"Yer can't 'urt 'em now," she responded, the tears trickling unheeded down her cheeks. "They're dead, poor souls."

"But they'll have family who care," he pointed out. "And burial in hallowed ground, or not."

She gasped and gave a convulsive shudder.

"Mrs. Porter?"

"Were it Miss 'Avilland?" she asked hoarsely.

"What can you tell me about her?"

"It were 'er? Course, it would be. 'E din't never look at no one else, not ever since 'e met 'er."

"He was in love with her?" Of course, that could mean many things, from the true giving of the heart, unselfishly, through generosity, need, all the way to domination and obsession. And rejection could mean anything from resignation through misery to anger or rage and the need for revenge, perhaps even destruction.

She hesitated.

"Mrs. Porter?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "They was betrothed, at least 'e seemed to take it they was, then she broke it orff. Not that it were formal, like. There weren't no announcement."

"Do you know why?"

She was surprised.

"Me? Course I don't."

"Was there another person?"

"Not for 'im, an' I don't think for 'er neither. Least that's wot I 'eard 'im say." She gave a long sniff and gulped. "This is terrible. I never 'eard o' such a thing, not wi' quality folk. Wot would they want ter go jumpin' orff bridges for? Mr. Argyll'll be broke ter pieces when 'e 'ears, poor man."

"Mr. Argyll? His father?" Monk asked.

"No, 'is brother. Quite a bit older, 'e is. Least I should say so." She sniffed again and fished in her apron pocket for a handkerchief. "I only seen 'im five or six times, when 'e came 'ere fer Mr. Toby, like. Very wealthy gentleman, 'e is. Owns them big machines an' things wot's diggin' the new sewers Mr. Bazalgette drew ter clean up London, so we don't get no more typhoid an' cholera an' the like. Took poor Prince Albert ter die of it, an' the poor Queen's 'eart broke before they do it. Wicked, I say!"