“Sad indeed,” Monk agreed, his mind racing. Buckinghamshire. It should not be so difficult to trace a well-to-do clergyman who had died recently. He must have been more than a mere parson, and presumably his name was also Wyndham.
“I suppose it happened a few years ago now?” he said, trying to make his voice conversational.
“I really don't know, sir. It was spoken of with some sadness, but then it would be. And she was not in mourning.”
“I only wish to know so that I did not intrude, and if I should mention it if I have to write,” Monk explained. “Would it be possible for you to give me the lady's address, then I could request a new list of the places she recommended?”
“Well, sir, I hardly think that would be proper,” the porter said regretfully, nodding to two gentlemen who passed and touching his hat in a gesture of respect. He turned back to Monk. “You see, sir, I'm afraid the society would not sanction such a practice. I'm sure you understand. But if you care to write a letter and leave it with us, there would be no bar to me forwarding it to her.”
“Of course. I understand. Perhaps I shall do that,” Monk accepted because he really had no alternative. A trip to Buckinghamshire seemed indicated, unless he could find some record of the late Reverend Wyndham without recourse to travel. He left the Geographical Society, if not with hope, then at least with a sense of purpose.
But even the most diligent search of the appropriate register of the clergy yielded no Reverend Wyndham in Buckinghamshire, or in any other part of the country. He began to walk very slowly along the footpath away from the library, disappointment deep inside him like the cold and the damp of the afternoon.
Perhaps he had been naive to have thought it might be so easy. Either the information was incorrect, an invention for the benefit of whoever she was telling, or else it was basically true, but she had changed her name, presumably to avoid the disgrace of whatever crime had brought her across Monk's path.
He ignored a flower seller and a boy with the latest edition of the newspapers.
Perhaps the whole thing was nothing to do with his profession. Maybe he had met her purely personally. Her sense of injury might spring from some sexual betrayal he had committed.
His heart went cold at the thought. Had they been lovers and he had deserted her? Had there perhaps been a child, and he had left her, rather than take responsibility? It was not impossible. Men had done that from time immemorial. God knew, there were illegitimate children all over the country, and bungled abortions as well. He had seen them himself, even since the accident, let alone before. If that were true, she could not hate him any more profoundly than he would hate himself. He deserved the ruin she wished him.
He passed a seller of hot pies, and for a moment the savory aroma tempted him, then his stomach revolted at the thought of eating.
He had to know the truth. At any cost, whatever labor or pain, he must know.
And if he was guilty of such a thing, how could he tell Hester? She would not forgive him for that. She would not stand by with her courage and spirit, and help him fight his way back.
Neither would Callandra. Nor John Evan, for that matter.
He had to be the first to know.
But where to turn next? If Drusilla had changed her name, it could have been anything before, any of a million names.
He stepped off the curb and avoided the traffic and the horse dung.
Except almost all people wanted to keep some sense of identity, some link with the past. There was often a connection, a link of sound, of initial letter, or some other association in the mind. At times it was a family name, a mother or grandmother's maiden name, for example.
He reached the far pavement just as a landau missed him by no more than a yard.
Perhaps the part about Buckinghamshire was true? Or about the church? He turned on his heel, back across the road again, and strode back to the library where the directory of all clergy was lodged, and asked to see it again. This time he searched the incumbents of Buckinghamshire for any senior clergyman who had died within the last ten years.
But there were none whose names suggested any connection, however tenuous, with Drusilla Wyndham.
“Is this all?” he asked the clerk who was hovering anxiously. “Is there any way one might have been missed? Perhaps I had better look further back than ten years.”
“Of course, sir, if you think it will help,” the clerk agreed. “If you could be a little more precise as to what it is you are searching for, perhaps I could be of some assistance.” He adjusted his spectacles and sneezed. “I do beg your pardon.”
“I'm looking for a clergyman who died in Buckinghamshire, probably within the last ten years,” Monk replied, feeling foolish and desperate. “But I have been given the wrong name.”
“Then I don't know how you can find it, sir,” the clerk said, shaking his head unhappily. “Do you know anything else about him?”
“No…' “Do you not have even the least idea what his name is? Not even what it may have sounded like?” The man appeared to be pressing the issue simply for something to say. He looked most uncomfortable.
“It may have sounded like Wyndham,” Monk replied, also only for civility's sake.
“Oh, dear. I am afraid I can think of nothing. Of course, there was the Reverend Buckingham, who died in Norfolk.” The clerk gave a jerky, bitter laugh, and sneezed again. “In a place called Wymondham, which of course is pronounced 'Wyndham,' at least locally. But that is hardly of use to you- He stopped, startled because Monk had risen to his feet and clapped him on the back so sharply his spectacles flew off his nose and landed on the floor.
“You are brilliant, sir!” Monk said enthusiastically. “Quite brilliant! Why did I not think of that myself? Once you see it, it is as obvious as daylight. Thank God for one man with brains.”
The clerk blushed furiously and was quite unable to frame any reply.
“What can you tell me about him?” Monk demanded, picking up the spectacles, polishing them and handing them back. “Where was he living? What was the cause of his death? How old a man was he? What family had he? What, precisely, was his position?”
“Good gracious!” The clerk blinked at him like an owl, his spectacles in his hand. “Well… well, I can certainly find out for you, sir. Yes, yes indeed. May I inquire why it is you must know? Is he perhaps a relative?”
“I believe he may be a relative of someone of the utmost importance to me,” Monk replied truthfully, if deviously. “Someone who holds my very life in their hands. Yes, please tell me everything you can about the late Reverend Buckingham, and his family. I shall wait here.”
“Ah-well-I may be… yes, of course.” He sneezed again and apologized.
“To be sure.” And he scurried off about his task.
Monk paced the floor until the clerk returned some twenty-five minutes later, pink-faced and brimming with triumph.
“He died some eight years ago, sir, on the twenty-eighth of March, 1851.”
He frowned. “The cause of death was listed as chill, rather unspecific. He was not an elderly man, indeed only in his fifty-sixth year, and apparently had been in good health until that time.”
“His family!” Monk said urgently. “Did he have children?”
“Why yes, yes he did. And he left a widow, a Mary Ann.”
“Names of the children!” Monk demanded. “What were their names? What were their ages?”
“My goodness, sir, don't distress yourself so! Yes, there were children, indeed there were. One son named Octavian, which is curious, since apparently he was the eldest-“
“Curious?”
“Yes sir. Clergymen often have large families, and Octavian means eighth, you know…”
“Daughters! Did he have daughters?”