A Breach Of Promise Part 33

"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. a.r.s.enic remains, I know that. But this doesn't sound like a.r.s.enic. 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 impa.s.sioned 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 s.e.xton 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 pa.s.sed. 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.

"h.e.l.lo?" he said with surprise. Then, reading her face, "What is it?"

"I need some money to pay grave diggers for an exhumation." She wasted no words on niceties. "Please? I don't know who else to ask. It's terribly important!"

His eyes were level and curious, but without hesitation.

"Of course. Tell me about it afterwards. How much do you need?"

"Three pounds." Better to be safe.

"There's four guineas on the dresser." He pointed to the chest near the wall. "Take it Just promise me you'U tell me about it afterwards."

"I will! I swear." She flashed him a heartfelt smile. "Thank you." And without waiting any further, she ran out of the room again and down the stairs.

The cabby was standing by the horse, grumbling and staring at the house door.

"Back to Putney," she ordered him, scrambling in again. "As quick as you can! Please hurry!"

In accordance with custom and law, the exhumation was to begin at midnight. Five minutes to twelve found them at the graveyard gates with an ashen-faced s.e.xton, Dr. Loomis, three local police from the station along High Street, including, of course, Sergeant Byrne, three grave diggers, Monk, and after much indignant protest, Hester as well.

It was a chilly night with a damp wind blowing up from the river and the distant sound of foghorns like lost souls out of the rising mist over the water.

The s.e.xton unlocked the gates, and their lanterns swayed as they made their way through and up the path. A constable, blessing his luck, was left on guard in case any curious person should be drawn to investigate what was happening. The grave diggers carried their spades over their shoulders, their feet making soft thuds on the earth path. As if in silent commiseration they walked in unison, unhappy shadows denser against the shifting darkness of the sky.

The s.e.xton stopped at Samuel Jackson's grave.

"Right," he said, grunting. "Yer'd best be gettin' started, then. Nowt ter wait fer."

Obediently the grave diggers set to work.

Monk stood close to Hester, Loomis on the other side, shivering, arms folded across his chest, Byrne beside him. There was no sound but the faint whispering of the wind around the stones and the noise of the spades and the fall of earth.

It seemed to go on forever.

Hester moved a little closer to Monk, and he slipped his arm around her. She must be cold. The lantern light reflected on her face, eyes wide and dark, mouth closed, lips pressed together.

The noise of foghorns drifted up on the wind from the river again.

One of the lanterns guttered out. It must have been short of oil.

At last the spades struck the wood of the coffin lid.

A grave digger standing on the side taking a moment's rest crossed himself.

They put the ropes underneath and began to pull the coffin up, grunting with the strain, and after a short awkwardness, laid it on the earth beside the gaping hole.

It was Loomis's turn to act. He moved forward, rubbing his hands together to try to get the circulation going again.

The s.e.xton opened the lid for him and stepped back.

One of the constables came forward, holding up a lantern but looking away.

Monk could feel his heart beating almost in his throat.

The silence p.r.i.c.kled.

Byrne shifted his feet.

Loomis looked in. His skin was garish in the yellow light of the lantern, impossible to read. He moved aside what was left of the clothes. They could not see what he was doing, only the tensing of his shoulders and the expression on his face.

No one spoke.

Monk held Hester even closer, hardly aware that he was almost crushing her.

Minutes pa.s.sed.

It was bitterly cold.

Loomis looked up at last.

"I'm afraid there isn't enough left to tell anything," he said quietly, his voice hoa.r.s.e, almost breaking with disappointment. "I can take samples, but I doubt it will prove anything. Too many years ... it's just... gone!"

Hester loosed herself from Monk's grasp and went forward to the coffin. She leaned over and looked in. Byrne lowered the lamp for her. Very slowly she put her hands down and moved the strands of clothes aside herself, going deeper than Loomis had.

Monk waited. He could feel his teeth chattering.

The wail of the foghorn came up from the river again.

One of the constables whispered the Lord's name to himself.

Hester lifted her hand high under the lantern, looking at something in it, showing it to Loomis.

"Gla.s.s!" she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. "Ground gla.s.s. It's still here. Under where the stomach used to be. She fed him ground gla.s.s. That's why he bled to death!"

Monk felt the sweat break out on his skin, and found he was shaking.

"Got her!" Loomis said softly and with infinite satisfaction. "s.e.xton, put a guard on this, exactly as it is. On pain of complicity in murder, don't move that body! Do you understand me?"

Very gently, Hester replaced the gla.s.s where she had found it.

The s.e.xton nodded. The police moved closer, lanterns wavering, held high.

Loomis rubbed his hands down the sides of his trousers. Perhaps he too was sweating.

Hester turned around and came back to Monk. Loomis and the others were gradually moving away. There was only one lantern left for them to follow.

"We did it," she said softly. She held her hands down, away from him. He had to reach for them to hold them in his. She was so cold they were like ice.

"Yes, we did," he whispered back. "Thank you."

She turned to pull away, but he held on to her. This was not the time, after all they had seen of prejudices and facile judgments, and it was most certainly not the place, but the words came to his lips and would not be stopped.

"Hester?"