"What happened to the children, Mr. Connor?" Monk asked.

"After poor Sam died, you mean?" Connor resumed his seat in the largest and most comfortable chair. "That was all very sudden, poor devil. Right as rain one minute, dead the next. At least that's what it looked like, although you can never tell. A man doesn't talk about every pain he gets. Could've been suffering for years, I suppose." He looked thoughtfully into the middle distance, and on the stove the kettle began to sing.

Mrs. Heggerty scalded the teapot, then put the tea in it— sparingly, they had not means to waste—and added water to the brim, leaving it to steep.

"Yes, after he died. What happened?" Monk prompted.

"Well, Mrs. Jackson was left all on her own," Connor answered. "Seems she had no one else, poor little thing. Pretty creature, she was. Charming as the sunshine. Never believed those poor misshapen little things were hers. But o'course they were, sure enough. Looked like her, in her own way." He shook his head, his face sunk in sorrow and amazement. Absentmindedly he made the sign of the cross, and in a continuation of the movement accepted a cup of tea from his daughter.

Monk had already been given his. It did not look very strong, but it was fresh and piping hot. He thanked her for it and looked again at Connor.

"What happened to them?"

"Bleedin' from the stomach, it was." Connor sighed. "It happens. Seen it before. Good man, he was, always a pleasant word. Jackson loved those two little girls more, maybe, than if they'd been perfect." Again he shook his head, his eyes welling over with sadness.

Behind him, Mrs. Heggerty's face was pinched with sorrow too, and she dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron.

"But always anxious," Connor went on. "I suppose he knew what kind of life lay ahead for them and he was trying to think what to do for the best. Anyway, it never came to that, poor soul. Dead, he was, and them no more'n three and a year old, or thereabouts."

Mrs. Heggerty sniffed.

"What did their mother do?" Monk asked.

"She couldn't care for 'em, now could she, poor creature?" Connor shook his head. "No husband, no money anymore. Had to place 'em and go and earn her own way. Don't know what she did." He cradled his mug in his hands and sipped at it slowly. "Clever enough, and certainly pretty enough for anything, but there aren't a lot for a respectable widow to do. No people of her own, an' none of his to be seen." He stopped, staring unhappily at Monk. "You'll not find them little mites now, you know?"

Mrs. Heggerty was listening to them, her work forgotten, her face full of pity.

"Yes, I do know," Monk agreed. "But I said I would try." He sipped his tea as well. It had more flavor than he had expected.