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“You don’t have the right to know everything about anyone, Monk. You have to take the bits you do know and judge by them. You don’t know all of me, or even of Hester. You don’t even know all of yourself. Live with it, man. You have no acceptable alternative. Now, are those bank papers for me, or are you just carrying them around? Beata will be here with your supper any moment.”
Monk pulled the papers out of his pocket. “A young woman brought them to me this evening. They’re exact copies, she tells me, of papers from Nicholson’s Bank. They have to do with Kate Exeter’s trust account, which she had yet to come into. The woman says there is something wrong with them, small amounts taken, but over a long period of time. The bit I’ve underlined is the exact amount of the ransom. Have you got a financial expert who can tell me if there really is something wrong?”
“I’ll find out.” Rathbone took them from him just as Beata came in carrying a tray with his dinner on it. Since it was informal, perhaps he should call it supper. He could not remember if he had had lunch or not.
“Thank you,” he said with deep gratitude.
CHAPTER
11
HESTER WAS NOT AT home when Will came to see her, but at the clinic in Portpool Lane. She was standing in the store cupboard where the medicines were kept, taking stock of what they had and what they needed more of. As usual, it was more bandages, surgical spirits for sterilization of instruments, wounds, and so on, and decent wine when a sip was all people could take. Some of the knives and scissors needed sharpening, but that was easily seen to.
She turned when she felt Will’s presence behind her. She was pleased to see him, but the fact that he had sought her out here, rather than at home, caused her a quick flicker of anxiety. What was it that he did not wish Monk to overhear?
Will smiled at her. He was so much a man now, but his smile still held something of the child he had been.
“It’s not Bathurst,” he said immediately. “He disappears so often and he’s tight with money because he’s the eldest of a big family, and they’re always broke. Father’s dead, and Bathurst’s is the only regular money they get. One sister works, but women, girls, don’t get paid that much. He’s always scared she’ll get sucked into making it on the street because they need it so bad. I guess that’s why he’s nice to street women, too. He can understand how they got there.” His face reflected the pity he felt. A few years ago it might have held envy, too, for being part of a large family, even if a poor one. He was too sure of where he belonged to feel that now.
Hester smiled at him. “Thank you.” She could not help wondering how vulnerable that constant need made young Bathurst. What emergency, no matter how slight, might rock that precarious survival.
“I know,” Will said quickly.
“Do you?” She thought of covering her doubt, but she had done that once and he had seen through it, and been not only hurt, but angry.
“Yeah. Crow has treated some of his family. You’ve got no ground for thinking ill of him.”
Hester did not want to argue, but he was waiting for it, his eyes steady. When had he grown up so much? The answer to that she knew. Helping Crow, especially dealing with her friend from the Crimean War, who was so terribly wounded, both in mind and body. Will had had a violent dose of the reality of war and loss, and he had borne it well.
This time she smiled at him without the shadow. “Thank you very much.”
“I couldn’t find much about Laker, except he was in the army for a while. You might know someone who knew him then. He left…under a shadow. Don’t know what it was.”
So that was why Will had sought her out at the clinic, instead of at home. He would not say so, but he was afraid of what she might find. Was he afraid for Monk? Had he seen the vulnerability and known that Monk cared so much more than he pretended to?
Their eyes met for a moment. Will smiled and then looked away. He wasn’t prepared to share the extent of his loyalty to Monk, just in case she didn’t know. She felt the sudden sting of tears in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and hoped Will had no idea what she meant.
She finished up her list of supplies needed and put it in her pocket, then excused herself, saying she would make the purchases the next day. This afternoon she had another errand to perform.
* * *
—
SHE HAD ALREADY DECIDED exactly who to ask for help regarding Laker and whatever his tragedy might have been. Major Carlton knew, or had known of, almost everyone who had served in the regular army since the beginning of the Crimean War, especially if they were from the counties around London—the Home Counties, as they were known.
She found him where she had expected, sitting in his small front room by the fire, reading regimental histories from his vast collection of books. She had nursed him through a particularly painful injury, and he had not forgotten her patience or, more particularly, her discretion. A man’s moment of weakness or indignity was never referred to again, or spoken of to others.
His manservant let her in and then disappeared to make fresh tea and, if there were any left, a few jam tarts. It was not four in the afternoon, but exceptions could be made. A man should not be a prisoner of convention.
Carlton stood with difficulty to greet her. She did not tell him it was unnecessary. He disliked above all things being reminded that he was an exception to the general rules of courtesy. He did not wish to be an exception. Everyone knew it. No one spoke of it.
“How are you?” she said warmly. “You look well.” It was not a nurse speaking, but a woman. The nurse saw the strain in his face, the pain, the added stiffness, the loss of a little more weight, and could guess the reasons. The woman did not.
She sat quickly so he might follow suit.
“I want your help.” She came straight to the point. There had never been pretense between them.
