"I know that. Have you a better idea?"
"No." She sat silently for a few moments. The sun was shining brightly and the trees and the common were in full leaf at last. They could have been miles from London. They passed several people out walking, women in pale and pretty dresses, splashes of pink and blue and gold, men more somber stems of grays and browns. Two dogs chased each other, barking madly. A child sent a hoop whirling along too fast to catch it. It sped down the incline, bounced over a stone and fell flat when it hit a tussock of grass.
"Hester…"
"Yes?"
He had no idea what he wanted to say. No, that was not entirely true. He had a hundred things to say, he was just not certain he wanted to say them, not yet, perhaps not at all. Change was frightening. If he committed himself he could not go back. What did he really want to say, anyway? That her friendship was the most valuable thing in his life? That was true. But would she see that as a compliment? Or would she only see that he was treating her like a man, avoiding saying anything deeper, anything with passion and vulnerability in it, anything that bared his soul and left him undefended?
"Perhaps we'd better just tell them the truth," he said instead.
She sat a little straighter in her seat, uncomfortable as the wheels jolted over a roughness in the road. Her back was like a ramrod, her shoulders stiff, pulling her jacket tight across the seams.
"How much of it?" she asked.
"I don't know. Let's find someone first."
They were coming into Parsons Green and rode in silence through its streets, which were rapidly getting busier now that it was mid-morning. They crossed over Putney Bridge. The river was dazzling in the sun, full of noisy traffic, water swirling under the piers as the current gathered speed in the increasing tide.
On the far side, in Putney High Street, Monk alighted and paid the driver with a very generous tip, sufficient to get himself a nice luncheon and something for the horse. It had been an extraordinarily long journey. Then he held out his arm and assisted Hester to alight.
As the cab drew away they looked at each other. The awkwardness was gone. They had a common purpose and it was all that mattered. Personal issues were forgotten.
"The churchyard," Hester said decisively. "That will be the best record of his death. We can go from there."
He agreed. "Which church?"
"Pardon?" She had not thought of that.
"Which church? We passed St. Mary's on the way in. There are bound to be others. I remember a Baptist church on Wester Road, there's a St. John's on Putney Hill. That's three at least."
She looked at him with slight chill. "Then the sooner we begin, the better. St. Mary's is the closest. We'll work along, unless you know anything about Samuel? I don't suppose you know what his faith was, do you?"
"No," he admitted with a slight smile. "But I'd wager hers is as orthodox as possible."
It took them the rest of the morning to ask politely at St. Mary's, visit the Baptist church on Wester Road, go along Oxford Road a few hundred yards to the Emanuel Church on Upper Richmond Road, and then move along that same considerable distance to the Wesleyan Chapel, just past the police station. At least they were saved the journey up Putney Hill to St. John's. In the Wesleyan Chapel an elderly gentleman directed them to the chapel graveyard, and there they found a simple marker that said "Samuel Jackson, beloved husband of Dorothy, died September 27th, 1839." No mention was made of daughters, but that might have been for financial reasons as much as discretion. Carving cost money.
Monk and Hester stood side by side in the sharp sun and cold wind for several minutes. It seemed inappropriate to speak, and unnecessary. Hester reached up her hand and put it very lightly on Monk's arm, and without looking sideways at her, he knew the emotions that were going through her mind, just as they were through his.
Eventually it was an old man walking through the grass with a bunch of daffodils in his hand who broke the spell.
"Knew 'im, did yer?" he said quietly. "Nice chap 'e were. Hard to die like that, when yer've got little ones."
"No, we didn't know him," Monk answered, turning to the man and smiling very slightly. "But we know his sister… and we know the girls."
"Them two poor little things! Do you?" The old man's face lit with amazement. "Y'know, I never reckoned as they'd still be alive. Yer didn't take 'em in, did yer?" He looked at Hester, then blushed. "I'm sorry Mrs…?" He did not know, and left it hanging. "Of course you didn't! They'd be twenty an' odd now. I didn't mean to be impertinent, like."
Hester shook her head quickly. "No, of course, Mr…"
"Walcott, Harold Walcott, ma'am."
"Hester Latterly," she replied. "But I know Martha Jackson, Samuel Jackson's sister. I know her quite well."
Mr. Walcott shook his head, the breeze ruffling his thin hair.
"I always liked Sam. Quick, 'e was, but kind, if you know what I mean? Loved them little girls something fierce."
"They had a terrible time after he died," Hester said bleakly. "But we've just found them and taken them to Martha. They'll be all right now. They're in a very good house, with a distinguished soldier from the Indian army. He was badly injured in the Mutiny, scarred in the face, so they'll not be misused or made little of."
"I'm right 'appy to 'ear that." Mr. Walcott beamed at her. "You and yer 'usband are real Christian people. God bless yer both."
The color was brighter on Hester's face than could be accounted for by the wind, but she did not argue. "Thank you, Mr. Walcott."
Monk felt a curious wrench in his chest, but he did not argue either. There were more important issues, and far more urgent ones.
"You are very gracious, Mr. Walcott," he answered, inclining his head in acknowledgment. "Since you knew Samuel, would you be kind enough to answer a few questions about the way he died? Martha is still troubled by it. It would set her mind at rest… perhaps."
Walcott's face darkened and his lips compressed. "Very sudden, it were." He shook his head. "I suppose there in't many good ways ter go, but bleedin's always scared me something awful. Just my weakness, I suppose, but I can't stand the thought of it. Poor Sam bled terrible."
"What did the doctor say caused it?" Hester asked quietly. The situation would not be unknown to her. God knew what she had seen in the battlefield, but looking sideways at her face, Monk saw the horror in her eyes too. Experience had not dulled it. Tt was one of the things about her he cared for most. He had never known her to deny or dull her capacity to feel. She exasperated him, irritated him, was opinionated, but she had more courage than anyone else he had ever known. And she could laugh.
Mr. Walcott was shaking his head again. The wind was sharper and his hands were turning white holding the daffodils.
"I never 'eard. Not sure as 'e knew for certain," he answered the question.
"Who was he?" Hester asked, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice-and not succeeding.
But if Mr. Walcott noticed he did not take offense.
"That'd 'ave bin Dr. Loomis, for certain."
"Where might we find him?" Monk asked.
"Oh…" Mr. Walcott considered for a moment. "Well… 'e were gettin' on a bit then. 'E lived in Charlwood Road, I 'member that. Nice 'ouse, wi' a big may tree in the front garden. Smell something marvelous in the late spring, it does."
"Thank you," Monk said with feeling. "You've been of great assistance, Mr. Walcott." He held out his hand.
Walcott shook it. "A pleasure, Mr. Latterly."