think what to do for the best. Anyway, it never came to that, poor soul. Dead, he was, and them no more’n three and a year old, or thereabouts.”
Mrs. Heggerty sniffed.
“What did their mother do?” Monk asked.
“She couldn’t care for ’em, now could she, poor creature?” Connor shook his head. “No husband, no money anymore. Had to place ’em and go and earn her own way. Don’t know what she did.” He cradled his mug in his hands and sipped at it slowly. “Clever enough, and certainly pretty enough for anything, but there aren’t a lot for a respectable widow to do. No people of her own, an’ none of his to be seen.” He stopped, staring unhappily at Monk. “You’ll not find them little mites now, you know?”
Mrs. Heggerty was listening to them, her work forgotten, her face full of pity.
“Yes, I do know,” Monk agreed. “But I said I would try.” He sipped his tea as well. It had more flavor than he had expected.
“Well, you could try Buxton House, down the far end of the High Street,” Mrs. Heggerty suggested. “She must have been at her wit’s end, poor woman. I can’t think of anything worse to happen to a soul than to have to give up your children, and them not right, so you’d never even be able to comfort yourself they’d be cared for by some other person as you would have done.” She stood stiffly, her arms folded across her bosom as if holding some essence of her own children closer, and Monk remembered the rows of small clothes on the airing rack and the doll propped up on the stairs. Presumably the children were at lessons at this hour of the morning.
He rose to his feet. “Thank you, I will.” The tea was half finished. Leaving it required some explanation. “I know it’s futile. I want to get it over with as soon as possible. Thank you, Mrs. Heggerty, Mr. Connor.”
“Sure you’re welcome, sir,” she said, moving to take him back to the door.
A couple of enquiries took him to Buxton House, a large, gaunt building which in earlier days had been a family home but now boasted nothing whatever beyond the strictly functional. A thin, angular-boned woman with her hair screwed back off her face was scrubbing the step, her arms sweeping back and forth rhythmically, her dreams elsewhere.
