“I wish that were more comfort,” Hester replied. She stepped toward him almost tentatively, then very gently put her head on his shoulder and slid her arms around him, holding him softly, as if he were so physically hurt that she might cause him pain.

It did comfort him, but the pain was too deep inside to be touched. That she should love him was so infinitely precious that he would give anything he owned not to lose it, but there was nothing to give it to, no bargain to make. He lifted his hands and stroked her hair, her neck, and held her.

Monk slept late. It was a long time since he had lain in his own bed with Hester beside him and any kind of peace in his mind, even if it were only the peace of exhaustion, and the knowledge that he could do nothing more to help Katrina Harcus. Avenging her was a different matter. It was important, but he was not alone in it. Runcorn would not let go. Monk could and would help him as the occasion arose.

When he got up in the morning he offered to riddle the kitchen stove and get it going well enough for breakfast. Hester accepted with slight surprise. Monk carried heavy things willingly enough for her, but he was not naturally domestic. He was used to being cared for and accepted it without question, barely noticing the detail.

When he was alone in the kitchen he worked hard at shaking loose the old ash, then took it out on the shovel and put it in the ash can. He brought in a little kindling to get the flames going quickly, then light coal, and as soon as he had the fire burning well enough, he pulled the papers out of his shirtfront, where he had concealed them when dressing, and poked them into the fire. Within moments they were consumed, but they were only two letters, and obviously there had been others. Who was Emma? How could he find her? Where could he even begin to look? He closed the stove door and stood up just as Hester came back from the dining room.

“It’s going well,” he said with a smile.

“That was quick!” She regarded him with surprise. “If you are so good at it, perhaps I should have you do it every day.”

It was meant as teasing, and he relaxed at the ease of it, the old banter returned. “Chance,” he said airily. “Just good luck. Might never happen again.”

“Don’t be so modest!” she retorted with a sideways look at him.

The papers were burnt. He felt guilty about it, they were evidence, but he also felt a wave of relief, at least for the moment. It gave him time. He did not yet know what he would do about the jacket and its missing button. “I thought you admired modesty,” he said, raising his eyebrows.