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“And get me hanged for Astley’s death?” Monk said bitterly.
“You didn’t kill Astley,” Rathbone assured him. “Miriam knows who did. She hoped you would help her prove it. Now she knows you can’t remember, so it has to be done another way.”
“If I take the stand I’ll have to admit I can’t remember!” Monk took a deep breath. “Still…I suppose losing my job is better than losing my life…”
“Monk, just be quiet and do as you’re told!” Rathbone stood up. “Just…just believe in me. And in the rest of us…”
“Hester…?”
“We’re all working: Hester, Scuff, Crow, Squeaky Robinson…even Worm.”
Rathbone reached the door just as the guard
unlocked it from the other side. He turned and looked at Monk for a moment, then went out.
“C’mon,” the guard ordered, glaring at Monk where he stood. “They don’t want you no more for now.”
BEATA HAD INQUIRED AT the clinic in Portpool Lane when they expected Hester, and she had gone there deliberately at that time, first to help with the work she was able to do, such as checking on supplies and funds, and generally assisting Claudine Burroughs, but more urgently to her, to see Hester herself.
Beata could barely imagine the despair she must be feeling, but perhaps there was practical help she could offer. Providing a carriage that Hester could use whenever she wished would be swifter and pleasanter, especially in this weather, than her having to take an omnibus.
More important than that, she could tell Hester of the memories she had of San Francisco, of Monk, and the truth Miriam had finally told her about Aaron Clive. Surely that could not be unconnected with Piers Astley’s death? Hester’s imagination and understandings might show her something Beata had not thought of.
They spoke quietly in the huge kitchen in the clinic. Breakfast was over and it was not yet time for lunch. They sat at the main worktable and had a cup of tea.
Hester listened intently, repeating what Beata told her to be sure she had grasped it properly.
“Yes,” Beata agreed, looking at Hester and seeing fear in her eyes. “Miriam knows what happened, and that Monk had nothing to do with it.”
“And her revenge on Clive?” Hester almost whispered the words, as if the emotion of it overwhelmed her. She was imagining Miriam’s pain as if it had been her own. The pain of losing Monk to the hangman was as deep within her so she could barely fail to understand.
“It will have to wait,” Beata said without hesitation. She could not tell Hester how she had hated Ingram, how easily she could share the feeling of helpless loathing. The shame of that still burned her for what she had permitted York to do to her. “I hope she gets it,” she went on. “But not at the cost of Monk’s life, no matter how dearly she deserves it.”
Hester had faced dangers and grief Beata could not imagine, physical privation and overwhelming loss in the Crimea, countless men she could not save, and she had survived it. But now she looked so terribly vulnerable, Beata ached for her. She had no faith in the justice of the law now. Perhaps she was right.
Beata finished her tea and Hester poured more, then realized they needed milk. She stood to fetch it, then clearly forgot where she had put the jug. She was confused because she was angry, angry because she was frightened.
She found the jug and picked it up. Her hand slipped and it fell to the floor and smashed. She used language she must have learned in the army, and blushed scarlet when she realized Beata must have been startled.
Beata stood up, forcing herself to smile quite calmly. It was the depth of Hester’s distress that shook her, not the words.
“I’ve heard that, and worse, in the goldfields,” she assured her. She bent to pick up the shards of the jug then fetched a cloth from the sink to mop up the milk. Hester stood helpless, for a moment like a lost child, the tears filling her eyes.
Beata threw away the shards, washed out the cloth, and put it down. She went back to Hester and abandoned all propriety and the issues that might have stood between them, real or imaginary. She put her arms around Hester, very gently, and held her.
“We will win,” she promised, to herself as much as to Hester. “We will not let this happen…whatever we have to do!”
—
IT WAS A WILD thing to have said, and she was acutely conscious of it when Rathbone called that evening. Of course it was a complete impropriety, but she had asked him to come, sending a note to his chambers. She must tell him all she knew and make certain he understood that she was prepared to testify, if it would help. And he must force Miriam to speak, if she did not do so willingly. She suggested that if the indiscretion worried him, for his own sake or for hers, that he come through the back entrance, like a messenger or a servant.
He did so, and was in the withdrawing room a little after nine o’clock. Outside, the rain lashed the windows and wind rattled branches against the glass.
Rathbone was so tired his skin was shadowed around his eyes and even his hair was untidy, falling forward where he had run his fingers through it over and over.
“Miriam must be persuaded to testify that Aaron killed Piers,” Beata said quietly.
“She can’t help, my dear. There is a man who swore an affidavit at the time to say that Aaron Clive was with him at the assay office in San Francisco, forty miles from where Astley was shot,” he pointed out.
