A Breach of Promise

by Anne Perry

  “I don’t know, but I expect they did bury her in it. Why would they be bothered to change it? And Delphine took the packet back. She was careful enough for that.”

  “What about the jewelry itself?” she asked, but without hope.

  “It wouldn’t prove anything much, except to us,” he replied. “Only that she had belladonna in the same pocket … not that anyone else put it there. Delphine would simply say that Melville had a packet of belladonna powder in her pocket and it burst or came undone. We couldn’t prove otherwise—even if we knew it!”

  “Then I don’t think we can prove it,” Hester said slowly.

  “Not—not prove it? We’ve got to!” He was outraged. It was monstrous! Unbearable! Delphine Lambert had abandoned two tiny children to the cruelty of strangers—two vulnerable, damaged children who needed her even more than most. Then she had murdered the most brilliant, dazzling, creative architect of the age, all to further her own comfort and ambition, and to find a good marriage for her adopted daughter—whether she wanted it or not. Appearance had been everything, beauty, glitter—as shallow as the skin. The passion and hope and pain of the heart beneath had been thrown away. He could not let himself think it could all just happen and no one could call for any accountability, any justice, any regret at all. All kinds of arguments raged through his head, and even as he thought of each one, he knew it was no use.

  “Can we?” Hester asked, her face puckered. She had not known Keelin Melville; she had not even been at court this time, as she had in most of the other cases he had cared about deeply. It was strange, and he realized now he had missed her. But Gabriel Sheldon was tied inextricably to it, because Martha Jackson was part of his household, part of Perdita’s life, and because he too knew what it was like to be disfigured, to know his face, the outer part of him everyone saw and judged him by so easily, filled people with revulsion, even with fear. He was an outcast of the same kind, a victim of a world where sight ruled so much. Hester understood it.

  And she understood Keelin Melville, a woman fighting to succeed in a world where men made all the rules and judged only by the yardstick of their own preconceptions, not by reality of courage or skill or achievement. She had seen others sacrificed to it, and eventually crushed.

  “We must!” he said fiercely, leaning farther forward. “We must find a way.”

  “It’s all gone,” she pointed out, her mouth tight, her eyes sad. “Will they dig her up again, do you suppose?”

  He had to be honest. There was not the slightest chance, not on the belief he had now. No one would want to consider it, to raise such a hideous possibility, face the suit for criminal libel if they were wrong.

  “No.”

  She looked at his empty plate. “Do you want some more soup?”

  “No! I want to think of a way to prove what happened to Keelin Melville and find some justice for those two abandoned and unloved children!” He sighed. “And I want some kind of vengeance … some balancing of the scales.”

  She sat in silence for a while again, cupping her chin in her hands.

  He waited, searching for an answer in his mind, going over the details of the case, all the questions and answers. He was warm, physically comfortable, but exhaustion was creeping over him and he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate.

  The door opened and Martha came in carrying a tray with fresh tea on it. Her eyes were bright and calm and there was a glow in her cheeks. She set the tray down on the table, smiling at him. She was almost too full of emotion to find words.

  “Mr. Monk … I—I can’t…” She shook her head. “I just don’t know how to say what you’ve done for me. You’re … the best man I know. I never truly thought it was possible … but you found them. I wish I could give you more….” She was clearly embarrassed, feeling nothing she had was sufficient reward for him.

  “I don’t need any more payment, Miss Jackson,” he said without even having to think about it. “You already gave me sufficient for all my expenses.” That was not quite true, but close enough.

  She hesitated.

  “Except the tea,” he added.

  She remembered and poured it immediately. It was steaming and fragrant.

  “Are they all right?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured, nodding. “Oh, yes … they will be. Everyone’s very good. Finding them clothes and boots and so on. Tillie gave Phemie one of her dresses, and Agnes found one for Leda, and a petticoat with frills on it. Sarah gave them both stockings.” She blinked hastily. “And she was looking for sheets and blankets for them, and deciding which room would be best. Put them in together, in case they get lonely, or frightened in a new place. And then Miss Perdita came down and she was so nice to them.” She said it as if she hardly dared believe it was true. “She said they could stay here all the time.”

  Monk smiled back at her. “I know.”

  She hesitated only a moment longer, then excused herself and turned back to the kitchen and the excitement again.

  Monk sipped his tea gratefully.

  “I wonder what would have happened if Samuel Jackson hadn’t died….” Hester said thoughtfully.

  “They would have lived ordinary, uncomfortable lives, laughed at by their peers, and possibly found service of some sort,” he answered. “Possibly not. He would have loved them, perhaps taught them to read and write. But he did die, so it makes no difference now. We can’t undo that. They’ll be all right here.” He said it with assurance, thinking of the kindness in the kitchen already, everyone trying to help, willing to give of their own few possessions.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Hester was frowning, hardly listening to him. “They would have been laughed at, wouldn’t they? I mean, it would have been hard for them, for their family … for Dolly Jackson.”

  “Of course. But she’s done very well indeed. She’s a wealthy woman in society, beautiful, respected, has a husband who loves her and a beautiful daughter no one knows is not hers, except us.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed, looking at him.

  “Hester …?” A thought began in his mind.

  “What did he die of?” she asked softly.

  “Bleeding … bleeding in the stomach.”

  “What caused it?”

  “I—I don’t know. Illness?” His mouth was suddenly dry.

  “How convenient for Dolly Jackson,” Hester said, looking at him very steadily.

  He put his cup down. His hands were clumsy, stiff. “Poison?”

  “I don’t know. But I want to know. Don’t you?”

  “Yes … and I’m going to find out.”

  “I’m coming with you….”

  “I don’t know that I—I don’t know what…” he began.

  “I can help.” Her face was set in immovable determination. “We’ll start tomorrow. When I tell Gabriel he’ll insist.” She stood up.

  “I’m not sure you should. We may be wrong.”

  She looked at him with eyes wide, her mouth twisted in a mixture of urgency and anger. “We’ll need money. I haven’t any. Have you?”

  “No.” He was too tired to argue. And anyway, she was right.

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll go and talk to Gabriel about it, and he’ll give us some. We’ll start tomorrow morning—early!” She wrinkled her nose at him, and she went out of the room with a swish of skirts, held high. He heard her heels light and rapid along the corridor.

  They did start out very early the following day. By half past eight on a blustery spring morning they were in a hansom on the way east and south to Putney. Gabriel had been generous with all he could spare, his only regret being that he was not yet well enough to come with them, and an acute awareness that his disfigurement might prove a hindrance. Meeting strangers was a difficulty he had yet to overcome. It would always be painful. No matter how many times he did it, for them it would always be the first time. The horror and embarrassment would be new.

  Now Monk and Hester were sitting side by sid
e in the hansom bowling along at a smart pace through the elegant streets of Chelsea, with the river glinting in the light. To the left lay Battersea Reach, curving away from them. They would pass the gas works and go along the Kings Road with Eel Brook Common to the right. Beyond that was Parsons Green and the Putney Bridge to the south. It was a very long journey.

  There was so much to say, and yet he was uncertain where to begin. From Tavistock Square, where he had picked her up, she had told him how Leda and Phemie were this morning, and how changed they seemed already, with clean clothes, washed hair and good food. They were still terrified, expecting each moment to wake up and discover it was all a cruel dream. But they did seem to understand quite a lot, if spoken to slowly and in simple words. The thing that was most apparent was their affection for each other—and their awe and wonder at the thought that Martha actually liked them, rather than simply wished to use them. They flinched if approached too quickly, and it might take some time before they understood that food would be given them regularly and did not need to be stolen or defended.

  They were moving away from the river. The street was busy with early traffic, other hansoms, several private carriages. This was an affluent area. Four perfectly matched bays went past at a brisk pace, pulling a magnificent coach, footmen in livery riding behind.

  “Where shall we begin?” Hester asked, staring ahead of her. “It all happened twenty years ago. Who will still be there now?”

  “Some of the neighbors,” he answered. “A doctor must have been called. There’ll be a death certificate.”

  She frowned. She was sitting very straight, her hands in her lap. She looked a little like a governess. She was angry and nervous, afraid they would not succeed. He knew her so well. Anyone else might have thought her rather prim, but he knew she was boiling with emotion, all kinds of fears and furies at the pain and the injustice, and their helplessness to reach it.

  “I suppose we could find that,” she replied without looking at him.

  He was watching her face profiled against the light of the window. What was she thinking about the whole business of beauty and the notion of young women being too plain to be acceptable, or loved at all, because they were not considered marriageable? Phemie and Leda were disfigured. But what about Zillah Lambert? She was now unmarriageable, in her mother’s eyes, because two men in a short space of time had been attracted to her and then at the last moment withdrawn. Perhaps society would discount Keelin, knowing the truth now. But what about Sacheverall? Did it make any difference that he was a shallow, selfish opportunist who had not loved her, only her position and her money? Would she find Hugh Gibbons again? He had not even told Hester about that!

  “When she was very young, Zillah had a great romance with a man called Hugh Gibbons,” he said aloud.

  Hester looked at him with surprise.

  He realized his remark seemed to come from no previous thought or word.

  “I only say so because he never lost touch with her—I mean, he never forgot her,” he amended. “He might still care for her very much. And she obviously thinks of him with kindness. I remember her smile when she spoke of him.”

  “You mean she might marry him?” she asked.

  “Well … it is possible.”

  She turned back towards the window. “Good.”

  He looked at her and could not read her expression. Had he sounded as if marriage were so important? Zillah, at least, would not be left behind by happiness, social acceptability, living out her days dependent upon other people or earning her own living, pitied by her more fortunate sisters.

  That was not what he had meant.

  “It will…” he began. He was going to say it would matter to Zillah in a way it would not to Hester. But why not? That was a ridiculous thing to say, and insulting. He had no idea how important it might be to Hester to be married. He had always purposely avoided thinking of what hopes or dreams she might have, what secret wounds. He wanted to think of her as she was: strong, capable, brave, well able to care not only for herself but also for others.

  And he did not want to consider her in that light; it was too complicated. They were friends, as honest and candid and uncomplicated as if they had been two men, at least some of the time. She was sharper-tongued than most men, quicker of thought, and then sometimes almost willfully obtuse. But she was wise and brave, and sometimes very funny. And she was generous—when it came to care for others, she was the most generous person he had ever known. She just did not know how to be mysterious or alluring, how to flirt and flatter and intrigue. She was too direct. There was nothing unknown about her.

  Except that he had no idea what she was thinking now as she stared straight ahead of her. He could see the open stretch of Eel Brook Common through the window past her head.

  How could he take back his clumsiness and say something to undo his words? Everything that came to his mind only made it worse, sounding as if he knew he had made a mistake and was trying to climb out of it. Which, of course, was the truth. She would know that.

  Better to try something completely different.

  “We’ll have to see if we can find the doctor,” he said aloud.

  She looked back at him. “He won’t appreciate our suggesting it was poison. We will be saying he was incompetent, that one of his patients was murdered twenty years ago, and he missed it. Even if it is a different doctor, they defend one another. It is a form of mutual self-defense.”

  “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 re
member 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.”