Page 112 of A Breach of Promise (William Monk 9)

The judge frowned at Monk. “Are you saying you believe this woman murdered Melville to stop the case, and thus you from pursuing her past, and probably finding these wretched children of hers?” he asked with rising emotion.

“Yes … my lord.”

“Then—then perhaps we had better find the truth of the matter,” the judge said with a sigh. “Not that I imagine it will do any good now. About the only justice you will get will be to spread the news around that she was once Dolly Jackson of Putney and that Leda and Phemie are her natural children.” There was a hard edge to his voice. “For whatever satisfaction that may bring you.”

“Very little,” Monk repl

ied. “It sounds like vengeance, and would hurt her present husband and daughter for very little reason.”

“Then you’d better make the best of your exhumation,” the judge replied with a tight shrug. “Although if you find poison, that won’t help his present family very much.”

Loomis took the paper as the judge signed it.

Monk pushed his hands into his pockets. “Thank you.”

“It may not help anybody now,” Hester acknowledged. “But if he was murdered, we can’t look away because it will hurt. It always hurts.”

The judge did not reply.

The rest of the evening was spent in frantic organization. They had barely half an hour to eat a hasty supper, then Loomis went to the local police station to inform them of their intentions and show them the judge’s order.

When he had gone, Monk searched his pockets, then turned to Hester.

“How much money have you?”

She looked in her reticule. “About two shillings and four-pence,” she answered. “Why?”

“We’ve got to pay the grave diggers,” he answered grimly. “It’s hard work, and we haven’t got the time to haggle. I’ve only got half a crown and a few pence. We’ll need more than that. There’ll be the local sexton as well.” He looked anxious, his eyes bleak, mouth tight.

She understood his reluctance to ask Loomis. He had given a great deal already. But who else was there? Callandra was still on holiday.

They stared at each other.

“Gabriel?” she suggested. “He’d lend it—even give it. How much do we need?”

“Another thirty shillings at least! Maybe two pounds.”

“I’ll ask him.” She started to move even as she spoke.

“He’s miles away,” he protested.

“Then the sooner I start, the better chance of being back in time.” She smiled with a little twist. “At least we know he’ll be at home.”

“You stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll go!”

“Don’t be stupid!” She dismissed the idea with unaccustomed brusqueness, even for her. “I know him, you don’t. You can’t turn up on the doorstep and ask for two pounds.”

“And you can’t go…” he started.

“Yes, I can! Come with me as far as getting a hansom, and I’ll be perfectly all right. Hurry up and don’t waste time arguing.”

For once he conceded, and putting on coats they walked swiftly together along the footpath to the main road, and within ten minutes he had hailed a cab and she was on her way back east again towards London and the Sheldon house.

She sat upright in the back of the cab, her back stiff, her hands clenched in her lap. She felt as if they stopped at every cross street while traffic passed. The horse seemed to amble rather than trot. She was frantic with urgency, muttering under her breath, fingernails digging into her palms.

When at last she got there she ordered the cabby to wait, paid him nothing, in spite of his protests, just so she would be certain he would not leave. She ran across the footpath and up the steps, leaning on the doorbell in a most uncivil fashion.

As soon as Martha answered she greeted her with barely a word, then went across the hall and up the stairs. She knocked on Gabriel’s door and, without waiting for an answer, opened it.