A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [170]
Mr. Walcott was shaking his head again. The wind was sharper and his hands were turning white holding the daffodils.
“I never ’eard. Not sure as ’e knew for certain,” he answered the question.
“Who was he?” Hester asked, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice—and not succeeding.
But if Mr. Walcott noticed he did not take offense.
“That’d ’ave bin Dr. Loomis, for certain.”
“Where might we find him?” Monk asked.
“Oh …” Mr. Walcott considered for a moment. “Well… ’e were gettin’ on a bit then. ’E lived in Charlwood Road, I ’member that. Nice ’ouse, wi’ a big may tree in the front garden. Smell something marvelous in the late spring, it does.”
“Thank you,” Monk said with feeling. “You’ve been of great assistance, Mr. Walcott.” He held out his hand.
Walcott shook it. “A pleasure, Mr. Latterly.”
Monk winced but kept his peace.
“Ma’am.” Mr. Walcott bowed to Hester, and she smiled back at him, biting her lips to stop herself from laughing. All the same there were tears in her eyes, whether they were for Samuel Jackson, for the bereavement which had brought Mr. Walcott here with the flowers in his freezing hands, or due to the wind itself, Monk had no way to know.
He took her arm and turned her to walk back through the gravestones to the street again, and left towards Charlwood Road. They went for some distance in silence. He felt curiously at ease. He ought to have been embarrassed, filled with urgency to rectify Mr. Walcott’s mistake, and yet every time he drew breath to say something, it seemed the wrong time, the words clumsy and not what he really meant to say.
Eventually they had walked all the way along Upper Richmond Road and around the corner right into Charlwood Road and down as far as the unmistakable house with the ancient, spreading may tree leaning over the fence and arching above the path to the front door.
“This must be it,” Hester said, glancing up at him. “What do we say?”
He should have been thinking about that, and he had not, not with any concentrated effort.
“The truth,” he answered, because he must appear as if he had been silent in order to turn over the matter and make a wise judgment. “I don’t think anything else will serve at this point.”
“I agree,” she said immediately.
She must have been thinking about it. She would never be so amenable otherwise. Why was he faintly disappointed?
He stood back for her to go first up the path.
She saw the brass plate saying “Hector Loomis, M.D.” beside the bell pull. She glanced around at Monk, then reached out and yanked the brass knob, a little too hard. They heard it ringing with a clatter inside.
It was answered by an elderly housekeeper with a crisp white apron and cap.
“Good morning,” Monk said straightaway.
“Good … morning, sir, ma’am,” she replied, hesitating momentarily because it was now well into the afternoon. “May I help you?”
“If you please,” Monk responded. “We have come a very long way to see Dr. Loomis on the matter of a tragedy which happened some time ago and which we have just learned may involve a very serious crime … the crime of murder. It is essential we are certain of our facts beyond any reasonable doubt. Many people may be irreparably hurt if we are not.”
“We are sorry to trouble you without warning or proper appointment,” Hester added. “If there had been another way, we should have taken it.”
“Oh! Bless my soul! Well … you had better come in.” The housekeeper stepped back and invited them to enter. “Dr. Loomis is busy with a patient this minute, but I’ll tell him as you’re here and it’s important. I’m sure he’ll see you.”
“Thank you very much,” Monk accepted, following Hester to where the housekeeper led them to wait and then left them. It was a most agreeable room, but very small, and looked onto the back garden of what was apparently