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“I prevailed upon her,” Hester replied, thinking how she could word her reply so that it would sound as if the old lady had given her all the information, and not even suggest that Mr. Cordwainer had been present at all. Nothing clever came to her. She was left with simply lying. It would have been so much easier had Scuff not been there.
Mrs. Myers nodded. “I don't imagine it was difficult.”
Hester said nothing. It was more uncomfortable than she had expected.
“Was she able to help?” Mrs. Myers asked.
Another lie. But it was either that, or admit that he had been there. The lie was the better of the two evils. “Yes, thank you. I now have a better idea at last where to look.”
“I don't mind, you know,” Mrs. Myers said gently.
“I beg your pardon?” Now Hester was at a loss and knew she must look foolish.
“I think John Cordwainer is a very decent man, and exactly right for Stella,” Mrs. Myers said frankly. “I just wish she would stop assuming I disapprove, and accept him. She is quite old enough not to mind what I think. She owes me no more than to make the very best of her life.”
Hester felt a great weight slip from her, and found herself smiling idiotically. “Really?” she said with feigned innocence, as if she had no idea what they were talking about.
“Your smile gives you away,” Mrs. Myers said drily. “But I am glad you kept your word. Although if you hadn't, it would make it easier for me to broach the subject. How on earth do I say something, without letting her know I have intruded on her privacy?”
Hester thanked her again for her help, and went down the steps, smiling even more widely.
Of course it was not so easy to gain admittance to Holloway Prison, or permission to see any particular person held there. Her first instinct was to ask Monk to obtain it for her, then she bit the words back and grasped for something else to say. Her whole purpose was to protect him.
She asked instead what he expected to do the following day, and when he told her, she chose a time when he would be alone, away from the Wapping Station, in which to go there and see if she could speak with Orme. She could explain to him exactly what she wanted, and he would understand why.
Orme chose to go with her and ask permission on the spot. It might have been out of kindness to her, but she felt that his own curiosity was also urgent. And perhaps he wanted to meet the only sister of a man he had known, respected, and cared for for a great deal of his adult life.
It was this last that troubled Hester. She did not know how to say to him that she preferred to see Mary alone, and his presence might inhibit her from being open. Also, as deeply felt, if not as important to the case, she was afraid that it would be an emotionally distressing experience for him. She had seen his face when they had uncovered facts about Durban that were ugly, that threw doubt on his honesty, his morality, even the kindness that had long been part of his character. Orme had tried desperately to hide such unpleasantness, to drown it out with loyalty, but it was there, growing slowly.
She turned to face him in the bleak stone corridor.
“Thank you, Mr. Orme. I could not have done this without you, but I need now, at least the first time, to speak with her alone. You knew Mr. Durban for years. Far better than she ever did. Think how she will feel. She may care too much what you think of her to be frank. We need the truth.” She said that firmly, emphasizing the last word, holding his gaze. “If we lose this chance, there will not be another. Please let me speak to her alone the first time.”
He gave a funny, lopsided little smile. “Are you protecting me too, ma'am?”
She realized that perhaps she had been. Would he be pleased, or offended? She had no idea. The truth had at least the advantage of easing her conscience. “I'm sorry,” she admitted. “I suppose I was.”
He blinked very faintly; she could barely see it in the flat light, but she knew he was not displeased.
She was shown into a plain cell with a wooden table and two chairs, and a moment later the wardress brought in a woman in her middle fifties. She was of average height and a little gaunt in the face, causing Hester to look a second time before realizing that she was handsome beneath the pallor and the fear, and her eyes were golden brown, just as Durban's had been.
She sat down when Hester invited her to, but slowly, stiff with anxiety.
Hester sat also, as the wardress said she would be immediately outside the door, if she were needed, and they had thirty minutes. Then she left.
Hester smiled, wishing she knew of a way to ease the woman's fear without at the same time jeopardizing her mission.
“My name is Hester Monk,” she began. “My husband is now head of the Thames River Police at Wapping, the position your brother held.” Then suddenly she wondered if Mary knew of his death. Had she been incredibly clumsy? How long was it since she and Durban had met? What were the emotions between them?
Mary moved her head minutely, less than a nod.
It was time to stop prevaricating. She lowered her voice. “Did anyone tell you that he died, heroically, at the turn of last year? He gave his life to save the lives of many others.” She waited, watching.
Mary Webber nodded, and her eyes filled with tears, running unchecked down her thin cheeks.
Hester took her handkerchief out of her small purse and placed it on the table where Mary could take it. “I'm sorry. I wish I did not have to bring this up. He was looking for you, frantically, but as far as I know he didn't find you. Did he?”
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