A Dangerous Mourning

Chapter 1

“Good morning, Monk," Runcorn said with satisfaction spreading over his strong, narrow features. His wing collar was a trifle askew and apparently pinched him now and again. "Go over to Queen Anne Street. Sir Basil Moidore." He said the name as though it were long familiar to him, and watched Monk's face to see if he registered ignorance. He saw nothing, and continued rather more waspishly. "Sir Basil's widowed daughter, Octavia Haslett, was found stabbed to death. Looks like a burglar was rifling her jewelry and she woke and caught him." His smile tightened. "You're supposed to be the best detective we've got-go and see if you can do better with this than you did with the Grey case!"

Monk knew precisely what he meant. Don't upset the family; they are quality, and we are very definitely not. Be properly respectful, not only in what you say, how you stand, or whether you meet their eyes, but more importantly in what you discover.

Since he had no choice, Monk accepted with a look of bland unconcern, as if he had not understood the implications.

"Yes sir. What number in Queen Anne Street?"

"Number Ten. Take Evan with you. I daresay by the time you get there, there'll be some medical opinion as to the time of her death and kind of weapon used. Well, don't stand there, man! Get on with it!"

Monk turned on his heel without allowing time for Runcorn to add any more, and strode out, saying "Yes sir" almost under his breath. He closed the door with a sharpness very close to a slam.

Evan was coming up the stairs towards him, his sensitive, mobile face expectant.

"Murder in Queen Anne Street." Monk's irritation eased away. He liked Evan more than anyone else he could remember, and since his memory extended only as far back as the morning he had woken in the hospital four months ago, mistaking it at first for the poorhouse, that friendship was unusually precious to him. He also trusted Evan, one of only two people who knew the utter blank of his life. The other person, Hester Latterly, he could hardly think of as a friend. She was a brave, intelligent, opinionated and profoundly irritating woman who had been of great assistance in the Grey case. Her father had been one of the victims, and she had returned from her nursing post in the Crimea, although the war was actually over at that point, in order to sustain her family in its grief. It was hardly likely Monk would meet her again, except perhaps when they both came to testify at the trial of Menard Grey, which suited Monk. He found her abrasive and not femininely pleasing, nothing like her sister-in-law, whose face still returned to his mind with such elusive sweetness.

Evan turned and fell into step behind him as they went down the stairs, through the duty room and out into the street. It was late November and a bright, blustery day. The wind caught at the wide skirts of the women, and a man ducked sideways and held on to his top hat with difficulty as a carriage bowled past him and he avoided the mud and ordure thrown up by its wheels. Evan hailed a hansom cab, a new invention nine years ago, and much more convenient than the old-fashioned coaches.

"Queen Anne Street," he ordered the driver, and as soon as he and Monk were seated the cab sped forward, across Tottenham Court Road, and east to Portland Place, Langham Place and then a dogleg into Chandos Street and Queen Anne Street. On the journey Monk told Evan what Runcorn had said.

"Who is Sir Basil Moidore?" Evan asked innocently.

"No idea," Monk admitted. "He didn't tell me." He grunted. "Either he doesn't know himself or he's leaving us to find out, probably by making a mistake."

Evan smiled. He was quite aware of the ill feeling between Monk and his superior, and of most of the reasons behind it. Monk was not easy to work with; he was opinionated, ambitious, intuitive, quick-tongued and acerbic of wit. On the other hand, he cared passionately about real injustice, as he saw it, and minded little whom he offended in order to set it right. He tolerated fools ungraciously, and fools, in his view, included Runcorn, an opinion of which he had made little secret in the past.

Runcorn was also ambitious, but his goals were different; he wanted social acceptability, praise from his superiors, and above all safety. His few victories over Monk were sweet to him, and to be savored.

They were in Queen Anne Street, elegant and discreet houses with gracious facades, high windows and imposing entrances. They alighted, Evan paid the cabby, and they presented themselves at the servants' door of Number 10. It rankled to go climbing down the areaway steps rather than up and in through the front portico, but it was far less humiliating than going to the front and being turned away by a liveried footman, looking down his nose, and dispatched to the back to ask again.

"Yes?" the bootboy said soberly, his face pasty white and his apron crooked.

"Inspector Monk and Sergeant Evan, to see Lord Moi-dore," Monk replied quietly. Whatever his feeling for Runcorn, or his general intolerance of fools, he had a deep pity for bereavement and the confusion and shock of sudden death.

"Oh-" The bootboy looked startled, as if their presence had turned a nightmare into truth. "Oh-yes. Yer'd better come in." He pulled the door wide and stepped back, turning into the kitchen to call for help, his voice plaintive and desperate. "Mr. Phillips! Mr. Phillips-the p'lice is 'ere!"

The butler appeared from the far end of the huge kitchen. He was lean and a trifle stooped, but he had the autocratic face of a man used to command-and receiving obedience without question. He regarded Monk with both anxiety and distaste, and some surprise at Monk's well-cut suit, carefully laundered shirt, and polished, fine leather boots. Monk's appearance did not coincide with his idea of a policeman's social position, which was beneath that of a peddler or a costermonger. Then he looked at Evan, with his long, curved nose and imaginative eyes and mouth, and felt no better. It made him uncomfortable when people did not fit into their prescribed niches in the order of things. It was confusing.

"Sir Basil will see you in the library," he said stiffly. "If you will come this way.'' And without waiting to see if they did, he walked very uprightly out of the kitchen, ignoring the cook seated in a wooden rocking chair. They continued into the passageway beyond, past the cellar door, his own pantry, the still room, the outer door to the laundry, the housekeeper's sitting room, and then through the green baize door into the main house.

The hall floor was wood parquet, scattered with magnificent Persian carpets, and the walls were half paneled and hung with excellent landscapes. Monk had a flicker of memory from some distant time, perhaps a burglary detail, and the word Flemish came to mind. There was still so much that was closed in that part of him before the accident, and only flashes came back, like movement caught out of the corner of the eye, when one turns just too late to see.

But now he must follow the butler, and train all his attention on learning the facts of this case. He must succeed, and without allowing anyone else to realize how much he was stumbling, guessing, piecing together from fragments out of what they thought was his store of knowledge. They must not guess he was working with the underworld connections any good detective has. His reputation was high; people expected brilliance from him. He could see that in their eyes, hear it in their words, the casual praise given as if they were merely remarking the obvious. He also knew he had made too many enemies to afford mistakes. He heard it between the words and in the inflections of a comment, the barb and then the nervousness, the look away. Only gradually was he discovering what he had done in the years before to earn their fear, their envy or their dislike. A piece at a time he found evidence of his own extraordinary skill, the instinct, the relentless pursuit of truth, the long hours, the driving ambition, the intolerance of laziness, weakness in others, failure in himself. And of course, in spite of all his disadvantages since the accident, he had solved the extremely difficult Grey case.

They were at the library. Phillips opened the door and announced them, then stepped back to allow them in.

The room was traditional, lined with shelves. One large bay window let in the light, and green carpet and furnishings made it restful, almost gave an impression of a garden.

But there was no time now to examine it. Basil Moidore stood in the center of the floor. He was a tall man, loose boned, unathletic, but not yet running to fat, and he held himself very erect. He could never have been handsome; his features were too mobile, his mouth too large, the lines around it deeply etched and reflecting appetite and temper more than wit. His eyes were startlingly dark, not fine, but very penetrating and highly intelligent. His thick, straight hair was thickly peppered with gray.

Now he was both angry and extremely distressed. His skin was pale and he clenched and unclenched his hands nervously.

"Good morning, sir." Monk introduced himself and Evan. He hated speaking to the newly bereaved-and there was something peculiarly appalling about seeing one's child dead- but he was used to it. No loss of memory wiped out the familiarity of pain, and seeing it naked in others.

"Good morning, Inspector," Moidore said automatically. "I'm damned if I know what you can do, but I suppose you'd better try. Some ruffian broke in during the night and murdered my daughter. I don't know what else we can tell you."

"May we see the room where it happened, sir?" Monk asked quietly. "Has the doctor come yet?"

Sir Basil's heavy eyebrows rose in surprise. "Yes-but I don't know what damned good the man can do now."

"He can establish the time and manner of death, sir."

"She was stabbed some time during the night. It won't require a doctor to tell you that.'' Sir Basil drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze wandered around the room, unable to sustain any interest in Monk. The inspector and Evan were only functionaries incidental to the tragedy, and he was too shocked for his mind to concentrate on a single thought. Little things intruded, silly things; a picture crooked on the wall, the sun on the title of a book, the vase of late chrysanthemums on the small table. Monk saw it in his face and understood.

" One of the servants will show us." Monk excused himself and Evan and turned to leave.

"Oh…yes. And anything else you need," Basil acknowledged.

"I suppose you didn't hear anything in the night, sir?" Evan asked from the doorway.

Sir Basil frowned. "What? No, of course not, or I'd have mentioned it." And even before Evan turned away the man's attention had left them and was on the leaves wind whipped against the window.

In the hall, Phillips the butler was waiting for them. He led them silently up the wide, curved staircase to the landing, carpeted in reds and blues and set with several tables around the walls. It stretched to right and left fifty feet or more to oriel windows at either end. They were led to the left and stopped outside the third door.

"In there, sir, is Miss Octavia's room," Phillips said very quietly. "Ring if you require anything."

Monk opened the door and went in, Evan close behind him. The room had a high, ornately plastered ceiling with pendant chandeliers. The floral curtains were drawn to let in the light. There were three well-upholstered chairs, a dressing table with a three-mirror looking glass, and a large four-poster bed draped in the same pink-and-green floral print as the curtains. Across the bed lay the body of a young woman, wearing only an ivory silk nightgown, a dark crimson stain slashing down from the middle of her chest almost to her knees. Her arms were thrown wide and her heavy brown hair was loose over her shoulders.

Monk was surprised to see beside her a slender man of just average height whose clever face was now very grave and pinched in thought. The sun through the window caught his fair hair, thickly curled and sprinkled with white.

"Police?" he asked, looking Monk up and down. "Dr. Faverell," he said as introduction. "The duty constable called me when the footman called him-about eight o'clock."

"Monk," Monk replied. "And Sergeant Evan. What can you tell us?"

Evan shut the door behind them and moved closer to the bed, his young face twisted with pity.

"She died some time during the night," Faverell replied bleakly. "From the stiffness of the body I should say at least seven hours ago.'' He took his watch out of his pocket and glanced at it. "It's now ten past nine. That makes it well before, say, three a.m. at the very outside. One deep, rather ragged wound, very deep. Poor creature must have lost consciousness immediately and died within two or three minutes."

"Are you the family physician?" Monk asked.

"No. I live 'round the corner in Harley Street. Local constable knew my address."

Monk moved closer to the bed, and Faverell stepped aside for him. The inspector leaned over and looked at the body. Her face had a slightly surprised look, as if the reality of death had been unexpected, but even through the pallor there was a kind of loveliness left. The bones were broad across the brow and cheek, the eye sockets were large with delicately marked brows, the lips full. It was a face of deep emotion, and yet femininely soft, a woman he might have liked. There was something in the curve of her lips that reminded him for a moment of someone else, but he could not recall who.

His eyes moved down and saw under the torn fabric of her nightgown the scratches on her throat and shoulder with smears of blood on them. There was another long rent in the silk from hem to groin, although it was folded over, as if to preserve decency. He looked at her hands, lifting them gently, but her nails were perfect and there was no skin or blood under them. If she had fought, she had not marked her attacker.

He looked more carefully for bruises. There should be some purpling of the skin, even if she had died only a few moments after being hurt. He searched her arms first, the most natural place for injury in a struggle, but there was nothing. He could find no mark on the legs or body either.

"She's been moved," he said after a few moments, seeing the pattern of the stains to the end of her garments, and only smears on the sheets beneath her where there should have been a deep pool. "Did you move her?"

"No." Faverell shook his head. "I only opened the curtain." He looked around the floor. There were dark roses on the carpet. "There." He pointed. "That might be blood, and there's a tear on that chair. I suppose the poor woman put up aright."

Monk looked around also. Several things on the dressing table were crooked, but it was hard to tell what would have been the natural design. However a cut glass dish was broken, and there were dried rose leaves scattered over the carpet underneath it. He had not noticed them before in the pattern of the flowers woven in.

Evan walked towards the window.

"It's unlatched," he said, moving it experimentally.

“I closed it,'' the doctor put in. "It was open when I came, and damned cold. Took it into account for the rigor, though, so don't bother to ask me. Maid said it was open when she came with Mrs. Haslett's morning tray, but she didn't sleep with it open normally. I asked that too."

"Thank you," Monk said dryly.

Evan pushed the window all the way up and looked outside.

"There's creeper of some sort here, sir; and it's broken in several places where it looks as if someone put his weight on it, some pieces crushed and leaves gone." He leaned out a little farther. "And there's a good ledge goes along as far as the drainpipe down. An agile man could climb it without too much difficulty."

Monk went over and stood beside him. "Wonder why not the next room?" he said aloud. "That's closer to the drainpipe, easier, and less chance of being seen."

"Maybe it's a man's room?" Evan suggested. "No jewelry-or at least not much-a few silver-backed brushes, maybe, and studs, but nothing like a woman's."

Monk was annoyed with himself for not having thought of the same thing. He pulled his head back in and turned to the doctor.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"Not a thing, sorry." He looked harassed and unhappy. "I'll write it out for you, if you want. But now I've got live patients to see. Must be going. Good day to you."

"Good day." Monk came back to the landing door with him. "Evan, go and see the maid that found her, and get her ladies' maid and go over the room to see if anything's missing, jewelry in particular. We can try the pawnbrokers and fences. I'm going to speak to some of the family who sleep on this floor."

The next room turned out to be that of Cyprian Moidore, the dead woman's elder brother, and Monk saw him in the morning room. It was overfurnished, but agreeably warm;

presumably the downstairs maids had cleaned the grate, sanded and swept the carpets and lit the fires long before quarter to eight, when the upstairs maids had gone to waken the family.

Cyprian Moidore resembled his father in build and stance. His features were similar-the short, powerful nose, the broad mouth with the extraordinary mobility which might so easily become loose in a weaker man. His eyes were softer and his hair still dark.

Now he looked profoundly shaken.

"Good morning, sir," Monk said as he came into the room and closed the door.

Cyprian did not reply.

"May I ask you, sir, is it correct that you occupy the bedroom next to Mrs. Haslett's?"

"Yes." Cyprian met his eyes squarely; there was no belligerence in them, only shock.

"What time did you retire, Mr. Moidore?"

Cyprian frowned. "About eleven, or a few minutes after. I didn't hear anything, if that is what you are going to ask."

“And were you in your room all night, sir?'' Monk tried to phrase it without being offensive, but it was impossible.

Cyprian smiled very faintly.

"I was last night. My wife's room is next to mine, the first as you leave the stair head.'' He put his hands into his pockets. “My son has the room opposite, and my daughters the one next to that. But I thought we had established that whoever it was broke into Octavia's room through the window."

"It looks most likely, sir," Monk agreed. "But it may not be the only room they tried. And of course it is possible they came in elsewhere and went out through her window. We know only that the creeper was broken. Was Mrs. Haslett a light sleeper?"

"No-" At first he was absolutely certain, then doubt flickered in his face. He took his hands out of his pockets. "At least I think not. But what difference does it make now? Isn't this really rather a waste of time?" He moved a step closer to the fire. "It is indisputable someone broke in and she discovered him, and instead of simply running, the wretch stabbed her." His face darkened. "You should be out there looking for him, not in here asking irrelevant questions! Perhaps she was awake anyway. People do sometimes waken in the night.''

Monk bit back the reply that rose instinctively.

"I was hoping to establish the time," he continued levelly. "It would help when we come to question the closest constable on the beat, and any other people who might have been around at that hour. And of course it would help when we catch anyone, if he could prove he was elsewhere."

"If he was elsewhere, then you wouldn't have the right person, would you!" Cyprian said acidly.

"If we didn't know the relevant time, sir, we might think we had!" Monk replied immediately. "I'm sure you don't want the wrong man hanged!”

Cyprian did not bother to answer.

The three women of the immediate family were waiting together in the withdrawing room, all close to the fire: Lady Moidore stiff-backed, white-faced on the sofa; her surviving daughter, Araminta, in one of the large chairs to her right, hollow-eyed as if she had not slept in days; and her daughter-in-law, Romola, standing behind her, her face reflecting horror and confusion.

"Good morning, ma'am." Monk inclined his head to Lady Moidore, then acknowledged the others.

None of them replied. Perhaps they did not consider it necessary to observe such niceties in the circumstances.

"I am deeply sorry to have to disturb you at such a tragic time," he said with difficulty. He hated having to express condolences to someone whose grief was so new and devastating. He was a stranger intruding into their home, and all he could offer were words, stilted and predictable. But to have said nothing would be grossly uncaring.

"I offer you my deepest sympathy, ma'am."

Lady Moidore moved her head very slightly in indication that she had heard him, but she did not speak.

He knew who the two younger women were because one of them shared the remarkable hair of her mother, a vivid shade of golden red which in the dark room seemed almost as alive as the flames of the fire. Cyprian's wife, on the other hand, was much darker, her eyes brown and her hair almost black. He turned to address her.

"Mrs. Moidore?"

"Yes?" She stared at him in alarm.

"Your bedroom window is between Mrs. Haslett's and the main drainpipe, which it seems the intruder climbed. Did you hear any unaccustomed sounds during the night, any disturbances at all?"

She looked very pale. Obviously the thought of the murderer passing her window had not occurred to her before. Her hands gripped the back of Araminta's chair.

"No-nothing. I do not customarily sleep well, but last night I did." She closed her eyes. "How fearful!"

Araminta was of a harder mettle. She sat rigid and slender, almost bony under the light fabric of her morning gown-no one had thought of changing into black yet. Her face was thin, wide-eyed, her mouth curiously asymmetrical. She would have been beautiful but for a certain sharpness, something brittle beneath the surface.

"We cannot help you, Inspector." She addressed him with candor, neither avoiding his eyes nor making any apology. "We saw Octavia before she retired last night, at about eleven o'clock, or a few minutes before. I saw her on the landing, then she went to my mother's room to wish her good-night, and then to her own room. We went to ours. My husband will tell you the same. We were awoken this morning by the maid, Annie, crying and calling out that something terrible had happened. I was the first to open the door after Annie. I saw straight away that Octavia was dead and we could not help her. I took Annie out and sent her to Mrs. Willis; she is the housekeeper. The poor child was looking very sick. Then I found my father, who was about to assemble the servants for morning prayers, and told him what had happened. He sent one of the footmen for the police. There really isn't anything more to say."

"Thank you, ma'am." Monk looked at Lady Moidore. She had the broad brow and short, strong nose her son had inherited, but a far more delicate face, and a sensitive, almost ascetic mouth. When she spoke, even drained by grief as she was, there was a beauty of vitality and imagination in her.

"I can add nothing, Inspector," she said very quietly. "My room is in the other wing of the house, and I was unaware of any tragedy or intrusion until my maid, Mary, woke me and then my son told me what had… happened."

"Thank you, my lady. I hope it will not be necessary to

disturb you again." He had not expected to learn anything; it was really only a formality that he asked, but to overtook it would have been careless. He excused himself and went to find Evan back in the servants' quarters.

However Evan had discovered nothing of moment either, except a list of the missing jewelry compiled by the ladies' maid: two rings, a necklace and a bracelet, and, oddly, a small silver vase.

A little before noon they left the Moidore house, now with its blinds drawn and black crepe on the door. Already, out of respect for die dead, the grooms were spreading straw on the roadway to deaden the sharp sound of horses' hooves.

"What now?" Evan asked as they stepped out into the footpath. "The bootboy said there was a party at the east end, on the corner of Chandos Street. One of the coachmen or footmen may have seen something." He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

"And there'll be a duty constable somewhere around," Monk added. "I'll find him, you take the party. Corner house, you said?"

"Yes sir-people called Bentley.''

"Report back to the station when youVe finished."

“Yes sir.'' And Evan turned on his heel and walked rapidly away, more gracefully than his lean, rather bony body would have led one to expect.

Monk took a hansom back to the station to find the home address of the constable who would have been patrolling the area during the night.

An hour later he was sitting in the small, chilly front parlor in a house off Euston Road, sipping a mug of tea opposite a sleepy, unshaven constable who was very ill at ease. It was some five minutes into the conversation before Monk began to realize that the man had known him before and that his anxiety was not based on any omission or failure of duty last night but on something that had occurred in their previous meeting, of which Monk had no memory at all.

He found himself searching the man's face, trying without success to bring any feature of it back to recollection, and twice he missed what was said.

"I'm sorry, Miller; what was that?" he apologized the second time.

Miller looked embarrassed, uncertain whether this was an

acknowledgment of inattention or some implied criticism that his statement was unbelievable.

"I said I passed by Queen Anne Street on the west side, down Wimpole Street an' up again along 'Arley Street, every twenty minutes last night, sir. I never missed, 'cause there wasn't no disturbances and I didn't 'ave ter stop fer any thin'.''

Monk frowned. “You didn't see anybody about? No one at all?"

"Oh I saw plenty o' people-but no one as there shouldn't 'a bin," Miller replied. "There was a big party up the other corner o' Chandos Street where it turns inter Cavendish Square. Coachmen and footmen an' all sorts 'angin' around till past three in the mornin', but they wasn't making no nuisance an' they certainly wasn't climbing up no drainpipes to get in no winders." He screwed up his face as if he were about to add something, then changed his mind.

"Yes?" Monk pressed.

But Miller would not be drawn. Again Monk wondered if it was because of their past association, and if Miller would have spoken for someone else. There was so much he did not know! Ignorance about police procedures, underworld connections, the vast store of knowledge a good detective kept. Not knowing was hampering him at every turn, making it necessary for him to work twice as hard in order to hide his vulnerability; but it did not end the deep fear caused by ignorance about himself. What manner of man was the self that stretched for years behind him, to that boy who had left Northumberland full of an ambition so consuming he had not written regularly to his only relative, his younger sister who had loved him so loyally in spite of his silence? He had found her letters in his rooms-sweet, gentle letters full of references to what should have been familiar.

Now he sat here in this small, neat house and tried to get answers from a man who was obviously frightened of him. Why? It was impossible to ask.

"Anyone else?" he said hopefully.

"Yes sir," Miller said straightaway, eager to please and beginning to master his nervousness. "There was a doctor paid a call near the corner of 'Arley Street and Queen Anne Street. I saw 'im leave, but I din't see 'im get there."

"Do you know his name?"

"No sir." Miller bristled, his body tightening again as if to defend himself. "But I saw 'im leave an' the front door was open an' the master o' the 'ouse was seein”im out. 'Alf the lights was on, and 'e weren't there uninvited!"

Monk considered apologizing for the unintended slight, then changed his mind. It would be more productive for Miller to be kept up to the mark.

"Do you remember which house?"

"About the third or fourth one along, on the south side of 'Arley Street, sir."

"Thank you. I'D ask them; they may have seen something. '' Then he wondered why he had offered an explanation; it was not necessary. He stood up and thanked Miller and left, walking back towards the main street where there would be cabs. He should have left this to Evan, who knew his underworld contacts, but it was too late now. He behaved from instinct and intelligence, forgetting how much of his memory was trapped in that shadowy world before the night his carriage had turned over, breaking his ribs and arm, and blotting out his identity and everything that bonded him to the past.

Who else might have been out in the night around Queen Anne Street? A year ago he would have known where to find the footpads, the cracksmen, the lookouts, but now he had nothing but guesswork and plodding deduction, which would betray him to Runcorn, who was so obviously waiting for every chance to trap him. Enough mistakes, and Runcorn would work out the incredible, delicious truth, and find the excuses he had sought for years to fire Monk and feel safe at last; no more hard, ambitious lieutenant dangerously close on his heels.

Finding the doctor was not difficult, merely a matter of returning to Harley Street and calling at the houses along the south side until he came to the right one, and then asking.

"Indeed," he was told in some surprise when he was received somewhat coolly by the master of the house, looking tired and harassed. "Although what interest it can be to the police I cannot imagine."

"A young woman was murdered in Queen Anne Street last night," Monk replied. The evening paper would carry it and it would be common knowledge in an hour or two. "The doctor may have seen someone loitering."

"He would hardly know by sight the sort of person who murders young women in the street!"

“Not in the street, sir, in Sir Basil Moidore's house,'' Monk corrected, although the difference was immaterial. "It is a matter of learning the time, and perhaps which direction he was going, although you're right, that is of little help."

"I suppose you know your business," the man said doubtfully, too weary and engaged in his own concerns to care. "But servants keep some funny company these days. I'd look to someone she let in herself, some disreputable follower."

"The victim was Sir Basil's daughter, Mrs. Haslett," Monk said with bitter satisfaction.

"Good God! How appalling!" The man's expression changed instantly. In a single sentence the danger had moved from affecting someone distant, not part of his world, to being a close and alarming threat. The chill hand of violence had touched his own class and in so doing had become real. "This is dreadful!" The blood fled from his tired face and his voice cracked for an instant.”What are you doing about it? We need more police in the streets, more patrols! Where did the man come from? What is he doing here?"

Monk smiled sourly to see the alteration in him. If the victim was a servant, she had brought it upon herself by keeping loose company; but now it was a lady, then police patrols must be doubled and the criminal caught forthwith.

"Well?" the man demanded, seeing what to him was a sneer on Monk's face.

"As soon as we find him, we will discover what he was doing," Monk replied smoothly. "In the meantime, if you will give me your physician's name, I will question him to see if he observed anything as he came or went.''

The man wrote the name on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

"Thank you, sir. Good day."

But the doctor had seen nothing, being intent upon his own art, and could offer no help. He had not even noticed Miller on his beat. All he could do was confirm his own time of arrival and departure with an exactitude.

By mid-afternoon Monk was back in the police station, where Evan was waiting for him with the news that it would have been quite impossible for anyone at all to have passed by the west end of Queen Anne Street and not have been seen by several of the servants waiting for their masters outside the house where the party was being held. There had been a sufficient number of guests, including late arrivals and early departures, to fill the mews at the back with carriages and overflow into the street at the front.

"With that many footmen and coachmen around, would an extra person be noticed?" Monk queried.

"Yes." Evan had no doubts at all. "Apart from the fact that a lot of them know each other, they were all in livery. Anyone dressed differently would have been as obvious as a horse in a field of cows."

Monk smiled at Evan's rural imagery. Evan was the son of a country parson, and every now and again some memory or mannerism showed through. It was one of the many things Monk found pleasing in him.

"None of them?" he said doubtfully. He sat down behind his desk.

Evan shook his head. "Too much conversation going on, and a lot of horseplay, chatting to the maids, flirting, carriage lamps all over the place. If anyone had shinned up a drainpipe to go over the roofs he'd have been seen in a trice. And no one walked off up the road alone, they're sure of that."

Monk did not press it any further. He did not believe it was a chance burglary by some footman which had gone wrong. Footmen were chosen for their height and elegance, and were superbly dressed. They were not equipped to climb drainpipes and cling to the sides of buildings two and three floors up, balancing along ledges in the dark. That was a practiced art which one came dressed to indulge.

"Must have come the other way," he concluded. "From the Wimpole Street end, in between Miller's going down that way and coming back up Harley Street. What about the back, from Harley Mews?"

"No way over the roof, sir," Evan replied. "I had a good look there. And a pretty good chance of waking the Moidores' coachman and grooms who sleep over the stables. Not a good burglar who disturbs horses, either. No sir, much better chance coming in the front, the way the drainpipe is and the broken creeper, which seems to be the way he did come. He must have nipped between Miller's rounds, as you say. Easy enough to watch for him."

Monk hesitated. He loathed betraying his vulnerability, even though he knew Evan was perfectly aware of it, and if he had been tempted to let it slip to Runcorn, he would have done it weeks ago during the Grey case, when he was confused, frightened and at his wit's end, terrified of the apparitions his intelligence conjured out of the scraps of recollection which recurred like nightmare forms. Evan and Hester Latterly were the two people in the world he could trust absolutely. And Hester he would prefer not to think about. She was not an appealing woman. Again Imogen Latterly's face came sweet to his mind, eyes soft and frightened as she had been when she asked him for help, her voice low, her skirts rustling like leaves as she walked past him. But she was Hester's brother's wife, and might as well have been a princess for anything she could be to Monk.

"Shall I ask a few questions at the Grinning Rat?" Evan interrupted his thoughts. "If anyone tries to get rid of the necklace and earrings they'll turn up with a fence, but word of a murder gets out pretty quickly, especially one the police won't let rest. The regular cracksmen will want to be well out of this."

"Yes-" Monk grasped at it quickly. "I'll try the fences and pawnbrokers, you go to the Grinning Rat and see what you can pick up." He fished in his pocket and brought out his very handsome gold watch. He must have saved a long time for this particular vanity, but he could not remember either the going without or the exultancy of the purchase. Now his fingers played over its smooth surface, and he felt an emptiness that all its flavor and memory were gone for him. He opened it with a flick.

"It's a good time to do that. I'll see you here tomorrow morning."

Evan went home and changed his clothes before assaying on the journey to find his hard-won contacts on the fringes of the criminal underworld. His present rather respectable, trim-fitting coat and clean shirt might be taken for the garb of a confidence trickster, but far more likely the genuine clothes of a socially aspiring clerk or minor tradesman.

When he left his lodgings an hour after speaking to Monk,

he looked entirely different. His fair brown hair with its wide wave was pulled through with grease and a little dirt, his face was similarly marred, he wore an old shirt without a collar and a jacket that hung off his lean shoulders. He also had for the occasion a pair of boots he had salvaged from a beggar who had found better. They rubbed his feet, but an extra pair of socks made them adequate for walking in, and thus attired he set off for the Grinning Rat in Pudding Lane, and an evening of cider, eel pie and listening.

There was an enormous variety of public houses in London, from the large, highly respectable ones which catered banquets for the well-bred and well-financed; through the comfortable, less ostentatious ones which served as meeting and business places for all manner of professions from lawyers and medical students, actors and would-be politicians; down through those that were embryo music halls, gathering spots for reformers and agitators and pamphleteers, street corner philosophers and working men's movements; right down to those that were filled with gamblers, opportunists, drunkards and the fringes of the criminal world. The Grinning Rat belonged to the last order, which was why Evan had chosen it several years ago; and he was now, if not liked there, at least tolerated.

From outside in the street he could see the lights gleaming through the windows across the dirty pavement and the gutter. Half a dozen men and several women lounged around outside the doorway, all dressed in colors so dark and drab with wear they seemed only a variation of densities in the barred light filtering out. Even when someone opened the door in a gale of laughter and a man and woman staggered down the steps, arm in arm, nothing showed but browns and duns and a flicker of dull red. The man backed away, and a woman half sitting in the gutter shouted something lewd after them. They ignored her and disappeared up Pudding Lane towards East Cheap.

Evan ignored her likewise and went inside to the warmth and the babble and the smell of ale and sawdust and smoke. He jostled his way past a group of men playing dice and another boasting the merits of fighting dogs, a temperance believer crying his creed in vain, and an ex-pugilist, his battered face good-natured and bleary-eyed.

" 'Evening, Tom," he said pleasantly.

" 'Evenin'," the pugilist said benignly, knowing the face was familiar but unable to recall a name for it.

"Seen Willie Durkins?" Evan asked casually. He saw the man's nearly empty mug. "I'm having a pint of cider-can I get you one?"

Tom did not hesitate but nodded cheerfully and drank the last of his ale so his mug was suitably empty.

Evan took it, made his way to the bar and purchased two ciders, passing the time of evening with the bartender who fetched him his mug from among the many swinging on hooks above his head. Each regular customer had his own mug. Evan returned to where Tom was waiting hopefully and passed him his cider, and when Tom had drunk half of it, with a huge thirst, Evan began his unobtrusive inquiry.

"Seen Willie?" he said again.

"Not tonight, sir." Tom added the "sir" by way of acknowledging the pint. He still could not think of a name. "Wot was yer wantin”im fer? Mebbe I can 'elp?"

"Want to warn him," Evan lied, not watching Tom's face but looking down into his mug.

"Wotabaht?"

"Bad business up west," Evan answered. "Got to find somebody for it, and I know Willie." He looked up suddenly and smiled, a lovely dazzling gesture, full of innocence and good humor. "I don't want him put away-I'd miss him."

Tom gurgled his appreciation. He was not absolutely sure, but he rather thought this agreeable young fellow might be either a rozzer or someone who fed the rozzers judicious bits of information. He would not be above doing that himself, if he had any-for a reasonable consideration, of course. Nothing about ordinary thievery, which was a way of life, but about strangers on the patch, or nasty things that were likely to bring a lot of unwelcome police attention, like murders, or arson, or major forgery, which always upset important gents up in the City. It made things hard for the small business of local burglary, street robbery, petty forgery of money and legal letters or papers. It was difficult to fence stolen goods with too many police about, or sell illegal liquors. Small-time smuggling up the river suffered-and gambling, card sharping, petty fraud and confidence tricks connected with sport, bare knuckle pugilism, and of course prostitution. Had Evan asked about any of these Tom would have been affronted and told him so. The underworld conducted these types of business all the time, and no one expected to root them out.

But there were things one did not do. It was foolish, and very inconsiderate to those who had their living to make with as little disturbance as possible.

"Wot bad business is that, sir?"

"Murder," Evan replied seriously. "Very important man's daughter, stabbed in her own bedroom, by a burglar. Stupid-"

"I never 'eard." Tom was indignant. "Wen was that, then? Nobody said!"

"Last night," Evan answered, drinking more of his cider. Somewhere over to their left there was a roar of laughter and someone shouted the odds against a certain horse winning a race.

"I never 'eard," Tom repeated dolefully. "Wot 'e want ter go an' do that fer? Stupid, I calls it. W'y kill a lady? Knock 'er one, if yer 'ave ter, like if she wakes up and starts ter 'oiler. But it's a daft geezer wot makes enough row ter wake people anyway."

"And stabbing." Evan shook his head. "Why couldn't he hit her, as you said. Needn't have killed her. Now half the top police in the West End will be all over the place!" A total exaggeration, at least so far, but it served his purpose. "More cider?"

Again Tom indicated his reply by shoving his mug over wordlessly, and Evan rose to oblige.

"Willie wouldn't do anything like that," Tom said when Evan returned. " 'E in't stupid."

"If I thought he had I wouldn't want to warn him," Evan answered. "I'd let him swing."

"Yeah," Tom agreed gloomily. "But w'en, eh? Not before the crushers 'as bin all over the place, an' everybody's bin upset and business ruined for all sorts!"

"Exactly." Evan hid his face in his mug. "So where's Willie?"

This time Tom did not equivocate. "Mincing Lane," he said dourly. "If'n yer wait there an hour or so 'e'll come by the pie stand there some time ternight. An' I daresay if'n yer tells 'im abaht this 'e'll be grateful, like." He knew Evan, whoever he was, would want something in return. That was the way of life.

"Thank you." Evan left his mug half empty; Tom would be only too pleased to finish it for him.”I daresay I'll try that. G'night."

“G'night." Tom appropriated the half mug before any over-zealous barman could remove it.

Evan went out into the rapidly chilling evening and walked briskly, collar turned up, looking neither to right nor left, until he turned into Mincing Lane and past the groups of idlers huddled in doorways. He found the eel pie seller with his barrow, a thin man with a stovepipe hat askew on his head, an apron around his waist, and a delicious smell issuing from the inside of containers balanced in front of him.

Evan bought a pie and ate it with enjoyment, the hot pastry crunching and flaking and the eel flesh delicate on his tongue.

"Seen Willie Durkins?" he said presently.

"Not ternight." The man was careful: it did not do to give information for nothing, and without knowing to whom.

Evan had no idea whether to believe him or not, but he had no better plan, and he settled back in the shadows, chilly and bored, and waited. A street patterer came by, singing a ballad about a current scandal involving a clergyman who had seduced a schoolmistress and then abandoned her and her child. Evan recalled the case in the sensational press a few months ago, but this version was much more colorful, and in less than fifteen minutes the patterer, and the eel stand, had collected a dozen or more customers, all of whom bought pies and stood around to listen. For which service the patterer got his supper free-and a good audience.

A narrow man with a cheerful face came out of the gloom to the south and bought himself a pie, which he ate with evident enjoyment, then bought a second and treated a scruffy child to it with evident pleasure.

"Good night then, Tosher?" the pie man asked knowingly.

"Best this month," Tosher replied. "Found a gold watch! Don't get many o' them."

The pie man laughed. "Some flash gent'U be cursin”is luck!'' He grinned. "Shame-eh?''

"Oh, terrible shame," Tosher agreed with a chuckle.

Evan knew enough of street life to understand. "Tosher"

was the name for men who searched the sewers for lost articles. As far as he was concerned, they, and the mudlarks along the river, were more than welcome to what they found; it was hard won enough.

Other people came and went: costers, off duty at last; a cab driver; a couple of boatmen up from the river steps; a prostitute; and then, when Evan was stiff with cold and lack of movement and about to give up, Willie Durkins.

He recognized Evan after only a brief glance, and his round face became careful.

" 'Allo, Mr. Evan. Wot you want, then? This in't your patch."

Evan did not bother to lie; it would serve no purpose and evidence bad faith.

"Last night's murder up west, in Queen Anne Street."

"Wot murder was that?" Willie was confused, and it showed in his guarded expression, narrowed eyes, a trifle squinting in the streetlight over the pie stall.

"Sir Basil Moidore's daughter, stabbed in her own bedroom-by a burglar."

"Goon-Basil Moidore, eh?" Willie looked dubious. " 'E must be worth a mint, but 'is 'ouse'd be crawlin' with servants! Wot cracksman'd do that? It's fair stupid! Damn fool!"

"Best get it sorted." Evan pushed out his lip and shook his head a little.

"Dunno nuffin'," Willie denied out of habit.

"Maybe. But you know the house thieves who work that area," Evan argued.

"It wouldn't be one o' them," Willie said quickly.

Evan pulled a face. "And of course they wouldn't know a stranger on the patch," he said sarcastically.

Willie squinted at him, considering. Evan looked gullible; his was a dreamer's face; it should have belonged to a gentleman, not a sergeant in the rozzers. Nothing like Monk; now there was someone not to mess about with, an ambitious man with a devious mind and a hard tongue. You knew from the set of his bones and the gray eyes that never wavered that it would be dangerous to play games with him.

"Sir Basil Moidore's daughter," Evan said almost to himself. "They'll hang someone-have to. Shake up a lot of people before they find the right man-if it becomes necessary."

"O'right!" Willie said grudgingly. "G'right! Chinese Paddy was up there last night. 'E din't do nothin'-din't 'ave the chance, so yer can't bust 'im. Clean as a w'istle, 'e is. But ask ‘im. If 'e can't 'elp yer, then no one can. Now let me be- yer'll gimme a bad name, 'anging 'round 'ere wi' the likes o' you."

"Where do I find Chinese Paddy?" Evan caught hold of the man's arm, fingers hard till Willie squeaked.

"Leggo o' me! Wanna break me arm?"

Evan tightened his grip.

"Dark 'Ouse Lane, Billingsgate-termorrermornin', w'en the market opens. Yer'll know 'im easy, 'e's got black 'air like a chimney brush, an' eyes like a Chinaman. Now le' go o' me!"

Evan obliged, and in a minute Willie disappeared down Mincing Lane towards the river and the ferry steps.

Evan went straight home to his rooms, washed off the worst surface dirt in a bowl of tepid water, and slipped into bed.

At five in the morning he rose again, put on the same clothes and crept out of the house and took a series of public omnibuses to Billingsgate, and by quarter past six in the dawn light he was in the crush of costers' barrows, fishmongers' high carts and dray wagons at the entrance to Dark House Lane itself. It was so narrow that the houses reared up like cliff walls on either side, the advertisement boards for fresh ice actually stretching across from one side to the other. Along both sides were stacked mountains of fresh, wet, slithering fish of every description, piled on benches, and behind them stood the salesmen crying their wares, white aprons gleaming like the fish bellies, and white hats pale against the dark stones behind them.

A fish porter with a basket full of haddock on his head could barely squeeze past the double row of shoppers crowding the thin passageway down the middle. At the far end Evan could just see the tangled rigging of oyster boats on the water and the occasional red worsted cap of a sailor.

The smell was overpowering; red herrings, every kind of white fish from sprats to turbot, lobsters, whelks, and over all a salty, seaweedy odor as if one were actually on a beach. It brought back a sudden jolt of childhood excursions to the sea, the coldness of the water and the sight of a crab running sideways across the sand.

But this was utterly different. All around him was not the soft slurp of the waves but the cacophony of a hundred voices: "Ye-o-o! Ye-o-o! 'Ere's yer fine Yarmouth bloaters! Whiting! Turbot-all alive! Beautiful lobsters! Fine cock crabs-alive O! Splendid skate-alive-all cheap! Best in the market! Fresh 'addock! Nice glass o' peppermint this cold morning! Ha'penny a glass! 'Ere yer are, sir! Currant and meat puddings, a ha'penny each! 'Ere ma'am! Smelt! Finny 'addock! Plaice-all alive O. Whelks-mussels-now or never! Shrimps! Eels! Flounder! Winkles! Waterproof capes-a shilling apiece! Keep out the wet!''

And a news vendor cried out: "I sell food for the mind! Come an' read all abaht it! Terrible murder in Queen Anne Street! Lord's daughter stabbed ter death in 'er bed!''

Evan pushed his way slowly through the crowd of costers, fishmongers and housewives till he saw a brawny fish seller with a distinctly Oriental appearance.

"Are you Chinese Paddy?" he asked as discreetly as he could above the babble and still be heard.

"Sure I am. Will you be wantin' some nice fresh cod, now? Best in the market!"

"I want some information. It'll cost you nothing, and I'm prepared to pay for it-if it's right," Evan replied, standing very upright and looking at the fish as if he were considering buying it.

"And why would I be selling information at a fish market, mister? What is it you want to know-times o' the tides, is it?" Chinese Paddy raised his straight black eyebrows sarcastically. "I don't know you-"

“Metropolitan police,'' Evan said quietly. "Your name was given me by a very reliable fellow I know-down in Pudding Lane. Now do I have to do this in an unpleasant fashion, or can we trade like gentlemen, and you can stay here selling your fish when I leave and go about my business?" He said it courteously, but just once he looked up and met Chinese Paddy's eyes in a hard, straight stare.

Paddy hesitated.

"The alternative is I arrest you and take you to Mr. Monk

and he can ask you again." Evan knew Monk's reputation, even though Monk himself was still learning it.

Paddy made his decision.

"What is it you're wanting to know?"

"The murder in Queen Anne Street. You were up there last night-"

" 'Ere-fresh fish-fine cod!" Paddy called out. "So I was," he went on in a quiet, hard tone. "But I never stole nuffin', an' I sure as death and the bailiffs never killed that woman!'' Ignoring Evan for a moment, he sold three large cod to a woman and took a shilling and sixpence.

"I know that," Evan agreed. "But I want to know what you saw!"

"A bleedin' rozzer goin' up 'Arley Street an' down Wim-pole Street every twenty minutes reg'lar," Paddy replied, looking one moment at his fish, and the next at the crowd as it passed. "You're ruinin' me trade, mister! People is won-derin' why you don't buy!"

"What else?" Evan pressed. "The sooner you tell me, the sooner I'll buy a fish and be gone."

"A quack coming to the third 'ouse up on 'Arley Street, an' a maid out on the tiles with 'er follower. The place was like bleedin' Piccadilly! I never got a chance to do anything."

"Which house did you come for?" Evan asked, picking up a fish and examining it.

"Corner o' Queen Anne Street and Wimpole Street, southwest corner."

"And where were you waiting, exactly?" Evan felt a curious prickle of apprehension, a kind of excitement and horror at once. "And what time?"

" 'Alf the ruddy night! "Paddy said indignantly. "Fromten o'clock till near four. Welbeck Street end o' Queen Anne Street. That way I could see the 'ole length o' Queen Anne Street right down to Chandos Street. Bit of a party goin' on t'other end-footmen all over the place.''

"Why didn't you pack up and go somewhere else? Why stick around there all night if it was so busy?"

" 'Ere, fresh cod-all alive-best in the market!" Paddy called over Evan's head. 'Ere missus! Right it is-that'll be one and eight pence-there y'are." His voice dropped again.

"Because I 'ad the layout of a good place, o' course-an' I don't go in unprepared. I in't a bleedin' amacher. I kept thinkin' they'd go. But that perishin' maid was 'alf the night in the areaway like a damn cat. No morals at all."

"So who came and went up Queen Anne Street?" Evan could hardly keep the anticipation out of his voice. Whoever killed Octavia Haslett had not passed the footmen and coachmen at the other end, nor climbed over from the mews-he must have come this way, and if Chinese Paddy was telling the truth, he must have seen him. A thin shiver of excitement rippled through Evan.

"No one passed me, 'cept the quack an' the maid," Paddy repeated with irritation. "I 'ad me eyes peeled all bleedin' night-just waitin' me chance-an' it never came. The 'ouse where the quack went 'ad all its lights on an' the door open and closed, open and closed-I didn't dare go past. Then the ruddy girl with 'er man. No one went past me-I'd swear to that on me life, I would. An' Mr. Monk can do any damn thing 'e can think of-it won't change it. 'Oever scragged that poor woman, 'e was already in the 'ouse, that's for certain positive. An' good luck to you findin”im, 'cos I can't 'elp yer. Now take one o' them fish and pay me twice wot it's worth, and get out of 'ere. You're holdin' up trade terrible, you are."

Evan took the fish and handed over three shillings. Chinese Paddy was a contact worth keeping favor with.

"Already in the house." The words rang in his head. Of course he,would have to check with the courting maid as well, but if she could be persuaded, on pain of his telling her mistress if she was reluctant, then Chinese Paddy was right- whoever killed Octavia Haslett was someone who already lived there, no stranger caught in the act of burglary but a premeditated murderer who disguised his act afterwards.

Evan turned sideways to push his way between a high fishmonger's cart and a coster's barrow and out into the street.

He could imagine Monk's face when he learned-and Runcom's. This was a completely different thing, a very dangerous and very ugly thing.