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Hester winced. "And then what?"
"Then Rathbone came back, spoke to Keelin for a few moments, and they returned to court."
Hester sat for a while thinking silently. It did not seem to make any sense. Monk thought of the afternoon session, the tension and despair. He could picture Keelin Melville safely next to Rathbone, her face tense, the light reflecting in her clear eyes, which were almost the color of aquamarine. Her skin was very fair, spattered with freckles, her features fine but with a remarkable i
"She bit her nails!" he almost shouted, leaning towards Hester and clasping her hand where it lay on the table, turning it over. "She bit her nails!"
"What?" She looked startled.
He rubbed his fingertips along the tabletop, then put them to his lips.
"The powder…" she breathed out the words. "If that was the bellado
"Would it be enough?" He barely dared ask.
"It could be…" she said slowly, staring back at him. "If it were pure… to act within a few hours. Especially if she ate nothing." Her voice rose a little, getting more urgent. "She didn't wash her hands after touching the jewelry?"
"No. She went straight back into court. I don't imagine at that point she would think of such a thing… still less of a taste."
"I don't think it tastes unpleasant," she answered. "Children sometimes eat the fruit by mistake."
"Does it kill them?" he asked.
"Yes, it does, usually. And this would be concentrated."
"Where would she have got it?" He tried to keep the sense of victory out of his voice, but it was there in spite of him.
"An herbalist, or even distill it herself," she replied, not taking her eyes from his.
"There won't be berries this time of the year."
"You don't need the berries. Any part of it is poisonous… berries, flowers, roots, leaves, anything at all!"
Monk clenched his fist. "That's it! That's how she did it! By God, she's clever! Now, how can we prove it?" He sat back on the chair. He was warm at last, and very comfortable in Gabriel's shirt and trousers. He felt elated. He knew the truth! And Keelin Melville had not killed herself. She had not died in drowning despair, surrendering. It had not even been directly his, or Rathbone's, failure which had been responsible.
"Is she buried yet?" Hester asked. "Perhaps if they haven't washed her hands… under the nails…"
"Yes," he answered before she finished. "They buried her." The words hurt. "As a suicide… in unhallowed ground. Even Wolff was not permitted to be there."
"God won't care," she said with unwavering conviction. "But without her hands to look at… what about the suit she wore? Do you think we could see that? Or did they bury her in it?" There was finality in her voice, as if she expected the answer even before he gave it.
"I don't know, but I expect they did bury her in it. Why would they be bothered to change it? And Delphine took the packet back. She was careful enough for that."
"What about the jewelry itself?" she asked, but without hope.
"It wouldn't prove anything much, except to us," he replied. "Only that she had bellado
"Then I don't think we can prove it," Hester said slowly.
"Not-not prove it? We've got to!" He was outraged. It was monstrous! Unbearable! Delphine Lambert had abandoned two tiny children to the cruelty of strangers-two vulnerable, damaged children who needed her even more than most. Then she had murdered the most brilliant, dazzling, creative architect of the age, all to further her own comfort and ambition, and to find a good marriage for her adopted daughter-whether she wanted it or not. Appearance had been everything, beauty, glitter-as shallow as the skin. The passion and hope and pain of the heart beneath had been thrown away. He could not let himself think it could all just happen and no one could call for any accountability, any justice, any regret at all. All kinds of arguments raged through his head, and even as he thought of each one, he knew it was no use.
"Can we?" Hester asked, her face puckered. She had not known Keelin Melville; she had not even been at court this time, as she had in most of the other cases he had cared about deeply. It was strange, and he realized now he had missed her. But Gabriel Sheldon was tied inextricably to it, because Martha Jackson was part of his household, part of Perdita's life, and because he too knew what it was like to be disfigured, to know his face, the outer part of him everyone saw and judged him by so easily, filled people with revulsion, even with fear. He was an outcast of the same kind, a victim of a world where sight ruled so much. Hester understood it.
And she understood Keelin Melville, a woman fighting to succeed in a world where men made all the rules and judged only by the yardstick of their own preconceptions, not by reality of courage or skill or achievement. She had seen others sacrificed to it, and eventually crushed.
"We must!" he said fiercely, leaning farther forward. "We must find a way."
"It's all gone," she pointed out, her mouth tight, her eyes sad. "Will they dig her up again, do you suppose?"
He had to be honest. There was not the slightest chance, not on the belief he had now. No one would want to consider it, to raise such a hideous possibility, face the suit for criminal libel if they were wrong.
"No."
She looked at his empty plate. "Do you want some more soup?"
"No! I want to think of a way to prove what happened to Keelin Melville and find some justice for those two abandoned and unloved children!" He sighed. "And I want some kind of vengeance… some balancing of the scales."
She sat in silence for a while again, cupping her chin in her hands.
He waited, searching for an answer in his mind, going over the details of the case, all the questions and answers. He was warm, physically comfortable, but exhaustion was creeping over him and he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate.
The door opened and Martha came in carrying a tray with fresh tea on it. Her eyes were bright and calm and there was a glow in her cheeks. She set the tray down on the table, smiling at him. She was almost too full of emotion to find words.
"Mr. Monk… I-I can't…" She shook her head. "I just don't know how to say what you've done for me. You're… the best man I know. I never truly thought it was possible… but you found them. I wish I could give you more…" She was clearly embarrassed, feeling nothing she had was sufficient reward for him.
"I don't need any more payment, Miss Jackson," he said without even having to think about it. "You already gave me sufficient for all my expenses." That was not quite true, but close enough.
She hesitated.
"Except the tea," he added.
She remembered and poured it immediately. It was steaming and fragrant.
"Are they all right?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she murmured, nodding. "Oh, yes… they will be. Everyone's very good. Finding them clothes and boots and so on. Tillie gave Phemie one of her dresses, and Agnes found one for Leda, and a petticoat with frills on it. Sarah gave them both stockings." She blinked hastily. "And she was looking for sheets and blankets for them, and deciding which room would be best. Put them in together, in case they get lonely, or frightened in a new place. And then Miss Perdita came down and she was so nice to them." She said it as if she hardly dared believe it was true. "She said they could stay here all the time."