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.
"Hello?" 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 sexton, 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 sexton 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 sexton 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 sexton 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 prickled.
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 passed.
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 hoarse, 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.
"Glass!" she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. "Ground glass. It's still here. Under where the stomach used to be. She fed him ground glass. 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. "Sexton, 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 glass where she had found it.
The sexton 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?"
"What?" She was shuddering with cold and shock.
He wanted to hold her closer but he knew she would refuse.
"Hester, will you marry me?"
She was silent for so long he thought she was not going to answer, possibly even that she had not heard him. He was about to repeat it when she spoke.
"Why?" she asked, looking at him, although she could hardly have seen his face in the light of the single lantern sitting on the gravestone to their side.
"Because I love you, of course!" he said sharply, feeling vulnerable and suddenly terrified she would refuse. A pit of loneliness loomed up in front of his imagination worse than the yawning grave beside them. "And I don't want ever to be without you," he added.
"I think that's a good reason," she said very softly. "Yes, I will." And she did not resist in the slightest when he drew her closer to him and kissed her again, and again, and again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Among Anne Perry ’s other novels featuring investigator William Monk areFuneral in Blue,Slaves of Obsession, The Twisted Root, andA Breach of Promise. She also writes the popular novels featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt, includingThe Whitechapel Conspiracy,Half Moon Street,Bedford Square, and Brunswick Gardens. Her short story “Heroes” won an Edgar Award. Anne Perry lives in Scotland. Visit her Web site at www.anneperry.net.
