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He poured the tea and passed her a cup, offering the milk jug at the same time. She poured in milk, then took the cup and set it down on the table between them, her hands shaking a little.
“We did exactly as we were told,” he began. He would tell her the truth but without the details. “At Jacob’s Island, which is a terrible place, full of old houses settling into the mud and passageways so old and so rotten that portions are under the high-water mark. We followed their directions. Mr. Monk and Mr. Exeter went ahead with a case full of money.”
She blinked. “Just the two of them?”
“That was the instruction. The rest of us stayed well back, in the various passages. We were all attacked, as if they knew where we were.” He wanted to be careful not to give details that would distress her even more. He hurried on. “No one was badly injured. Just bruised and filthy. Then Mr. Exeter completed the last bit alone, as he had been instructed. They attacked him, too, and took the money.” How could he say this so it would be the truth, but not as brutal as it had been? It should have been someone she knew who told her, someone she loved and trusted, someone who could hold her in his arms and let her weep.
She was waiting, watching him.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “They killed her anyway.”
She sat motionless, staring at him.
“Perhaps Mr. Exeter’s trying to think how to tell you, a gentler way…”
She blinked and the tears slid down her cheeks.
“Would you like me to leave you?” he asked awkwardly.
“If you would prefer.”
“I wouldn’t! I…I just thought you might…you don’t know me,” he said awkwardly.
She made a visible effort to regain her self-control. She reached for her tea and found it unexpectedly cool enough to sip. She looked at him questioningly.
“I made it with boiling water,” he answered. “I just put a drop of cold in afterward.”
“Oh. Thank you. Tea should always be made with water on the boil.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did she suffer?”
“No,” he lied.
“It must have been very quick. Thank you.” She sipped the tea again. “I know that may not be the truth, but I would prefer to accept it. And I will find it easier now, when Mr. Exeter chooses to come and tell me.”
“Surely he will? When he has composed himself. He was desperately upset.”
“Of course.” There was little emotion in her voice, or her face. Perhaps she was controlling her own feelings too tightly. Or maybe she felt something for Harry Exeter that was not appropriate at this time of bereavement.
“Or he may write,” she went on. “Sometimes writing is easier. You can read it over and over, to make sure it is what you really want to say. And of course you don’t have to be present when it is read.”
“You don’t care for him very much, do you?” Hooper asked bluntly.
“How careless of me to have made it so obvious. I shall miss Kate all the rest of my life. She was the sister I did not have.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Time may heal the wound, at least on the outside, if not deeper. But even on the outside, the scar doesn’t always go.”
She smiled. “One sees such wounds in the eyes, and hears them in the silences, don’t you think?”
He did not answer. She had seen them in his eyes, or he chose to think she had. He sipped his tea instead. There were lots of questions he wanted to ask her, and a good detective would have found a way. He did not want to. It seemed intrusive, not what he wished to be here for. But he must at least try.
“If I ask Mr. Exeter, in time, if he has any enemies who might have done this for some kind of revenge, do you think he would tell me anything helpful? I hate to disturb him so soon, but we must catch these people, if there is any way.”
She looked surprised. “You think it was personal?”
“It’s possible. He isn’t the only wealthy man in London.”
