Cain His Brother

Chapter 8

The sergeant never for a moment hesitated about charging Caleb with the murder of Angus Stonefield. However, when the Crown Prosecutor came to consider the case, it was a different matter. He debated the evidence be- fore him, and in the middle of the day sent for Oliver Rathbone. “Well?” he demanded, when Rathbone had reviewed what they knew and heard the tale of Caleb's arrest. “Is there any point in bringing him to trial? In fact have we sufficient evidence even to proceed with a charge?” Rathbone thought about it for some time before replying. It was a rare bright winter day and the sun shone in through the long windows.

“I have some knowledge of the case,” he said thoughtfully, sitting with his elegant legs crossed, his fingertips placed together. “Monk consulted me some time ago about the evidence necessary to presume death. He was acting for Mrs. Stonefield.”

The prosecutor's eyebrows rose. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“Not really,” Rathbone answered. “Poor woman was convinced in her own mind of what had happened, and understandably wished to be in a position to appoint someone to continue the business, before it was too severely dam- aged by Stonefield's absence.”

“So what do you know that might assist this case?” The prosecutor leaned back in his chair and regarded Rathbone steadily. “I'm inclined to believe Stone did kill his brother. I should very much like to see him answer for it, but I'm damned if I'll send to trial a case we cannot win, and which will leave the wretched man vindicated, as well as making us a laughingstock.”

“Oh, indeed,” Rathbone agreed heartily. “It would be sickening to have him acquitted for lack of evidence, and the moment after have the corpse turn up, with proof of his guilt, and not be able to do a damned thing about it.

That's the trouble, we have only the one shot. It must hit the mark, there is no second chance.”

“Considering that as children both men were wards of Lord Ravensbrook, it may well be a case which attracts some attention,” the prosecutor went on, “in spite of Stone's present highly disreputable way of life. It will be interesting to see who defends him.” He sighed. “If there is a need for defense.”

“The wretched man has admitted killing his brother,” Rathbone said grimly.

“Boasted of it, in fact.”

“It will still be very tight. We have no corpse, no absolute evidence of death…”

“But a great deal of circumstantial evidence,” Rathbone argued, leaning forward. “They were seen together the day Stonefield disappeared, even seen quarreling. Stonefield's torn and bloodstained clothing has been found, and no one has seen him since.”

The prosecutor shook his head. “Still possible he's alive somewhere.”

“Where?” Rathbone demanded. “Jumped a ship and sailed to China or the Indies?”

“Or America?”

“But from a Pool of London quay, downriver, at what time?” Rathbone argued. “For America it would more likely be Liverpool or Southampton. Come to that, what time was it he was last seen? Was the tide going out or coming in? Couldn't jump a ship on the incoming tide, unless he ended up in London again. And why would he do that? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose.” He sat back in his chair again. “No. You'd never persuade a jury he simply took flight. From what? He had no debts, no enemies, no incipient scandal. No, he's dead, poor devil. Probably buried in one of the common graves of the Limehouse typhoid victims.”

“Then prove it,” the prosecutor said grimly. “If his lawyer is worth his pay, you'll have a very hard job, Rathbone, a very hard job indeed. But I wish you luck.”

When Rathbone returned to Vere Street he found Monk waiting for him. Monk looked appalling. His clothes were as immaculate as always and he was freshly shaved, but his face was haggard, as if he were ill and had not slept. When he stood up to follow Rathbone into his office, without per- mission, he moved as though his entire body ached. From his appearance he might have been in the later stages of rheumatism. Rathbone had very ambivalent feelings about him, but he would never have wished him ill..

. a slight reduction in arrogance and self-confidence, perhaps, but not this. It disturbed him more than he was prepared for.

“Close the door,” he ordered unnecessarily. Monk was in the act of doing so, and stood against it for a moment, staring at Rathbone as he went around the desk and sat behind it. “You got Caleb Stone, I know. I've just come from the Crown Prosecutor's office. It would help a great deal to have more evidence.”

“I know that!” Monk said savagely, moving away from the door and sitting painfully in the chair opposite the desk. “Maybe the police will set up a proper search and find the body. I imagine they'll go on dragging the river. Something I was hardly equipped to do. Although this much later, they'd have to be lucky to find it. They could always search the Greenwich and Bugsby marshes. For someone of Angus Stonefield's standing they'd think it worth it”

“They might also think it worth it to get a conviction, now that they have made an arrest,” Rathbone said with a slight smile. “They have rather committed themselves. They won't want to be obliged to let Caleb Stone free. He'd be insufferable. He'd be a hero to every villain from Wapping to Woolwich. But you know that better than L”

“What does he think?”

“The prosecutor?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “A chance, but he's not optimistic. Would you like a cup of tea? You… look…” He hesitated, not sure how literal to be.

“No-yes.” Monk shrugged. “Tea won't help.” He made as if to stand up, too restless to wait, but then apparently found it painful, and reclined back into his chair.

“It was a rough chase?” Rathbone said with a dry smile.

Monk winced. “Very.”

Rathbone rang his bell and when the clerk appeared he ordered tea. “I want it, even if you don't. Now, tell me why you've come. It wasn't to know the Crown Prosecutor's opinion of the case.”

“No,” Monk agreed, then remained silent for several seconds.

Rathbone felt a chill inside. For something to have affected Monk this deeply it must be very ugly indeed. He had another appointment in twenty minutes. He could not afford delay, and yet he knew impatience would be clumsy, and he had no desire to add to the burden, whatever it was. Perhaps Monk sensed his urgency. He looked up suddenly, as if having reached a resolve. His jaw was clenched and there was a muscle flicking in his temple. His words came out in a tight, level, carefully controlled monotone, as though he dared not allow any emotions through or it would all explode beyond his mastery.

“I met a woman some time ago, by chance, on the steps of the Geographical Society in Sackville Street. We became acquainted and I saw her several times after that. She was charming, intelligent, full of wit and enthusiasm.” His voice was a flat concentrated monotone. “She expressed interest in the Stonefield case, because I was looking to find trace of Angus Stonefield. The long and short of it is we spent an evening together walking around Soho area looking for places where either Angus or Genevieve Stonefield might have met a lover. Of course we didn't find anything. I don't know if either of us expected to. It was an evening of enjoyment, away from the restrictions of society for her, and from the misery of poverty and crime for me.”

Rathbone nodded but did not interrupt. It sounded very natural. He had no idea what was coming.

“I took her home in a hansom-” Monk stopped, his face white.

Rathbone said nothing to fill the silence.

Monk took a deep breath and gritted his teeth.

“We were passing along North Audley Street and were forced to slow because one of the large houses had been holding some social event and the guests were leaving. Suddenly she tore open the bodice of her gown, stared at me with passionate hatred, then shrieked and threw herself out of the moving hansom. She landed sprawled in the street, picked herself up and ran, screaming that I had assaulted her.”

It was preposterous, but it was not a story utterly new to Rathbone. He had heard of hysterical women inviting advances and then suddenly and without the slightest warning that a man could see, losing their heads and accusing assault. Usually the matter could be kept private with a little sensible discussion and the exchange of money-or a promise of marriage. Money was preferable-it was a far cheaper price in the long run. But why would anyone do such a thing to Monk? She could hardly wish to marry him. No society woman could marry a private agent of inquiry. And he had no money. Although possibly she did not know that. He dressed like a wealthy man.

Monk had a letter in his hand. He held it out. Rathbone took it and read it, then folded it up and laid it on his desk.

“That puts rather a different complexion on the subject,” he said slowly.

“It would appear from this that it is revenge she wishes. I assume you have no idea why, or you would have mentioned it.”

“No. I've racked my memory, what there is of it.” A bitter mockery passed over his face. “There's nothing at all. Not a shred. She's beautiful, amusing, a delight to be with, and there's not even a ghost, not a tiny thread, of familiarity.” His voice rose, sharp in desperation. “Nothing!”

Rathbone caught a moment of the nightmare, the bitter horror of living inside a man you did not know. The one thing which in all eternity you could never escape was yourself. Quite suddenly and devastatingly he understood Monk as he never had before.

But if he were to be of use, he must quash emotion. A man clouded by feelings was less able to think rationally or to perceive the truth. “Then perhaps it was not she you wronged,” he said thoughtfully, “but someone she loved. A woman will often feel more passionately and take far greater risks to protect a loved one than she will to save herself.” He saw the sudden light of hope in Monk's eyes.

“But for God's sake, who?” he demanded. “It could be anyone!”

There was a light rap on the door, and they both ignored it.

“Well I know of no one better able to investigate it than you,” Rathbone pointed out. “And it matters, Monk.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk between them. “Don't delude yourself you can remain unharmed if she chooses to pursue this. Even if she proves nothing at all, such a charge, quite unsubstantiated, would still be enough to ruin you. If you were a gentleman in society, with means and family reputation, and she were a young woman seeking a husband, then you might ride it out. You could say she was hysterical, a lightly balanced woman, given to vapors or imaginings… even that she had imagined your favor and taken your rejection hard.

But no one is going to believe that of a man in your position.”

“Good God, don't you think I know that!” Monk said furiously. “If she were a young woman seeking a husband, and I were likely material, she wouldn't do it anyway. Think what it would do to her own reputation. What gentleman will look at her now? I'm not so damned ignorant I don't know what it will cost her. Nor is she. That's what makes it so terrifying. She hates me enough to destroy herself in order to destroy me.”

“Then whatever you did to cause it is profound,” Rathbone said. It was not meant in cruelty, but there was no time or space to deal in less than the truth, and he was aware of his desk just beyond the door, and his next ap- pointment. “I'm not sure how much it may protect you to know,” he went on, “but if you do search, I would begin by looking for someone who may have been unjustly convicted, or a person hanged, or jailed and perhaps died there. Don't begin with thefts or embezzlements, or the victims of petty crime. In other words, start with the result of the investigation, not the weight of the evidence or your own certainty that the prosecution was just.”

“Will it help if I find it?” Monk asked, pinned between hope and bitterness.

Rathbone toyed with a lie, but only for an instant. Monk was not a man to give another an easy sop. He did not deserve it himself.

“Possibly not,” he answered. “Only if it comes to trial, and you could prove she has a motive of revenge. But if she has as much intelligence as you suggest, I doubt she'll seek a prosecution. She'd be unlikely in that event to get one, certainly not a conviction, unless she had an extraordi- nary biased jury.” His face tightened and his eyes were steady. “She will do far more damage to you, and leave you less chance of escape, vindication, or counterattack, if she simply passes the word around. She will not land you in prison that way, but she will ruin your career. You will be reduced to-' I know!” Monk snapped, rising to his feet abruptly, and with a sharp intake of breath as his aching muscles and bruised body hurt him. “I shall have to scrape a living working for people in the fringes of trade or the under- world, looking for errant husbands, collecting bad debts and chasing petty thieves.” He turned his back on Rathbone and stared out of the window. “And I shall be lucky if they can afford to pay me enough for me to eat daily.

There will be no more cases of any interest to Callandra Daviot, and she can't keep supporting me for nothing. I don't need you to tell me that. I shall have to move lodgings, and when my clothes wear out I shall be reduced to secondhand. I know all that.”

Rathbone longed to be able to say something, anything, of comfort, but there was nothing, and he was increasingly aware of the faint noises from the office, and his next client waiting.

“Then for your own peace of mind at least, you had better do all you can to discover who she is,” he said grimly. “And more importantly, who she was, and why she hates you so much she is prepared to do this.”

“Thank you,” Monk murmured as he went out, closing the door behind him and all but bumping into the clerk hovering until he should leave, and he might show in the gentleman waiting impatiently at his elbow.

Of course Rathbone was right. He had not really needed anyone to tell him, it was simply a release of the loneliness of it to hear the words from someone else, and someone who, for all their past differences, at least believed his account. And his advice regarding where to search was sound.

He walked along Vere Street deep in thought, oblivious of other pedestrians or carriages passing him by.

There was only one course open to him, and deeply as he loathed the prospect, he dared not delay. He must search his past records of cases and try to find the one in which Drusilla had been involved, albeit indirectly. At least Rathbone's suggestions gave him somewhere to start. It would be impossible to approach Runcorn. He would be only too delighted to add to Monk's predicament by denying him access. He had no rights to police information anymore, and Runcorn would be legally justified in refusing him. The irony of it would be the sweetest taste of victory for him at last, after all the years that Monk had trodden on his heels, mocked him and bettered him in case after case. And he would have to admit his amnesia. He had never known for certain how much Runcorn guessed, but no acknowledgment had ever passed between them. Runcorn had never had the satisfaction of being certain, and of knowing that Monk knew he knew.

Monk turned from Great Wild Street into Drury Lane.

John Evan was a different matter, as different as could be. He had not known Monk before the accident, and he had guessed the truth, working with him so closely in that first dreadful case. He had proved a good friend, loyal, despite all the odds, in the hardest of circumstances. He was young, full of charm and enthusiasm, a country parson's son with no money at all, but the casual ease of one born to what in better times had been minor gentry. Evan had admired him. He had chosen to see the best in him. That was why it was peculiarly painful now to have to tell him of this problem and seek his help in uncovering its cause.

In fact, he almost changed his mind about going to him at all. Perhaps it would do no good, and all he would do would be to lose Evan's regard before he had to.

That was not only the coward's way out, it was the fool's. Evan would learn sooner or later. Better now, and from Monk. Better at least to see him fight than allow defeat by surrender. He hailed a hansom and took it as far as the corner nearest his old station.

It was a bright morning. He had barely noticed. The sun had already melted the rime of ice on the footpath, and the harness of passing carriages winked and glistened. An errand boy was whistling as he walked with a swing in his stride.

Monk reached the police station and went straight up the steps and inside.

To hesitate might lose him his courage.

“Momin', Mr. Monk,” the desk sergeant said with surprise. “What can we be doin' for you?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Evan, if you please?”

“About a crime, is it, sir?”

The man's face was unreadable, and Monk could not remember their relationship. It was probably not cordial. Monk was his senior, and the man was middle-aged. Monk had probably treated him with impatience, considering him second-rate. He winced now at what he imagined.

“I'm not sure whether it is or not,” he said as smoothly as he could. “I need rather more information, and perhaps advice. Is Mr. Evan in the station?”

“You won't be needin' ter see Mr. Runcorn, then?” the sergeant said sententiously, a very slight smile touching his lips.

“No, I won't, thank you.” Monk met his eyes without a flicker.

“Thought not.” The sergeant's smile widened a fraction. “ 'Aven't forgot the Moidore case, sir, I 'aven't.”

Monk forced himself to smile back. “Thank you, Sergeant. A very nice memory you have, tastefully selective.”

“Yer welcome, sir. I'll fetch Mr. Evan for yer.” And he turned and disappeared behind the door, to reappear less than a minute later. “'E'll meet you in the coffee shop 'round the corner, sir, in five minutes. Wiser that way, sir.”

“I admire a man of wisdom,” Monk agreed. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

When Evan came into the coffee shop his long, humorous face with its aristocratic nose and rueful mouth looked full of anxiety. He sat down opposite Monk, ignoring the coffee placed there for him.

“What is it?” he asked. “It must be important to bring you to the station.” He searched Monk's face. “You look awful. Are you ill?”

Monk drew a deep breath, and as briefly as possible without omitting anything essential, he told him the story.

Evan did not interrupt, but his expression grew more and more distressed as the account neared its climax.

“What can I do?” he said finally when Monk finished. “Surely she won't try to prosecute? She'd be ruined as well… and she'd never prove anything!

The worst-” He stopped.

“Yes?” Monk said, biting his lip. “You were going to say the worst that could happen is that her own circle would believe her? It isn't. Even those who don't believe her will deny me the benefit of the doubt.”

Evan had barely touched his coffee, and they were both unaware of the bustle and noise around them, the hum of chatter and aroma of food. “No, actually I was going to say the worst that happened to her was that her gown was torn. She was in no way harmed in her person. But I suppose a torn gown is enough. It indicates an intention to do a great deal more.” Evan regarded his cold coffee with distaste. He had not touched it. “We must find out who she is, and why she is prepared to take such a violent and costly revenge. Tell me all you know about her, and I'll search all your past case files. Her name is Drusilla Wyndham? How old is she? What is her appearance? Where does she live? Whom does she associate with?” Monk realized how idiotically little he did know. He felt foolish and the embarrassment of it burned up his cheeks.

“I don't even know if her name is correct,” he said grimly. “I never saw her in company of anyone else. I would hazard she is in her early thirties.

She is very small, slender, dainty but with a fine figure. She has a beautiful face…” He winced as he said it. “Fair brown hair, hazel eyes, and a charming voice with a little catch in it when she laughs. I have no idea where she lives, or with whom she associates, except that the Geographical Society would appear to be one place she frequents. She dresses very well, but not extravagantly. The chief charm of her appearance is her grace and her poise.”

“Not a lot,” Evan said with a look of concern. “You said she was in her early thirties, and yet presumably unmarried? Is that not odd for such a charming young woman? Could she be widowed?”

“I don't know.” Monk had been too delighted in her company to tax himself with such questions. He realized now what a self-indulgent oversight it was.

“I presume she was well-spoken?” Evan continued. “That would narrow it at least to one class of person.”

A couple sat down at the table next to them, still side by side, and laughing.

“Yes… she is well-bred,” Monk agreed.

“But hardly a lady,” Evan added with a sudden twist of dry humor. “Doesn't give us a great deal to help. I'll start with the cases where someone was hanged, or died in prison, and where there was a woman of that general de- scription involved somewhere, a relative or close friend, some other victim of the tragedy.”

“Of course, it could be someone I didn't catch,” Monk said with sudden thought. “Perhaps a case I didn't solve, and the crime went unpunished.

Perhaps she thinks I failed justice.”

Evan rose to his feet, leaning a little on the table.

“Don't make it harder than it has to be,” he said quietly. “Let's begin with the more obvious. Anyway”-he smiled-”I don't think you had many unsolved cases, from what I hear of you.”

Monk said nothing, and watched Evan as he made his way out, turning once at the door to give a tiny salute of courage.

Monk spent the afternoon with the police as they continued dragging the river around the Isle of Dogs and across Bugsby's Reach, and searched the docks and inlets and the slums and alleys along the water's edge. They even searched some of the pigsties and middens or cesspits. They found much that was filthy, violent and tragic, including two dead bodies, but neither of them could have been Angus Stonefield. One was a child, the other a woman.

Monk went home in the dark close to despair. He had never seen such an accumulation of human misery, and he was weary, his body ached and he was cold to the bone. His feet were soaked and he no longer had any sensation left in his toes. He would not go with them again. Reluctantly he felt a new respect, deep and painful, gouging out undiscovered parts of himself, for men who could see such things day after day and still keep their courage and their innate kindness and sense of hope. All he felt was anger, and since he could change nothing, his brain told him that was useless, but his stomach still knotted inside.

The following morning he woke early, long before the light, and lay in bed planning what he would do to find Drusilla Wyndham. It might not save his reputation or his livelihood, but he had to know to answer the fears and the darkness within himself. What manner of man was he? That was the one truth which was inescapable. And there were increasing times when the dread of that answer was worse than the answer itself, because his imagination covered them all.

He rose at seven and ate a solitary breakfast, then before eight, left and walked for almost an hour, his head bent in thought, heedless of passersby, of carriages clattering within feet of him, idlers, street sellers, crossing sweepers, neatly suited office clerks hurrying to business, fashionable rakes and gamblers returning from a night's pleasure.

Finally just before nine he took a hansom to the Geographical Society, and went in at the entrance to seek some official of whom he could inquire.

He was uncharacteristically nervous. Usually his confidence intimidated people. He had only to meet their eyes and ask curtly in his precise diction, and he was answered. Today he felt at a disadvantage even before he spoke.

How far had she spread the accusation? Had these people already heard? He did not feel like a villain, only a fool!

“Good morning, sir?” the porter said inquiringly. “May I be of service?

Were you seeking information regarding any particular meeting, or speaker?”

Monk had already composed his lie. It was the sort of thing he had done often enough before, when it mattered infinitely less personally. It had been so much easier then.

“Actually I met a lady on the steps as she was leaving here nearly two weeks ago,” he began with acute selfconsciousness. “She was kind enough to recommend several other societies and groups to me, but unfortunately I have mislaid the piece of paper on which I wrote them, and I do not know her well enough to call upon her. Indeed, I do not know her address.” Was he talking too muchanswering what had not been asked? “It was a chance meeting because she bumped into me, quite literally, and so we fell into conversation.” He searched the man's face, but it was perfectly bland.

There was not a shred of suspicion or disbelief in it.

“Indeed, sir. Perhaps I can be of assistance. I do know of several other societies which have similar areas of interest, although I must say, none of them, to my knowledge, deal in such an erudite manner, or have so fine a group of speakers.”

“That is what the lady said. She was very dainty, almost… so tall.”

Monk drew a level at Drusilla's height. “She had very handsome fair-brown hair and the most remarkable hazel eyes, very wide and candid, a most direct glance.” He hated the description, but it was as she had seemed to him then. “She seemed to me to be of considerable intelligence and ease of manner. An unusual person, and most admirable. I would have judged her to be just above thirty.”

“Sounds like Miss Wyndham,” the porter said, nodding his head. “Very well-spoken young lady.”

“Wyndham?” Monk raised his eyebrows as if he had not heard her name before.

“I wonder, would that be Major Wyndham's daughter, from the Hussars?” As far as he knew, there was no such person.

The porter pursed his lips doubtfully.

“Er, no, sir, I don't think so. I rather recall overhearing some snatch of conversation suggesting Miss Wyndham came from Buckinghamshire, and her father was in the clergy, before an early demise, poor man. Very sad. He cannot have been an elderly gentleman.”

“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?”

“Yes, yes he did. Eldest named Julia, second named Septima. Poor man really cannot count! Quite amusing… yes! Yes! I am coming to the rest.

Another son named Marcus… all very Roman. Perhaps it was an interest of his, a hobby. Yes! And a last daughter named Drusillaah!” This last gasp was because Monk had again clapped him on the back and driven the air out of his lungs. “I take it that is the lady whom you are seeking?”

“Yes, yes. I think it is. Now-the living. What was his position, and where?”

“Wymondham, sir. It is only a small village.”

“Was he simply the parson?” It did not seem to fit what he had seen of Drusilla. Could it be no more than an extraordinary coincidence, and after all, have no meaning?

“No sir,” the clerk replied with growing enthusiasm himself. “I believe he had an attachment to the Norwich Cathedral, or he had had in the recent past. A distinguished scholar, so my informant tells me.”

“Ah-thank you.” Hope surged back up again. “Is there anything else you know? About the family, for example? The widow? The daughters? In what circumstances do they find themselves now?”

The clerk's face fell.

“I'm sorry, sir, I have no idea. I daresay you would have to travel to Norfolk for that.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you. I am enormously obliged to you.” And indeed he was. He raced out of the building and flung himself into the first vacant hansom that passed, shouting to the driver to take him to the police station, where he could find John Evan and tell him what he now knew.

But he was obliged to wait nearly three hours before Evan returned from the case he was on, by which time it was long after dark and had begun to rain.

They sat together in the coffee shop, warming themselves with hands around hot mugs, sipping slowly at the steaming liquid, a babble of noise around them and constant movement as people came and went.

“Buckingham!” Evan said with surprise. “I don't recall the name.”

“But there must be a case concerning a Buckingham!” Monk insisted. “Try eight years ago specifically.” It was a cry of desperation. Terror gripped inside him that his wrong against Drusilla had been personal… and unforgivable not only to her but to himself as well.

“I went back over all your cases,” Evan said with pain in his eyes. “There was no Buckingham that I can remember, either charged or accused. But of course I'll try again. I'll look specifically for the name.”

“Perhaps I'd better go to Norfolk.” Monk stared beyond Evan without seeing the thronged room or hearing the laughter. “That's where they lived.” “Why would you have gone to Norfolk?” Evan was puzzled. “You only dealt with London cases. If it happened there, the local police would have handled it, not you.” He shrugged very slightly, and shivered as if someone had opened an outside door, although the coffee shop was almost too hot, with its crowded atmosphere and steaming drinks, and the fire leaping in the hearth.

“I suppose it could have started in London, and there have been witnesses- and suspects, for that matter-in Norfolk. I'll try.” He frowned, knowing he was speaking only for comfort. “Don't worry, if it's there, I'll find it.”

And if it is not, Monk thought, then any injury to her was personal, and how in God's name do I learn that? How will I ever know my own view of it, why I did whatever it was, what I thought or felt, what there is in mitigation for me?

He finished his coffee and stood up. He had not the heart even to meet Evan's eyes. What would he think or feel when he knew the truth, what bitter disillusion and sense of betrayal? He was so afraid of it, it was as if it had already happened.

“Thank you,” he said with his voice choking in his throat. He wanted to add more, but could think of nothing. “Thank you.”

Hester was also deeply afraid for Monk, not for what he might have done-she had not concerned herself with that-but for the ruin it would bring him when Drusilla made her charges public. The fact that she could not prove them was immaterial. She had chosen her time and place to be melodramatic with great skill. Not a man or woman emerging from the party in North Audley Street would forget the sight of her pitching headlong out of the moving cab, her clothes torn, screaming that she had been assaulted. Whatever reason told them, they would relive the emotions, the horror and the sense of outrage.

And they would be totally unprepared to accept that they had been duped. It would make them foolish, and that would be intolerable.

Something must be done to help him, something practical and immediate.

There was little use trying to limit the damage after it was done. She and Callandra had talked about it sitting late at night in the small room in the Limehouse hospital, in the few moments when they were not either working or asleep. Callandra was deeply distressed, even in the face of the disease and death around her, and Hester realized with a quick uprush of pleasure how fond she must be of Monk. Callandra's regard for him was far more than mere interest, and the adding of a new dimension to her life.

But she had been able to offer no practical counsel.

Now Hester sat in the warmth and clean, sweet-smelling comfort of Enid's bedroom in Ravensbrook House and watched Enid's frail form, at last peacefully asleep. Genevieve had gone home, weary with grief and the mounting anxiety and loneliness of her loss, dreading the trial of Caleb which must shortly begin.

Hester tidied a few things which were hardly out of place, then returned to her seat. It was so different from just a few days ago. Then Monk faced no greater danger than failing on a case which had seemed hopeless from the beginning. Two weeks ago Enid had been delirious and fighting for her life.

She had tossed from side to side, moaning in pain as her body ached and her mind wandered in nightmare and delusion, mixing past and present and distorting everything.

Hester smiled in spite of herself. One heard some very strange things in a sickroom. Perhaps that was one of the reasons certain people were wary of taking nurses rather than a lady's maid, who presumably already knew a great many of her mistress's secrets.

Enid had rambled about many things, snatches of thoughts, old griefs and loneliness, longings she had never realized and perhaps would never have given words in her conscious mind. There had been fear in her, and half- guessed-at disillusion. She had also referred more than once to letters which were quite openly declarations of love. Hester hoped Enid had not kept them. She doubted very much they were from Lord Ravensbrook. Nothing in what she had seen of him suggested such fluency or ease of expression.

He seemed a very formal man, even stilted when it came to speaking of feelings-which did not, of course, mean that his emotions were less, or that his physical expression of them was not as profound as any other man's.

She had debated whether to mention it to Enid, and warn her that she was capable of indiscretion in her illness, and therefore perhaps in her sleep, if she should ever become feverish again. Then she had decided it might be seen as an impertinence and place a barrier of embarrassment between them.

If Enid had managed so far to conduct her marriage without such a disaster, then it might very well continue so, without Hester's advice.

She looked across at Enid's sleeping form now. She seemed utterly at peace; in fact, there was a very slight smile on her face, as if she dreamed of something pleasant.

Perhaps she was thinking of some of those past letters. They might still give her happy memories, days when she knew she was admired, found beautiful. Love letters were strange; they could do so much good, if kept discreetly… and in the wrong hands so much damage.

Hester had received very few herself, and most of them had been formal, more a statement of ardent hope than any real understanding or knowledge of her nature. Only those from soldiers had had any meaning, and they were romantic, heartfelt, but in some measure cries of desperation and loneliness from young men far from home in an alien and dreadful circumstance, and who simply found a gentle touch and a listening ear, a single spark of beauty in the midst of pain and loss, and the fear of loss. She had treasured them for what they were, not reading into them more.

She winced with embarrassment as she recalled one she had received long ago, before the Crimean War had even begun, from a young man her father had considered a very acceptable suitor. It had been couched in ardent terms, and far too familiar, in her opinion. It had stated a love which had appalled her, because he did not even see her, only what he could turn her into. She prickled with discomfort even now at the thought of it. She had never wanted to meet the man again.

In fact, she could remember vividly the next time they had met. It had been at the dinner table in her father's home-her mother was quite unaware of her feelings, and had sat smiling at the foot of the table, blandly staring at her across a sea of linen and crystal, making optimistic remarks about domestic happiness, while Hester squirmed, her face scarlet, willing to give anything at all to be elsewhere. She could still feel that wretched young man's eyes on her, and the thoughts she imagined must be in his mind as he sat there. In some ways it had been one of the worst evenings of her life.

If only he had not written, she would never have suffered so much. She might even have found him quite tolerable. He was not personally displeasing, quite intelligent, not too opinionated-in fact, altogether an agreeable person.

What ridiculous harm a letter could do if it overstated the intimate, or pressed a case too far, too soon.

It was as if the room had suddenly blazed with light. Of course! That was the answer! Not perhaps in the highest moral standard… in fact, definitely quite questionable. But Monk was in a desperate situation.

The problem was to whom she should send them. It must be the people of Drusilla's own social circle, or it would hardly accomplish the purpose.

And Hester had no idea who composed the current fashionable society, because it had not interested her much for some years.

Now it was of the utmost urgency.

However, she thought on reflection that Callandra would probably not be much more knowledgeable than she. If she knew, it would be by chance, not design. If ever there was a woman who did not give a whit about fashionable company, or who dined or danced with whom, it was Callandra Daviot.

Genevieve was not of that social standing. Her husband was in business, albeit a very respectable one. But gentlemen only dabbled, they did not actually work.

She looked across at Enid. There was the answer.

Of course she could not possibly tell her why she wished to know, not because she needed to protect Monk-Enid would not have believed it of him without better proof than there was so far. Anyway, Hester could always moderate the story somewhat at this point. But Enid would certainly have the gravest doubts about what Hester intended to do about it. In fact, it might very well be sufficient to keep her from providing the information altogether.

It must be obtained without the reason for it given. And perhaps that might not be so very difficult? Hester could ask her about the last party she attended, who was there, what they wore, who danced, who flirted, what was served to eat. In fact, she could ask her to describe several parties. Enid did not know her well enough to be aware that normally she had no interest whatever in such things.

She could do it. She could begin as soon as Enid awoke. Monk himself could find the necessary addresses, if there were no better way of obtaining them. She could begin with ten or a dozen. There was no time to be lost.

“You must have been to some wonderful parties,” she began with enthusiasm when Enid awoke and she puffed up her pillows and brought her a little light food. “Please tell me about them.

I should love to hear.”

“Would you?” Enid said doubtfully. “I would not have thought such things would interest you in the slightest.” She looked at Hester narrowly, amusement in her eyes.

“People are always interesting,” Hester said truthfully. “Even people with whom one would not necessarily wish to spend great periods of time. Please tell me about the last big society party you went to. Who was there? What did they say? What did they do?”

“Who was there?” Enid repeated thoughtfully, staring past Hester at the curtains. “Well… I remember John Pickering, because he told that awful story about the bishop, and…” She reminisced with a short smile and a dry, not unkind observation, and gradually Hester knew from her what she needed, committing every relevant fact to memory.

The next day she found Monk at home, looking weary, irritable and frightened. She might have tried to comfort him, had she had time and not been so afraid he would somehow realize what she meant to do, and stop her.

“Do you still have the wretched letter that woman wrote to you?” she asked hastily.

He was standing by the fire, effectively shielding her from the warmth, although that had probably not occurred to him.

“Why?” he asked. “I've read it several times. It doesn't give any clues at all as to why it is she hates me, or who she really is, beyond the obvious.”

“Do you have it or not?” Hester said sharply. “Please don't argue with everything I say. There really isn't time.”

“You haven't said anything else,” he pointed out.

“And I won't have time to, if you keep on being so persnickety. Do you have the letter?”

“Yes!”

“Then may I see it please?”

“What for?” He did not move.

“Get it!” she ordered.

He hesitated, as if to argue further, then decided it was not worth the emotional effort. He went to the bureau drawer and took out the letter, passing it to her with a look of distaste.

“Thank you.” She put it into her pocket, then unfolded the piece of paper on which she had written the addresses of eighteen gentlemen who would serve her purpose. “I need the London addresses of as many of these as you can find, unless they are in the country at present,” she instructed, holding it out to him. “Then it will be no use. I want at least twelve, and by tomorrow midday, if you please. It is of the utmost importance. You may leave them at my lodgings, in a sealed envelope. Don't fail.” She turned to leave. “I am sorry I cannot remain, but I have a great deal to do. Good night.”

“Hester!” he shouted. “What for? What on earth do you want them for? What are you doing?” He strode to the door after her, but she had her hand on the knob already.

“I have told you, I have no time to discuss it now,” she replied briskly.

“I shall explain it all later. Please do as I have asked you, and as rapidly as possible. Good night.”

She began as soon as she reached her lodgings, where her landlady was quite surprised to see her, as she had been there so little of late. Hester spoke to her graciously, said how pleasant it was to be home again, and announced that she would spend the evening writing letters. In the unlikely event anyone should call, she was not available to receive them.

Her landlady looked both alarmed and fascinated, but did not let down her own dignity sufficiently to ask for an explanation. It was beneath a lady, and she wanted to be thought a lady, which prevented her exhibiting anything so vulgar as curiosity.

As soon as she had eaten, Hester began her task, doing her best to imitate Drusilla's flowery, erratic hand.

My dearest love, I am still on fire from the joy of our last meeting. Of course I do understand the necessity for secrecy, at least for the time being, but the tenderness of your eyes was enough to thrill me to my very heart…

This was quite fun to write in such an unbridled strain. She would never in the world write like this if she were putting her own name to it, no matter what she felt. She continued.

I long for the time when we may be alone together, so that this pretense may no longer be, when you can take me in your arms and we can give ourselves to each other with the passion which I know you feel, as I do, tearing me apart. I ache for you. My dreams are filled with the sight of you and the sound of your voice, the touch of your skin against mine, the taste of your mouth…

Oh, dear! Had she gone too far?

But the aim of this was to be as excruciatingly embarrassing as possible.

The man who received this must regard Drusilla Wyndham with an abhorrence verging on terror.

She proceeded.

I know all the things you dare not say. I do not misunderstand your occasional coldness towards me when we chance to meet in public. I burn inside, my heart melts to be able to tell the world that we are lovers, al- beit yet to dare the final act, but I shall wait, knowing it will not be forever, and that soon, soon my darling, you will cut the ties that bind you to your wife now, and we shall be free to be together for ever.

Your one true love,

Drusilla

There now! If that did not make the man squirm, then he was a rake and a cad and possessed of no decency at all!

Naturally she had chosen only married men, or those about to be.

She reread what she had written. Perhaps it was a bit extreme? What Drusilla had done was appalling, but such a letter might damage her irreparably, several almost certainly would, which would make Hester morally no better than Drusilla herself. And she realized with a wave of misery that even Monk was not sure that he had not somehow caused her hatred.

She tore up the letter and put the little pieces into the wastebasket, and began again.

This one was much more moderate, inviting misinterpretation, but phrased in such a manner that it could, at a stretch of the imagination, and with a great deal of charity, be explained reasonably innocently.

That was better. Please heaven she had not softened it too much, and it would still cause the necessary misgivings, and mistrust of anything Drusilla might say, the flickers of personal fear, the fellow feeling with another man who had had his words or his actions misconstrued by a vain and overeager woman.

She wrote several more. By the time she put her pen down at a quarter to ten, her hand ached and her eyes were stinging.

Two days later Lord Fontenoy opened his mail at the breakfast table. It appeared the usual collection of bills, invitations and polite letters of one sort or another. There was none which occasioned any unusual interest, and certainly no alarm… until he came to the last one.

Lady Fontenoy, who had been reading a letter from her cousin in Wales, heard him splutter, and looked up, then with some anxiety forgot her own mail entirely.

“My dear, are you all right? You look quite unwell. Is it distressing news?”

“No!” he said overloudly. “No, not at all,” he amended. “It is something quite trivial.” He strove to invent a plausible lie, something to account for his pale face and shaking hands, and yet not excite her curiosity so that she expected to read the wretched thing… which of course he could refuse, but he did not wish her suspicion aroused. He had a really most agreeable domestic life, and desired intensely to keep it so.

“No, my dear, it is simply a most foolish letter from someone who desires to make trouble in a quarter I had not foreseen. It's unpleasant, but nothing to cause undue worry. I shall deal with it.” Perhaps he was reacting too strongly. He recalled the phrases used. They had initially appalled him, but on second thought, they were ambiguous, capable of less demanding intent.

“Are you sure?” Lady Fontenoy pressed. “You do look very pale, Walter.” “I swallowed my tea a little hastily,” he replied. “I fear it did not go quite the right way. Uncomfortable. Please don't distress yourself. How is Dorothea? That is a letter from Dorothea, is it not?”

She realized that was the end of the conversation. She accepted that he would not mention it again, but she knew perfectly well that the letter he had received had shaken his composure very thoroughly, and she was not at ease for the rest of the day.

Sir Peter Welby was also highly upset by his morning mail. Being still a bachelor, now on the brink of a very fortunate marriage, he breakfasted alone, apart from the distant presence of his manservant.

“Good God!” he expostulated, when he had read the alarming missive. If that should fall into the wrong hands, it could be very damagingly misconstrued.

It could all become very ugly indeed, if read by someone unkindly disposed.

“Sir?” his manservant said questioningly.

His reaction was to tear it up, into many pieces, and those as small as possible, then put it all on the breakfast room fire. He remembered the woman quite clearly. He had danced with her, several times. She was very comely and had an air about her which was highly attractive. She had wit and, he had thought, intelligence. But she must be out of her senses to have perceived his very slight flirtation as anything more, and supposed that he had even the remotest intent to pursue the relationship, now of all times!

If she really did mean what she seemed to, then he must convince her he had no such thought in mind, nor ever had had.

But then perhaps she had merely expressed herself unfortunately? Better not to mention it at all-to anyone. Let it blow over. He must be a great deal more careful in the future. Handsome women of a certain age were the very devil.

The Honourable John Blenkinsop read his mail with total disbelief. He refolded the letter hastily and was in the act of replacing it in its envelope when his wife, who had no mail this morning, interrupted his train of thought. She had news of her own to discuss, which she had heard the previous evening, only she had retired before he had returned from his club and thus had had no opportunity to pass it on.

“Did you know, John, the most dreadful thing happened in North Audley Street the other day.” She leaned forward over the toast and marmalade.

“Poor Drusilla Wyndham, such a lovely creature, was assaulted in a hansom.

Can you imagine anything so perfectly dreadful? She had asked some man's assistance in a matter, and the man, a very ordinary person, by all accounts, mistook her civility for encouragement and attempted to force his attentions on her! John, are you listening to me?”

“Force his attentions?” he repeated confusedly. “You mean kiss her?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed. “He even went so far as to tear her gown open at the bosom. The whole thing must have been a nightmare for her, poor creature. She only escaped him by hurling herself out of the hansom, as it was moving, mind you, and fell into the road. How she was not injured, I cannot think.” The letter burned in his hand.

“I wouldn't put too much weight to it, my dear…” he began.

“What?” She was aghast. “How can you say such a thing? What on earth do you mean? The man behaved unpardonably!”

“Possibly, my dear, but some women do imagine things to be quite-“

“Imagine?” She was nonplussed. “The man put his hands on her, John! He tore her gown! How can she have imagined that?”

“Well… perhaps he merely brushed against her, the motions of the cab, and all that…” He thought of his own brush with Drusilla, and the absurd interpretation it seemed she had put upon that. His sympathy was entirely with this fellow, whoever he was. He broke out in a sweat thinking how easily he could have been in his place. “Rather a hysterical woman, my dear,” he added. “Don't like to distress you, but I wouldn't accept all she says, if I were you. Single women in their thirties and all that. Given to fancies of a rather heated nature. It can happen. Misunderstood a civility for something much more. Easy enough.”

She frowned. “Do you really think so, John? I find it hard to believe.”

“Of course you do, my dear.” He forced a smile, al though it felt painted onto his face. “Because you are a woman, and properly married with a home of your own, and all that goes with it. You would never imagine such things. But not all women are as you, you must appreciate that. Be advised, Mariah. A good friend of mine, whose name I will not mention to avoid his embarrassment, has had a similar experience with a young woman, and he was as innocent as the day, I assure you. But in the heat of her… her imagination, she totally misread him, and accused him of…

well… it is not fit for you to hear.”

“Oh, my goodness!” She was totally taken aback. “Well, I never. I really had not thought…”

“It does you credit.” He rose and left the table. “But I urge you to dismiss the matter altogether, and on no account be drawn into discussion of it. Now you must excuse me, my dear. Please do not let me disturb you.”

And as he passed the fire he dropped the letter into it and hesitated long enough to see the flames consume it, to his infinite relief. It would not be spoken of again.