A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [171]
Hester looked at Monk, the question in her eyes.
“Grandchildren?” he suggested with a sinking feeling of disappointment.
She bit her lip and said nothing. She was too restless to sit down, and he felt the same, but there was not room for them both to pace back and forth, and even though she wore petticoats without hoops, her skirts still took up what little space there was.
When Dr. Loomis appeared he was a mild-faced young man with fast receding hair cut very short and a friendly look of enquiry in his very ordinary face.
“Mrs. Selkirk says you have come a great distance to ask about a crime?” he said, closing the door behind him and looking from one to the other of them with a frown. “How can I help you? I don’t think I know anything at all.”
“It happened twenty-one years ago,” Monk answered, rising to his feet.
“Oh …” Loomis looked disappointed. “That would be my father. I’m so sorry.”
Monk felt a ridiculous disappointment. It was so strong it was physical, as if his throat had suddenly tightened and he could barely catch his breath.
“Perhaps you have his records?” Hester refused to give up. “It was about a Samuel Jackson, who died of bleeding. He had two small daughters, both of them disfigured.”
“Samuel Jackson!” Loomis obviously recognized the name. “Yes, I remember him speaking of that.”
Monk’s hope surged up wildly. Why else would a man speak of a case many years afterwards, except that it worried him, was somehow incomplete?
“What did he say?” he demanded.
Loomis screwed up his face in concentration.
Monk waited. He looked at Hester. She was so tense she seemed scarcely to be breathing.
Loomis cleared his throat. “He was troubled by it …” he said tentatively. “He never really knew what caused him to bleed the way he did. He couldn’t connect it with any illness he knew.” He looked at Monk earnestly. “But of course we know so little, really. A lot of the time we are only making our best guess. We can’t say that.” He shrugged and gave a nervous laugh. His pale, blue-gray eyes were very direct. “I think, to be honest, his greatest concern was because he couldn’t help, and Samuel was so desperate to stay alive because of his children. And as it turned out, Mrs. Jackson did lose them. She couldn’t care for them, poor woman. She was left with almost nothing. She was obliged to make her own way, and she couldn’t do that with two small children … especially not ones that weren’t … normal.” He looked as if he hated saying it. There was a tightness in him, and his hands moved uneasily.
“She did very well for herself,” Hester assured him acidly. “Could Samuel Jackson have died of any sort of poison?”
Loomis regarded her curiously. “Not that I know of. What makes you ask that? Look … Mrs. Selkirk mentioned a crime. I think she actually said murder. Perhaps you had better explain to me what you are seeking, and why.” He waved to them to sit down, and then sat on the chair opposite, upright, leaning forward, listening.
Monk outlined to him all that he knew about Samuel Jackson, but he began with a brief history of the case of Keelin Melville and her death from belladonna poisoning. It took them nearly three quarters of an hour, and neither Hester nor Loomis interrupted him until he had finished.
“What you are saying”—he looked at Monk grimly—“is that you think Dolly Jackson—Delphine Lambert, as she is known now—murdered Samuel in order to escape her situation because he insisted on keeping the children, and she couldn’t bear to have them. She wanted perfection and wouldn’t settle for anything less.”
“Yes,” Monk agreed. “That is what I’m saying. Is it true?”
“I don’t know,” Loomis admitted. “But I’m prepared to do everything in my power to find out.” He stood up. “We can begin with my father’s records. He never destroyed them. They are all in the cellar. Do you know exactly when he died?”
“Yes!” Hester said straightaway. “September twenty-seventh, 1839. It