He found a lantern and lit it, then led the way down the narrow stone steps to the cellar where rows of boxes filled with papers lay neatly stacked.
It took them only ten minutes to find the right box for the month of September in the year 1839, most of the work moving the boxes above it.
"Here it is!" Loomis exclaimed, lifting out a handful of papers. "Samuel Jackson…" He held it closer to the light, and Hester and Monk both peered over his shoulder while he read the generous, sprawling hand.
"You are right-he didn't know," Hester said the moment she came to the end. She stared at Loomis. "He wasn't satisfied. He just couldn't prove there was anything wrong. Can we get an order for an exhumation?"
Loomis chewed his lip. "Difficult…"
"But possible?" she insisted.
"I don't know."
"Where do we begin?" Monk asked urgently. "We can't just let this go!"
"With the police," Loomis answered, meeting his eyes. "We'll go up to the station and speak to Sergeant Byrne. He'll remember Sam Jackson-and Dolly. I won't let this go, I promise you. But it'll be very hard…"
Hester straightened up. "We'll find Sergeant Byrne, then we'll find the judge."
Monk looked dubious. "The question is, if it was poison, will it still be there to find, even if we can dig him up?"
"Depends what it is," Loomis answered, putting away the rest of the papers and closing the box. He handed all the papers on Samuel Jackson to Hester. "Depends on the quality of his coffin, if it's all dry inside, and what's in the surrounding earth. I don't know what chance we have of proving anything this long after. Arsenic remains, I know that. But this doesn't sound like arsenic. I think my father would have seen that. This was bleeding… more like an internal ulcer burst, or an artery, or something of that sort. I don't know why he wasn't satisfied, but from his accounts here, he wasn't."
"Probably because Samuel had no history of earlier illness," Hester suggested. "There's no mention of pain before, or difficulty with eating, no nausea or earlier signs of blood."
Loomis looked at her quickly.
"I am a nurse," she explained. Then, as if she recalled the general reputation of nurses as women who scrubbed floors and emptied slops, she added, "In the Crimea. F ve done a good deal of field surgery." She said it with pride. It was not boasting but a statement of fact.
Loomis nodded slowly, his face full of admiration.
"Then we had better take these papers and see if we can get Sergeant Byrne on our side, and then persuade a judge that we have reasonable cause to suspect a murder. I warn you, it may be a long and fruitless task, but I am ready, if you are."
"We are!" Monk said without hesitation, including Hester automatically and without even bothering to glance at her.
Sergeant Byrne at the local station was quite easily persuaded. He was a middle-aged man who had known and liked Samuel Jackson, and Jackson's death had shocked him. He took little convincing that there was cause for further investigation. He was more than willing to leave his tedious paperwork and go immediately with Hester, Monk and Dr. Loomis to call upon Judge Tomkinson across the river in Parsons Green.
The judge occupied a large house with an excellent view over a sweep of lawn towards the water, and he did not appreciate being taken from the dinner table.
Loomis had been right in that it was difficult and frustrating to a point close to loss of both temper and hope to persuade Judge Tomkinson to order an exhumation of the body of Samuel Jackson, decently buried, without question, twenty-one years before. He argued with every point they raised, shaking his head and tapping his fingers on the top of his cherrywood desk.
They tried every line of reasoning they could think of, relevant and irrelevant, based on logic or emotion, anger, pity or the desire for justice. The judge dismissed them all, for one cause or another. Even Sergeant Byrne's presence moved him not at all.
Finally, at quarter to seven in the evening, it was Monk's impassioned anger at the death of Keelin Melville which won him over.
"Melville?" the judge said slowly, letting out his breath in a sigh. "The Melville who built that marvelous hall for Barton Lambert? That place full of light?"
"Yes!"
Hester held her breath.
Loomis looked nonplussed.
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 replied. "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 stalled.
"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.