by Anne Perry
Since she was already dressed in the best clothes she had, and incidentally the warmest, she bought herself a little luncheon from a street peddler—something she had become used to lately. By early afternoon she was at the front door of the home of Morgan Applegate, M.P.
It was opened by a short, extremely plump butler who took her letter of introduction. He showed her into a morning room with a roaring fire that gleamed red and gold on the polished furniture and in the copper globes that decorated the handsome fender.
It was a full quarter hour before Morgan Applegate himself appeared. He was a most agreeable-looking man, of average height, with an aquiline face that yet managed to look mild in spite of a very obvious intelligence. His fairish hair was receding, and he was clean-shaven.
He greeted Hester courteously, invited her to sit, then asked what he might do to be of assistance to her.
She told him of her visit to the excavations the previous day, without mentioning Sutton’s name or occupation.
He stopped her in midsentence. “I am aware of this problem, Mrs. Monk.”
Her heart sank. The fear of typhoid was everywhere, and the queen was in the grip of a desperate, almost uncontrollable grief since Prince Albert’s death from typhoid. If Applegate was a man of any ambition, he would not risk his career by stating an opinion that must be bound to anger and offend many.
“Mr. Applegate,” she said earnestly, “I do understand the very immediate need for new and adequate sewers. I nursed men dying of typhoid in the Crimea, and it is something I could never forget or take lightly. But if you had seen the dangers—”
“Mrs. Monk”—he interrupted her again, leaning forward a little in the chair he had taken opposite her—“I am aware of the matter because it was drawn to my attention by someone else, someone even more disturbed by the possibility of disaster than you are. She gave her whole time and attention to it, and I fear perhaps even her sanity.” His face was very grave, and there was an acute consciousness of pain in his eyes. “My wife was very fond of her, and I held her in high regard myself.”
“Held?” Hester said with a chill. “What happened to her?”
Now there was no mistaking his distress. “Of that I am not certain. I was informed only of the merest details, and since they are unclear, I prefer not to repeat them. It is no slight upon you, Mrs. Monk, it is a respect for the dead. She was a young woman of great courage, a kind of high daring. In spite of personal loss and forfeit of much chance of happiness, she placed honor first, and it seems to have exacted from her a terrible price. Please do not press me to say more.”
But it was impossible for Hester to leave it. She was the equal of anyone on earth for compassion, and had the fire and courage to make it of practical use, but she had never excelled in tact. She was too fierce and too impatient. “If she placed honor first, then it is all the more urgent that we should follow her!” she said intently. “How can you wish to say nothing of her? Are you not proud of her? Do we not all owe her something?”
Now he seemed embarrassed, and very clearly uncertain how to answer. “Mrs. Monk, there are some tragedies that…that should remain…unexplained. I can think of no better word. Please…”
She saw the great crevasse in the ground in her mind’s eye again, and her stomach turned at the thought of its collapse. She imagined how it would be for the men at the bottom, possibly even seeing it begin to bulge and give way, knowing what would happen and yet unable to do anything but watch. They would see the water explode through, carrying earth and timber with it to crash down on top of them, bruising, breaking, burying them in the filth and darkness. She could not keep silent.
“Mr. Applegate, there is no time for the niceties of feeling! If she saw what I did today and understood what could happen to these men—almost certainly will happen one day, sooner or later—would this woman really wish you to respect her delicacy now she is dead? Think of their lives, of those who still have a chance if we act, if we achieve what she began. Is not the greatest compliment to her, the greatest service, that we take up her cause?”
He was looking at her with profound indecision in his eyes. He was a kind man, torn by conflicting principles of overwhelming power.
Hester realized she was leaning forward as if to physically touch him. Reluctantly she sat back, not in apology but because it might be a bad strategy, and certainly bad manners.
Without explanation Applegate stood up. “Excuse me,” he said huskily, and left the room.
Hester was crushed. She had liked the man instinctively, and it seemed she had driven him to the point where he had found her so oppressive he had actually retreated from her presence, as if not knowing how else to deal with her. Was she really so insensitive? Was she dragging out the memory of a woman he had perhaps loved, and treating it with unbearable disrespect? How ugly! And how stupid.
She did not know what to do next.
Then the door opened and a woman came in. She was tall, perhaps even an inch or so taller than Hester, and equally slender. She had a most unusual face. It was handsome in its own way, but far more than for the beauty; it was remarkable for its great readiness for the enjoyment of life.
The woman was immediately followed by Applegate himself, who introduced her to Hester as his wife, then by way of explanation added, “We were both fond of Mary, but my wife the more so. Before I break confidence I felt I should consult her opinion.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Monk,” Rose Applegate said warmly. Then she glanced at her husband. “Nice of you to consult me, but quite unnecessary.” She invited Hester to resume her seat, since she had naturally stood up when Mrs. Applegate came in. Rose sat opposite, leaving her husband to sit where he would. “Mary died a couple of days ago, and we are all very distressed about it, and angry. I don’t believe for an instant it was as simple as they say. She wouldn’t do it, she just wouldn’t.”
“My dear…,” Applegate began.
She did not exactly say “Hush” to him, but almost. It was apparent that he was devoted to her and that she was sufficiently confident in that devotion not to defer to him when she felt passionately.
Suddenly Hester had a flash of understanding. “Mary Havilland!” she said quickly. “Are you speaking of Mary Havilland?” It would make perfect sense with the little that Monk had told her of the death on the river.
Morgan Applegate and Rose looked at each other, then at Hester. Rose was now pale, her hazel eyes troubled. “The news has spread so widely already?” she asked softly.
Applegate reached over to put his hand on her arm. It was an extraordinarily protective gesture, as gentle as if he touched some wound.
“No,” Hester answered, lowering her own voice, aware now that she was dealing with real and present pain. “I know of it only because my husband is in the River Police and was the one who actually saw it happen.”
Rose gave an involuntary gasp, and Applegate’s hand tightened slightly on her arm. Hester could see in their eyes that they wanted to ask more but dared not, afraid of the finality of the answer.
“He isn’t sure what happened,” Hester told them. “It wasn’t possible to see from that distance, and of course they were looking upwards.” She knew why Monk was so reluctant to believe it, but she could not tell these people of her own loss. She had thought the pain of it was healed, safe as long as it was not touched. She had not tried to remember her father’s face for a long time, perhaps not since she had learned to believe that Monk loved her enough to let go of his own fears.
“My husband is trying to find out precisely what happened,” she added.
Rose blinked. “You mean…it might not be taken as suicide?” There was a flare of hope in her eyes. “She would never have killed herself! I’d stake anything on that!”
“Rose…,” Applegate began.
She shook him off impatiently, without taking her eyes from Hester’s.
“If you had known Mary, I wouldn’t have to tell you that. She had far too much cour
age to give up. She simply wouldn’t! She was too…too angry to let them get away with it!”
Hester saw Applegate wince, but was beginning to appreciate already that he had no control over his wife’s passion. If Rose was outspoken, that was part of her nature, and part of what he loved in her.
“Angry with whom?” Hester asked. “Circumstances or people? The Big Stink was appalling. We can’t allow it to happen again. And the typhoid was even worse. Some of the soldiers died of typhoid in the Crimea. I wouldn’t wish it on Satan himself.”
“Oh, I know we must build the new sewers,” Rose agreed. “But Mary was sure that some of the machines were being used without regard to safety. People are so determined to be faster than their competitors that they are ignoring the rules, and sooner or later the navvies are going to pay the price. You know about the collapse of the Fleet sewer? Of course you do. It was in all the newspapers. That will be nothing compared to what could happen if—”
“Rose, you don’t know that!” Applegate interrupted her at last.
“Mary believed it, and she may have been right, but she—”
“She’s still right!” Rose corrected him.
“But she had no proof!” he finished.
“Exactly!” Rose said, as if that sealed her point. She stared at Hester.
“She knew there was proof and she intended to get it. She was certain she could. Does that sound to you like someone who would take her own life?” She leaned towards Hester, just as Hester had done towards Applegate, unconscious of it, impelled by her fervor. “She loved her father, Mrs. Monk. They understood each other in a way few people do who are of different generations. She had a strong, clear mind and immense courage. I don’t know why people think women can’t be like that! It’s our skirts that stop us from running, not our legs!”
“Rose!” Applegate expostulated.
“You are not shocked, are you?” Rose asked Hester with a flicker of anxiety.
Hester wanted to laugh, but it might hurt their feelings, as if she did not take death seriously. She did, infinitely seriously. But she knew that in the drowning, suffocating horror of war or epidemic disease, laughter, however black, was sometimes the only bulwark against defeat—or madness. But one could not say so in a London withdrawing room, or morning room, or any part of the house at all.
“No, no,” she assured Rose. “In fact, I would like to remember it to say again. There will be countless times when it will be appropriate. Would you like attribution, or prefer I forget who said it first?”
Rose blinked, but it was with pleasure as well as self-consciousness. “I think it might be better for my husband’s position if you forgot,” she replied reluctantly. “The House of Commons is extremely robust in its opinions, but then there are no ladies speaking, and that makes all the difference.” Her mouth pulled in an expression of wry distaste.
Hester understood. She had been freer to say what she thought on the fringes of the battlefield, and had found the return to England painfully restrictive. She went back again to the subject of Mary Havilland. “Did you know her family?” she asked.
Rose shrugged. “Slightly. I liked Mary very much, and it was difficult to do that and be more than civil to the rest of them.”
“They were at odds?”
“Oh, yes. You see, Jenny—that is her elder sister, Jenny Argyll—is completely devoted to her husband and children, as she has to be.” An expression of both irritation and surrender crossed her face.
“Has to be?” Hester asked quickly.
“I have no children to depend upon me, and a husband whom I would trust to the ends of the earth. But few women are as fortunate as I am, and Jenny Argyll is certainly not among them.” Rose shrugged again.
“I believe Alan Argyll is reasonable enough, but if he has faults, Jenny may naturally prefer not to be more aware of them than she is obliged to be. She will not appreciate her sister finding them for her, since she cannot afford to address them! When you are helpless, ignorance is a great comfort.”
“And Mary…did that?” Hester asked. “Either his faults were very grave indeed, or she was very insensitive.” A darker picture was forming at the back of her mind.
“I don’t know,” Rose admitted. “Of course, when we love someone, we don’t always exercise the best sense when warning them of what we perceive to be a danger. I do know that Mary broke off her own betrothal to Toby Argyll, Alan’s younger brother. She was candid about it to me.”
“Candid?” Hester pressed, uncertain what Rose meant. “You mean she told you why she broke it off? Was it something she learned of him?” She would rather not have known, but it could not be avoided now. “Was that what…”
“Oh, no!” Rose said quickly. “You mean did she learn that Toby had some part in her father’s death? And she couldn’t bear it? Is that what you are thinking?”
“Yes,” Hester admitted. “It might be enough to break one’s spirit, even that of someone very strong.”
“Not Mary.” Rose had no doubt in her voice at all. She was sitting upright in the chair now, back straight. “She wasn’t in love with Toby, not really in love, where her world would be plunged into darkness without him! She liked him well enough. She thought his was probably the best offer she would get. After all, how many of us really fall headlong in love with someone we can marry?” She smiled as she said it, her hands relaxed in her lap, and Hester knew that she was not including herself when she spoke. “Most women make an acceptable bargain,” Rose continued. “And Mary was realistic enough to do that. But believe me, breaking it off did not cast her into despair.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “In fact, I think that part of it was no small relief to her. She could refuse him with an easy conscience. No one would expect her to marry so soon after her father’s death, poor soul.”
“My dear, you should not repeat that,” Applegate warned.
“I shan’t,” she promised. Apparently she felt that telling Hester was a matter of honor, a debt to Mary she had no intention of neglecting. “She did not take her own life, Mrs. Monk. Nor did she believe that her father had done so; for him, it would have been not only a sin against the Church, but far worse than that—a sin against himself. And if it was true for him, then it must be true for her. I don’t know what happened, but I will do anything and everything I can to help you find out. Any information I can find, any door I can open, you have but to tell me. Perhaps we can still effect the reform she was working on, and save the lives of at least some of the men who would be killed if there were further accidents in the construction.”
“Thank you,” Hester said warmly. “I will call on you the moment I have a clearer idea of what to do.” She turned to Applegate. “What information was Mary Havilland going to bring you? What do you need to know before you can act?”
“Proof that the safety rules are not being kept,” he replied. “And I am afraid that proof will be very hard to find. Engineers will say that they have surveyed the ground and the old rivers and streams as well as is possible. Men who work with the machines are accustomed to danger and know that a degree of it is part of life. Just as men who go to sea or down into the mines live with danger and loss, without complaining, so do navvies. They would consider it cowardly to refuse or to show self-pity, and would despise any man who did. More than that, they know they would lose their jobs, because for every man who says he will not, there are a dozen others to take his place.”
“And lose arms or legs, or be crushed to death?” Rose demanded.
“Surely…” She stopped, looking to Hester for support.
Hester remained silent. What Applegate said was true. There were tens of thousands like the Collards: proud, angry, stubborn, desperate.
She stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Applegate. I will do all I can to find the proof Mary Havilland was looking for. As soon as I have something I shall return.”
“Or if we can help,” Rose added. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Monk.”
�
�No!” Monk said firmly when she told him that evening. “I’ll pursue it until I find what happened to both Mary Havilland and her father.”
“There’s going to be a disaster if nothing is done, William,” she argued urgently. “Do you expect me to sit by and let that happen?” She made no reference to giving up Portpool Lane, but it hung unsaid between them.
They were standing in the kitchen, the dishes cleared away and the kettle pouring steam into the air as Hester prepared to make the tea.
“Hester, Mary Havilland may have been murdered to prevent her doing precisely that!” Monk said angrily. “For the love of heaven, isn’t that what you’ve just been telling me?”
“Of course I can see it!” she retorted as she yanked the kettle off the hob. “Are you going to stop your investigation?”
“Am I…? No, of course not! What’s that got to do with it?”
“It has everything to do with it!” she answered, raising her voice to match his. “You can risk your life every day, but if I want to do something I believe in, suddenly I’m not allowed to?”
“That is completely different. You are a woman. I know how to protect myself,” he said, as if it were a fact beyond dispute. “You don’t.”
She drew in a deep breath. “You pompous—” she began, then stopped, afraid she would say too much and let all her frustration and loss pour through. She would never be able to retract it because he would know it was true. She forced herself to smile at him instead. “Thank you for being afraid for me. It’s really very kind of you, but quite unnecessary. I shall be discreet.”
For a moment she thought he was going to lose his temper entirely. Instead he started to laugh, and then laughed harder and harder until he was gasping for breath.
“It is not all that funny!” she said waspishly.
“Yes, it is,” he replied, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“You’ve never been discreet a day in your life.” He took her by the shoulders, quite gently but with thorough strength that she could not escape.
