“I came to tell you how sorry I am for having been out of touch for so long.” She released the words in a rush. “And for being in the Crimea when I was so badly needed at home.”

  Charles’s face lost the very last trace of its reserve.

  “There was nothing you could have done,” he said gently. “You were of more use where you were. I missed you. But you couldn’t have changed anything.” He looked toward Candace. “Her uncle and guardian died on Stromboli. It was all very dramatic and dangerous. When he knew he would not live very much longer, Finbar asked me to be her guardian. I felt very inadequate to the task, but I couldn’t refuse.”

  Hester bit back her amazement. This was a man she did not know at all. She had never seen such a possibility in him.

  “Would you like…I don’t know…elevenses?” Candace offered. “We could have lemonade? Are you hungry?”

  Nothing was further from Hester’s mind, but to refuse would be churlish. “Thank you. Lemonade would be excellent, if it is no trouble.”

  “None at all,” Candace assured her, and with a quick look at Charles, she excused herself to fetch it.

  “There was nothing else I could do!” Charles said as soon as the door was closed behind her.

  Hester found herself smiling so widely that she must have looked absurd.

  “Of course not,” she agreed. “And why would you? She seems delightful.”

  “She is the best thing that ever happened to me in my life,” he said simply.

  “I understand. I sort of adopted a mudlark…a child who—”

  “I know what a mudlark is, Hester!” But his pleasure and interest robbed the words of any sting.

  “And he’s eighteen now, and learning to be a doctor,” she added.

  “Why have you come now?” he asked, the lightness vanished. “You look troubled.”

  “I am.” Very briefly she told him about the murders in Shadwell, and about Fitz. She had barely finished when Candace reappeared carrying a tray with a jug of lemonade, three glasses, and several very generous slices of fruitcake.

  Charles took it from her before it overbalanced and set it on the small table. Cake and lemonade were shared among them. Hester took the refreshment out of courtesy, and found that the cake was delicious. She could not remember when she had last eaten any so good.

  “What can you do about this poor man?” Charles asked, not critically, but with obvious concern.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I…” She was unwilling to say it.

  “You don’t know if he’s guilty or not,” he said for her.

  “And even if he’s guilty, you’ll still fight for him, won’t you?” Candace said urgently. “Friends do, don’t they? What mistake is big enough to make you stop being friends?”

  Hester could see layers stretching far beneath the simple words of the question. She had no idea what griefs or judgments lay in the child’s past, or who had abandoned her, whether by force or by choice. Clearly Charles had not, and that mattered to her intensely. Would she judge Charles by what Hester did? It would be a natural thing to do—she was the only person in Charles’s past, his family, that she could know.

  Hester must be careful what she said.

  “No,” she said simply. “But I can’t ignore the possibility that he did kill those people, even while I’m trying to prove that he didn’t. If he did, then he believed he had a reason.”

  “Whoever did it, they believed they had a reason,” Charles pointed out. “Have you any idea what it is? What do the victims have in common, apart from living in Shadwell and being Hungarian, originally?”

  “Nothing we can find,” she replied. “They don’t even come from the same part of Hungary.”

  “Neither did we, in Stromboli, come from the same place,” Candace said quickly. “But we were all there at the same time. Maybe it’s something they all did, or saw? Or something they all knew?”

  “Even though they didn’t know each other before coming to England?” Hester asked.

  Candace thought for a few moments. “Maybe there’s someone they all knew, even if not at the same time?”

  “Why would that be a motive to kill them?” Hester was puzzled.

  “I don’t know,” Candace admitted ruefully. “But there has to be something, doesn’t there?”

  “Yes.” She looked at the girl’s face, soft with youth, skin glowing with the warmth of the late-summer sun, and yet she could see the anxiety in her eyes, the need to hear Hester’s answer that she would never abandon the friend who so desperately needed her. “I won’t stop looking. But we haven’t got very long.”

  “Well, why would Fitz kill all these people? Don’t they have to prove he had a reason?” Candace argued.

  “I wish they did,” Hester agreed. “But the way people feel at the moment, all they want is to blame someone, and hang them. They don’t care why.”

  Candace was clearly horrified.

  A look of surprise hit Charles’s face, and then sudden amusement.

  Hester was about to demand an explanation, but Candace got there before her.

  “That isn’t funny, Uncle Charles,” she said with grave disapproval. “No matter how scared you are, it’s still wrong to judge people without looking at everything.”

  “I’m two years older than Hester,” he told her. “I can remember her when she was your age.”

  Candace was taken aback. She looked at him, then at Hester.

  Hester was taken aback also. It seemed so long ago, and both of them had changed so much. Or was that an illusion? They had been friends then.

  Charles was still looking at Candace. “You remind me so much of her. That is exactly what she would have said, which is probably why she is not arguing with you now. That and perhaps her good manners, but once she knows you, you will get the truth, defiantly, unvarnished.”

  Candace turned to Hester. “Will we get to know each other?” There was a flash of hope in her eyes; then, aware of it, she looked down.

  All sorts of answers, prevarications, came to Hester’s mind. She ignored them and gave an honest answer. “I hope so. But you will have to take Charles’s advice on that. I do a lot of things he may not care for…at least, he may not wish you to have much to do with them, for a while.”

  “Solving murders, and protecting people? That’s not wrong.”

  “I also run a clinic for…women who…” She did not know how to put it delicately. Judging from her confidence and her precise grammar and diction, Candace clearly came from an excellent family.

  “You mean prostitutes,” the girl finished for her.

  It was Charles’s turn to be taken aback.

  Candace smiled at him. “You told me Hester was different. I think my aunt Lucy would have approved of her.” She looked back at Hester, her face filled with pride. “My aunt Lucy was called an adventuress by people who were envious of her. She did all sorts of marvelous things, and was more alive than anyone else. We are going to help you as much as we can…” She turned back to Charles. “Aren’t we!” It was a challenge, not a question.

  “We are going to try,” he agreed. He looked at Hester. “There must be a reason these particular people were victims. If it is not something in their past, as I suspect it may be, then it must be in their present. Were they particularly vulnerable? Lived alone? Needed help of some sort?”

  Hester could see the sense of what he said, but she had no answer.

  “They didn’t come from the same town. They weren’t the same age. Some were successful, others ordinary. They didn’t seem to know each other more than slightly. They had different occupations and were not rivals in anything.”

  “But they were all Hungarians, now living in Shadwell?” he asked.

  “Yes. That’s all. There is nothing to say they ever met before they came here.”

  “There has to be something in common,” he insisted.

  “And Fitz,” Candace added. “You said you were afraid he might have done it, and not even know it now…I’m sorry…I hate saying that. But if he did it, then he knew something about all of them. Even if he can’t remember it now when he’s…all right.”

  Charles leaned forward a little, his face very earnest. “That’s true, Hester. Fitz may hold the answer, even if he doesn’t understand it. You said he came here from the Crimea by traveling across Europe, and he spent a good while in Hungary. It’s a very difficult language, not like any of the other European Romance languages, or the German or Scandinavian ones. How well does he speak it? He wouldn’t become fluent in a few months.”

  “He lived there for years,” she replied. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be the key to the murders, even if he didn’t know it.

  “Did any of them fight back when they were attacked?” Charles asked.

  “Not very much from what I’ve heard,” she said, thinking about it as she spoke. “So they were not expecting it? Is that what you are saying? They had a terrible enemy that they did not even know was there? I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “No wonder everyone’s afraid.” Candace shivered. “And I suppose they can’t have known who it was, or they would have done something about it. Told the police, at least!”

  “Can you have such an enemy and not know it?” Charles was thinking ahead. “If they had a secret, they would at least know it themselves, even if they did not know who else shared it. I don’t see any sense in it.”

  “Then we’ve got to try harder,” Candace said immediately. She looked at Hester. “What else could it be?”

  “They don’t realize it…” Hester was thinking aloud. “They knew something terrible, but they didn’t connect it with the murders.”

  “That would make sense.” Charles did not look as if this gave him any hope. “But what sort of thing? And when the second and third and fourth murders were committed, and still nobody realized it, doesn’t that make them unbelievably stupid?”

  “Yes,” Hester said miserably.

  The lemonade was finished and the cake was all gone but the crumbs, and not many of those.

  “We won’t give up,” Candace declared, facing Charles, then Hester. “You will stay for luncheon, won’t you? There are so many things I would like to talk about with you.”

  “Of course I will,” Hester said, accepting, then turned to Charles. Candace had invited her without consulting him. Clearly she was very comfortable with him. There was a degree of trust that seemed completely natural. They were quite obviously friends: a young woman who had lost all her family, and a lonely man who had gained a young, proud and intelligent ward who would test his patience, his character and his intelligence…and perhaps bring him happiness such as he had never known before.

  —

  IT WAS NEARLY THREE when Charles drove Hester, in the small gig he kept for Candace and himself, from his home to the nearest omnibus stop. He would have taken her farther, but she was hoping to have time to herself on the ride, in order to attempt to give some form to the ideas now filling her mind.

  “When does the trial begin?” Charles asked as they rode through the quiet streets, passing only a few people out walking, either to visit friends or for the sheer pleasure of the day.

  “I don’t know, but very soon,” Hester answered.

  “Tell me, please, Hester. I have no idea what, but is there anything I can do to help?”

  She was bitterly aware of how generous an offer that was, and how it contrasted with her own absence when she was needed, even if there had been little she could have done. She searched for hurt or anger in his face, now that Candace was not with them, but she saw nothing but concern.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I owe Fitz a great deal,” she added suddenly.

  “Do you? More than friendship?” he asked. “Did you not help him as much as he helped you?”

  “In the war, perhaps. But it was he who persuaded me to come and see you, even though I…I put it off so long I made it hard for myself.” She did not look at him as she said it. She was not sure if she was laying too much weight on so new and fragile a reconciliation.

  “Then I owe Fitz a great deal as well,” he replied. “But mostly I want to give Candace a family, more than just me.” Now he was looking at the road ahead, keeping his face turned forward. “She reminds me of you. You used to be like that. Not quite as graceful, perhaps, but just as clever, and as stubborn…and as brave. She doesn’t have as sharp a tongue as you, but I suppose if I’m not careful she could develop one. She needs another woman to trust, and I have no intention of marrying again.” That was the first note of bitterness she had heard in his voice. She had not thought his marriage was sweet, but he had never admitted the loneliness that she sensed now.

  “Of course,” she said instantly. “You don’t think I’m going to put myself through this twice, do you?”

  “Was it so hard?”

  “Yes.” Then she made herself smile. “But if I had to, I’d live through it again to see you now.”

  Charles smiled as well. “I’m coming to the trial, and I’m quite sure Candace—”

  “You can’t bring her! Charles, the murders were very savage, very terrible. It’s not the place for a young—”

  “She’s sixteen, Hester. She’s already seen a murder, and a volcanic eruption where she fled for her life before the lava flow. In three or four years she could be old enough to go and nurse soldiers in a war!”

  “I was in my twenties!” she protested.

  “And if you’d been nineteen, would that have stopped you?”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “It’s exactly the point. Don’t end this visit by fighting with me.”

  She smiled with startling sweetness. “You are right, of course.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  HESTER THOUGHT OF WHAT Charles had said about the four victims all knowing something that had happened in Hungary. They were of different ages, had grown up in different cities, had no associations in common, and yet someone had murdered them all with extraordinary ritual violence.

  Was it something to do with them, or with the murderer? Did the victims even know why they had been singled out? If they hadn’t, why not? And if they had, why had they done nothing to avoid their own deaths?

  The only answer was that they had not known. Or else that it was so secret, so shameful, they preferred to remain silent and risk being the next victim rather than take any visible steps to defend themselves.

  What could be so appalling?

  And why now?

  In heaven’s name, what could it be?

  Then the answer became obvious. Fitz was the only one who had arrived here recently. And if she could see that, certainly the prosecution would. Even if they didn’t know the exact reason, it hardly mattered; the jury would grasp the suggestion of Fitz’s involvement quickly enough. And sometimes the horror you could not name was worse, more terrifying, than the one you could.

  And if Fitz was not guilty—and that was the only possibility she was willing to accept—then something had happened around the time he arrived in Shadwell, something no one else had noticed, or understood. Perhaps if she could find out what it was it would explain itself—and the killer.

  She told this to Monk as they sat with the French windows open to the summer night. It was still balmy enough to be pleasant, and the rustle of the poplar leaves in the twilight breeze was a kind of music.

  She had told him of Charles and Candace over supper. It was something good in all this tragedy, and for a short while they both rejoiced in it. Then it was time to face reality. Fitz was due to stand trial for the second, third, and fourth murders in the middle of the next week, only four days away.

  “I need to see Fitz again,” she told Monk.

  “He’s not doing well…” he began.

  “Something happened, William, something…”

  “He doesn’t remember! He’s…he can’t help, Hester. He’s quite willing to believe he did it. He’s too tired, too frightened and too beaten to fight anymore. I think the nightmares, waking and sleeping, are too much for him.” He looked at her with an aching gentleness. “I’m seeing…”

  “I have an idea,” she said tentatively. “It may not work…”

  “Hester…it—”

  “I have to try!” She was close to tears now. She knew that it was perfectly possible that Fitz was guilty. Some purgatory in his own mind had driven him into retaliation against ghosts.

  “What? There’s nothing left that we haven’t already done. And no one has got into Fitz’s mind, because it’s changing from one day to the next.”

  “I’m not going to try to make him remember. Something triggered this. Whoever killed all these people, something made him begin…”

  “We all know that.”

  “But we don’t know what it was.” She leaned forward. “Just listen to me, William. I know Fitz won’t remember it, or if he does it won’t sound like anything sensible to the jury, but if there was something, maybe it will be in the local newspapers.”

  “We’ve looked at them.”

  “The Hungarian ones? The local ones the community puts out that keeps people up to date with personal things? And news from Hungary itself?”

  “If there was anything personal, we can’t read them or understand what might—”

  “No, of course we can’t! But Fitz could!” She put her hand over his and clasped it hard. “It’s just a matter of getting copies of the papers for the month or so before the first murder, and having him read them—just tell us what they say. It’s worth trying, isn’t it? Do you have a better idea? Someone will give us copies. People keep things like that. Their love of the old country, the old ways, is strong. And they’ll all have family and friends over there.”

  “Who are you going to ask for them?” he inquired, but there was a lift in his voice.

  “I’m sure they’ll keep them in one of the shops, if not several. But I’ll see what the man in the café says. He likes Fitz. He’ll do what he can to help.”

  “Be quick. We have only a few days. Fitz must be…” He stopped.