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She did not know whether to go to him, touch him; if it would comfort or only intrude. Instinct told her to take him in her arms, he seemed so young and alone. Her mind told her to let him deal with his grief in private. Instinct won, and she sat on the floor and held him while he wept.
When he had passed through the first shock he stood up and went and washed his face in water from the jug, then boiled the kettle again. Without speaking to her he made more tea.
"Is that your sherry?" he asked.
"Yes. Take what you’d like."
He poured it generously for both of them, and offered her one of the mugs. They did not sit down. There was only one vacant chair, and neither wanted to take it.
"Thank you," he said a little awkwardly. "I know you did it for him, not for me, but I’m still grateful." He stopped, wanting to say something and not knowing how to broach it.
She sipped the tea and waited.
"I’m sorry about Mrs. Anderson," he said abruptly.
"I know," she assured him.
"She took all the medicines for the old and ill, didn’t she." It was not a question.
"Yes. I could prove that if I had to."
"Including my grandfather." That, too, was a statement.
"Yes." She met his eyes without flinching. He looked vulnerable and desperately unhappy. "She did it because she wanted to. She believed it was the right thing to do," she went on.
"There’s still morphine there now," he said softly.
"Is there? I will take it away."
"In the Lord’s name—be careful, Mrs. Monk!" There was real fear for her in his face, no censure.
She smiled. "No need anymore. Will you be all right?"
"Yes—I will. Thank you."
She hesitated only a moment longer, then turned and went. Outside, the last of the sun was on the footpath and the street was busy.
12
ON SUNDAY EVENING Rathbone went to Fitzroy Street to see Monk. He could stand the uncertainty no longer, and he wanted to share his anxiety and feel less alone in his sense of helplessness.
"Resurrectionists!" he said incredulously when Hester told him of their beliefs regarding Treadwell’s supplementary income.
"Not exactly," Monk corrected him. "Actually, the bodies were never buried, just taken straight from the undertaker’s to the hospital." He was sitting in the large chair beside the fire. The September evenings were drawing in. It was not yet cold, but the flames were comforting. Hester sat hunched forward, hugging herself, her face washed out of all color. She had told Monk of John Robb’s death quite simply and without regret, knowing it to be a release from the bonds of a failing body, but he could see very clearly in her manner that she felt the loss profoundly.
"Saves effort," Monk said, looking across at Rathbone. "Why bury them and then have to go to the trouble and considerable risk of digging them up again if you can simply bury bricks in the first place?"
"And Treadwell carried them?" Rathbone wanted to assure himself he had understood. "Are you certain?"
"Yes. If I had to I could call enough witnesses to leave no doubt."
"And was he blackmailing Fermin Thorpe?"
Monk looked rueful. "That I don’t know. Certainly I’ve no proof, and I hate to admit it, but it seems unlikely. Why would he? He was making a very nice profit in the business. The last thing he would want would be to get Thorpe prosecuted."
The truth of that was unarguable, and Rathbone conceded it. "Have we learned anything that could furnish a defense? I have nowhere even to begin..."
Hester stared at him miserably and shook her head.
