by Anne Perry
She nodded, sipping her tea, not interrupting.
"Admiral gave the signal to wear and come northwest, back to our first position. Next day, that was, you see?"
"Yes, I see. I know the battle was on the twenty-first."
He nodded again, appreciation in his face. "By dawn o’ the twenty-first the admiral had it exactly right. Twenty-one miles north by west o’ Cape Trafalgar, we were, and to windward o’ the enemy." His eyes were smiling, shining blue, like the sea that historic day. "I can smell the salt in the air," he said softly, screwing up his face as if the glare of the water blinded him still. "Ordered us into two columns and make full sail."
She did not speak.
He was smiling, his tea forgotten. "Made a notch on me gun, I did, like the man next to me. He was an Irishman, I remember. The admiral came around to all of us. He asked what we were doin’. The Irishman told him we were making a mark for another victory, like all the others, just in case he fell in the battle. Nelson laughed an’ said as he would make notches enough in the enemy’s ships.
"About eleven in the morning the admiral went below to pray, and wrote in his diary, as we learned afterwards. Then he came up to be with us all. That was when he had the signal run up." He smiled and shook his head as if some thought consumed him. "He was going to say ’Nelson confides,’ but Lieutenant Pascoe told him that ’expects’ was in the Popham code, an’ he didn’t have to spell it out letter by letter. So what he sent was ’England expects that every man will do his duty.’ " He gave a little shrug, looking at her to make sure she knew how those words had become immortal. He saw it in her face, and was satisfied.
"I don’t really know what happened in the lee column," he went on, still looking at her, but his eyes already sea blue and far away, his inner vision filled with the great ships, sails billowing in the wind, high up masts that scraped the sky, coming around to face the enemy, men at the ready, muscles taut, silent by their guns, the decks behind them painted red, not to show the blood when the slaughter began.
She could see in his eyes and the curve of his lips the memory of a sharper light than this English summer, the pitch of the deck as the ship hit the waves, the waiting, and then the roar and slam of cannon fire, the smell of saltpeter, the sting of smoke in the eyes and nose.
"You can’t imagine the noise," he said so softly it was almost a whisper. "Make them train engines they got now sound like silence. Gunner, I was, an’ a good one. Nobody knows how many broadsides we fired that day. But it was about half past one that the admiral was hit. Pacing the quarterdeck, he was. With the captain-Captain Hardy." He screwed up his face. "There was some idiots as says he was paradin’ with a chest full o’ medals. They haven’t been in a sea battle! Anyway, when he was at sea he never dressed like that. Shabby, he was, wore an ordinary blue jacket, like anyone else. He wore sequin copies of his orders, but if you ever spent time at sea, you’d know they tarnish in a matter o’ days:’ He shook his head in denial again. "And you couldn’t hardly see anybody to make ’em out clear during a battle. Smoke everywhere. Could miss your own mother not a dozen feet from you." He stopped for a few minutes to catch his breath.
Hester thought of offering him more tea, fresh and hot, but she could see that memory was more important, so she sat and waited.
He resumed his story, telling her of the knowledge of victory and the crushing grief felt by the entire fleet when they knew Nelson was dead. Then of the other losses, the ships and the men gone, the wounded, the securing of the prizes, and then the storm which had arisen and caused even further devastation. He described it in simple, vivid words, and his emotion was as sharp as if it had all happened weeks before, not fifty-five years.
He told of putting Nelson’s body in a cask of brandy to preserve it so it could be buried in England, as he had wished.
"Just a little man, he was. Up to my chin, no more," he said with a fierce sniff. "Funny that. We won the greatest victory at sea ever-saved our country from invasion — an’ we came home with flags lowered, like we lost-because he were dead." He fell silent for some time.
She rose and boiled the kettle again, resetting the tray and making a light supper for him with a piece of pie cut into a thin slice, and hot tea.
After he had eaten with some pleasure, he told her of Nelson’s funeral and how all London had turned out to wish him a last farewell.
"Buried in a special coffin, he was," he added with pride. "Plain an’ simple, like death, or the sea. Made from wood taken from the wreckage of the French flagship at the Battle of the Nile. Pleased as punch when Hallowell gave it to him way back, he was. Kept it all those years. Laid in the Painted Hall in Greenwich Hospital. First mourners come on January fourth." He smiled with supreme satisfaction. "Prince o’ Wales hisself."
He took a deep breath and let it out in a rasping cough, but held up his hand to prevent her from interrupting him. "Laid there four days. While all the world went by to pay their respects. Then we took him up the river, on Wednesday morning. The coffin was placed on one of the royal barges made for King Charles II, an’ all covered over in black velvet, with black ostrich plumes, and went in a flotilla up to London. Eleven other barges, there were, all the livery companies with their banners flying. Never seen so much gold and color. Stiff wind that day, too. Fired the guns every minute, all the way up to Whitehall Stairs."
He stopped again, blinking hard, but he could not keep the tears from spilling over and running down his cheeks.
"Next day we took him to Saint Paul’s. Great procession, but mostly army. Only navy there was us — from the Victory herself." His voice cracked, but it was from pride as well as grief. "I was one of them what carried our battle ensigns. We opened them up now and again so the crowd could see the shot holes in them. They all took their hats off as we passed. It made a sound like the noise of the sea." He rubbed his hand across his cheek. "There isn’t anything I’d take this side o’ heaven to trade places with any man alive who wasn’t there."
"I wouldn’t understand it if you did," she answered, smiling at him and unashamed to be weeping, too.
He nodded slowly. "You’re a good girl. You know what it means, don’t you." That was a statement, not a question. He drew in his breath as if to thank her, then knew it was unnecessary, even inappropriate. It would have implied debt, and there was none.
Before she could say anything in answer the door opened and Michael Robb came in. Only then did she realize how long she had been there. It was early evening. The shadows of the sun were long across the floor and touched with a deeper color. She felt a warmth of self-consciousness wash up her face. Automatically, she stood up.
Michael’s disapproval and alarm were too obvious to hide. He saw the tears on the old man’s face and turned to glare at Hester.
"I had the best afternoon in years," Robb said gently, looking up at his grandson. "She kept me real company. We talked about all sort o’ things. I’ve got a kind o’ peace inside me. Come, sit down and have a cup o’ tea. You look like your feet hurt, boy, and you’re mortal tired."
Michael hesitated, confusion filling his face. He looked from one to the other of them, then finally accepted that his grandfather was telling the truth about his pleasure and Hester really had given him a rare gift of companionship, unspoiled by duty or the seeking of recompense. A wide smile of relief lit his face, cutting through the weariness and showing for a moment the youth he wanted to be.
"Yes," he agreed vehemently. "Yes, I will:’ He turned to Hester. "Thank you, Mrs. Monk." His eyes shadowed. "I’m sorry… I found Miriam Gardiner."
Hester felt a sudden coldness inside. The sweetness of the moment before was gone.
"I had to arrest her for Treadwell’s murder," he finished, watching her to see her reaction.
"Why?" she protested. "Why on earth would Miriam Gardiner murder the coachman? If she wanted to escape from Lucius Stourbridge, for whatever reason, all she had to do was have Treadwell leave her somewhere. He would never h
ave known where she went after that." She drew in her breath. "And if she simply went somewhere near her home, Lucius would know more about that than Treadwell anyway."
Michael looked as if the answer gave him no pleasure, barely even any satisfaction. He would probably dearly like to have taken off his boots, which were no doubt tight and hot after the long day, but her presence prevented him. "The most obvious reason is that Treadwell knew something about her which would have ruined her prospects of marriage into the Stourbridge family," he answered. "I daresay she loved young Mr. Stourbridge, but whether she did or not, there’s a great deal of money to it, more than she’ll even have seen in her life."
Hester wanted to protest that Miriam had no regard for the money, but she did not know if that was true. She had impressions, feelings, but barely any real knowledge.
She walked over to the kettle, refilled it from the ewer, which was now almost empty, and set it on the stove again.
"I’m sorry," Michael said wearily, sinking into the chair. "It’s too plain to ignore. The two of them left the Stourbridge house together. They came as far as Hampstead Heath. His body was found, and she ran away. Surely any innocent person would have stayed, or at least come back and reported what had happened."
She thought quickly. "What if they were both attacked by someone else, and she was too afraid of that person to tell anyone what happened?"
He looked at her doubtfully. "So afraid that even when we arrested her she still wouldn’t say?" His voice denied his belief in it.
"Do you know this Miriam Gardiner, girl?" Robb asked, looking at Hester sadly.
"No … no, I haven’t met her." She was surprised that that was true, since she felt so strongly about it. It defied sense. "I … I just know a little about her … I suppose I put myself in her place … a little."
"In her place?" Michael echoed. "What would make you leave a man, beaten, dying, but still alive, and run away, never to come forward until the police hunted you down, and then give no explanation even when you were arrested for killing him?"
"I don’t know," she admitted reluctantly. "I … can’t think of anything … but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be a reason."
"She’s protecting someone," the old man said, shaking his head. "Women’ll do all sorts to protect someone they love. I’ll lay you odds, girl, if she didn’t kill him herself, she knows who did:’
Michael glanced at Hester. "Could be she was having an affair with Treadwell," he said, pursing his lips. "Could be he tried to force her to keep it going, and she wanted to end it because of Stourbridge."
Hester did not argue anymore. Reason was all on his side, and she had nothing to marshal against it. She turned her attention to the kettle.
When she arrived home Monk was already there, and she was startled to see that he had prepared cold game pie and vegetables for dinner and it was set out on the table. She realized how late it was, and apologized with considerable feeling. She was also deeply grateful. She was hot and tired, and her boots felt at least a size too tight.
"What is it?" he asked, seeing the droop in her shoulders and reading her too well to think it was only weariness.
"They’ve found Miriam," she replied, looking up at him from where she had sat down to unlace her boots.
He stood still in the doorway, staring at her.
"They arrested her," she finished quietly. "Michael Robb thinks she killed Treadwell, either because he knew something about her which would have ended her chance of marrying Lucius or because she was having an affair with him and wanted to end it."
His face was grave, the lines harder. "How do you know that?"
She realized the necessity for explanation, a little late. "I was visiting his grandfather, because he is seriously ill, when Sergeant Robb came home."
"And Robb just told you this?" His eyes were wide and steady.
"He knew I was your wife."
"Oh." He hesitated. "And do you think Miriam killed Treadwell?" He was watching her, trying to read not only her words but her feelings. He looked strangely defeated, as if he had felt the same unreasoning hope that Miriam could be innocent.
It was very sweet not to be alone in her sense of disappointment, even disillusion.
She took her boots off and wriggled her feet, then stood up and walked over to him. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you for the dinner."
He grinned with satisfaction. "Don’t make a habit of it," he said smugly.
She knew better than to reply. She walked a step behind him to the table.
6
Monk was unable to rid his mind of the thought of Miriam Gardiner’s arrest. He slept deeply, but when he awoke the memory of her distress twisted his thoughts until he had no choice but to determine to see her.
In case there might be any difficulty with the prison authorities, he lied without compunction, meeting the jailer’s gaze with candor and saying he was her legal adviser, with whom, of course, she was entitled to consult.
Monk found her sitting alone in a cell, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale but so composed as to be in a way frightening. There was no anger in her, no will to fight, no outrage at injustice. She seemed neither pleased nor displeased to see him, as if his presence made no difference with regard to anything that mattered.
The cell door clanged behind him, and he heard the heavy bolt shoot home. The floor was perhaps five paces by five, black stone, the walls whitewashed. A single high aperture was heavily glassed, letting in light but not color. The sky beyond could have been blue or gray. The air was stuffy, smelling of decades, perhaps centuries, of anger and despair.
"Mrs. Gardiner …" he began. He had rehearsed what to say to her, but now it seemed inadequate. Intelligence was needed, even brilliance, if he was to help her in this dreadful situation of confusion and pain, and yet all that seemed natural or remotely appropriate was emotion. "I hoped Robb would not find you, but since he has, please allow me to do what I can to help."
She looked at him blankly, her face almost expressionless. "You cannot help, Mr. Monk. I mean that as no reflection upon your abilities, simply that my situation does not allow it."
He sat down facing her. "What happened?" he asked urgently. "Do you know who killed Treadwell?"
She kept her eyes averted, staring into some dark space that only she could see.
"Do you know?" he repeated more sharply.
"There is nothing I can tell you which will help, Mr. Monk." There was finality in her voice, no lift of hope, not even of argument. She had no will to fight.
"Did you kill him?" he demanded.
She lifted her head slowly, her eyes wide. Before she spoke, he knew what she was going to say.
"No."
"Then who did?"
She looked away again.
His mind raced. The only reason for her silence must be to protect someone. Had she any conception of what it was going to cost her?
"Did Treadwell threaten you?" he asked.
"No." But there was no surprise in her voice or in the profile of her face. Whom was she protecting? Cleo Anderson, who had been almost a mother to her? Some other lover from the past, or a relative of her first husband?
"Was he threatening someone else? Blackmailing you?" he persisted. All sorts of arguments sprang to his lips about not being able to help her if she would not help herself, but they died unspoken because it was too painfully apparent she had no belief that help was possible. "Was Treadwell blackmailing you about something in your life here in Hampstead?"
"No." She lifted her head again. "There was nothing to blackmail me about." Tears filled her eyes. Emotion had broken through the ice of despair for a few moments, then it withered again. The stark cell with its wooden cot and straw mattress, the bare walls and stifling air were hardly real to her. Her world was within herself and her own pain. Surely, she had not yet even imagined what would follow if she did not present some defense. Either she had some reason for attacking Tread
well or else it was simply someone else who had killed him. The only other alternative was that she had not even been present and had no idea what had happened. Then why did she not say so?
He looked at her hunched figure where she sat, half turned away from him, unresponsive.
"Miriam!" He put out his hand and touched her. Her body was rigid. "Miriam! What happened? Why did you leave the Stourbridge house? Was it something to do with Treadwell?"
"No…" There was a driving core of emotion in her voice. "No," she repeated. "It had nothing to do with Treadwell. He was merely good enough to drive me."
"You simply asked him, and he agreed?" he said with surprise. "Did he not require some reason?"
"Not reason. Recompense."
"You paid him?"
"My locket. It doesn’t matter."
That she would part so easily with a personal item of jewelry was a measure of how desperate she had been. He wondered what had become of the locket. It had not been with Treadwell’s clothes. Had his murderer taken it?
"Where is it now?" he asked. "Did you take it back?"
She frowned. "Where is it? Isn’t it with him … with his body?"
"No."
She lifted her shoulders very slightly, less than a shrug. "Then I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Don’t waste your effort on it, Mr. Monk. Maybe it will find its way to someone who will like it. I would rather it were not lost down some drain, but if it is, I can’t help it now."
"What should I put my effort into, Miriam?"
She did not answer for so long he was about to repeat himself when at last she spoke.
"Comfort Lucius…" Without warning, her composure broke and she bent her head and covered her face, sobs shaking her body.
