A Breach of Promise

chapter 9
Monk set about the task of searching for the two children with a feeling of self-disgust for having been stupid enough to accept such a ludicrous case. His chances of learning anything provable were remote, and even if he did it would be something poor Martha Jackson would be infinitely better not knowing. But there was no escape now. It was his own fault for listening to his emotions rather than his intelligence. His fault-and Hester's.

There was only one place to begin: the last news Martha herself knew of them, which was the house where they were born and had lived until their father died. It was in Coopers Arms Lane, off Putney High Street, south of the river. It was quite a long journey, and rather than waste time in traveling back and forth he had packed a light bag and taken with him sufficient funds to stay overnight at an inn should there prove to be anything worth pursuing. He did not wish to spend any more time than necessary on this case, and to be honest, he wished it over with as soon as possible, consistent with keeping his word.

It was a very pleasant day, warm and bright, and if undertaken for any other reason, he would have enjoyed the journey. He arrived in Putney a little before half past ten and found Coopers Arms Lane without having to ask anyone for directions. The tavern after which it had taken its name looked a promising place for luncheon-and for picking up any relevant gossip.

First he would try the house itself, simply to exclude it from his investigations. After twenty-one years no one would remember anything. Probably they would not have after twenty-one weeks.

He found the right house, a modest residence of the sort usually occupied by two or three families behind its shabby, well-cared-for walls. The step was scrubbed and whitened, the pathway swept. The curtains at the front windows were clean, and even from the outside he could see where they had been carefully mended. It all spoke of ordinary, decent lives lived on the razor's edge between poverty and respectability, always aware that the future could change, illness strike with its unpayable bills, or employment vanish.

Had it been the same in Samuel Jackson's day? All the houses up and down the street looked like this one. He felt a wound of sadness as he thought how tragedy had struck, without warning and without mercy. He found he was cold, even in the sunlight, as he put out his hand to lift the knocker.

The woman who answered was not pretty in any conventional sense, but clear eyes and a gentle nature made her appearing. She spoke with a soft Irish accent.

"Yes sir? Can I help you?"

"Good morning, ma'am," he answered with more courtesy than he would have used in his days as a policeman. He had no power to demand anymore. "I am making enquiries on behalf of a friend whose brother used to live in this house twenty-one years ago. I realize it is unlikely anyone will know what became of him now. It is really his children I am concerned with. She lost touch..." He saw the look of concern and disbelief in the woman's face. Twenty years was too long to account for renewed interest now without an explanation. He made himself smile again. "Her own circumstances were difficult. She had not the financial means to employ anyone to seek after them, nor the time or knowledge to do it herself."

"And she has now?" the woman said, skepticism still evident in her voice.

"No," Monk admitted. "I am doing it as a favor. She is in service in a house where a friend of mine is nursing an injured soldier."

"Oh." The answer seemed to satisfy. "Twenty-one years ago, did you say?"

"Yes. Were you in this house then?" The moment he had said it he realized it was a foolish question. She could not be much more than twenty-five herself.

She smiled and shook her head. "No sir, that I wasn't. Sure I was still at home in Ireland then, but my pa was. He worked here, and he lodged over the road with Mrs. O'Hare. He'd maybe know who was here then. Missed us all, he did, and were terrible fond o' the little ones. If you'd like to come away in, I'll ask him for you."

"Thank you Mrs____________________"

"Mrs. Heggerty, Maureen Heggerty. Come away in, then, sir." And she backed into the passageway, pulling the door wide for him to follow. "Pa!" she called, lifting her voice. "Pa! There's a gentleman here as would like to see you."

"William Monk," he introduced himself. She turned her back to him and was awaiting her father's answer to her summons, so it seemed inopportune to offer her a card.

"Welcome, Mr. Monk. Pa! Are you fallen asleep again now? It's only half past ten in the morning."

A man of about sixty came lumbering from the back of the house, pushing a large hand through thick silver-white hair. He was dressed in shapeless trousers and a collarless shirt with its sleeves rolled up. He denied it indignantly, but obviously to Monk, he had indeed been asleep. He looked like a bear woken from winter hibernation. He blinked past his daughter at Monk standing in the passage, silhouetted against the light from the still-open front door and the sunlit street beyond.

"Sure and what is it I can be doin' for yer, sir?" he said pleasantly enough. He narrowed his eyes to focus on Monk's face and try to read something beyond his beautifully cut jacket and shining boots.

"Good morning, sir," Monk said respectfully. "Mrs. Heggerty tells me you lived in this street twenty-one years ago-in the house opposite this one?"

"Two doors along," he corrected. "On t'other side." His brow creased. "Why would that be interestin' to you?"

"I believe a Mr. Samuel Jackson lived here then," Monk explained. Mrs. Heggerty stood between them, the light on her fair hair, her hands tucked under her apron. "He had two children," Monk went on. "I am making enquiries on behalf of Mr. Jackson's sister, who is at last in a position to attempt to trace those children. Since she is their only living relative, as far as she knows, she has a care that if there is any chance whatever of finding them, she may be able to offer them some... some affection, if that is possible." He knew it sounded foolish even as he said it, and wished he had thought of something better.

"For sure, poor little things," the older man said with a shake of his head. "A bit late now, mind you." The criticism was only mild. He was a man who had seen much tragedy of a quiet domestic kind, and it was written in his weathered face and his bright, narrowed eyes as he regarded Monk.

"You knew them?" Monk said quickly.

"I saw them," the man corrected. "Knew them'd not be the right word. They were only tiny things."

"Would you not like a cup o' tea, Mr. Monk?" Mrs. Heggerty interrupted. "And you, Pa?"

"For sure I would." Her father nodded. "Come away to the kitchen." He beckoned to Monk. "We'll not be standing here for the neighbors to stare at. Close the door, girl!" He held out his hand. "Me name's Michael Connor."

"How do you do, sir," Monk responded, allowing Mrs. Heggerty to move behind him and close the door as instructed.

The kitchen was a small, cluttered room with a stone sink under the window, two pails of water beside it, presumably drawn from the nearest well, perhaps a dozen doors along the street, or possibly from a standpipe. A large stove was freshly blacked, and on it were five pots, two of them big enough to hold laundry, more of which hung from the rail winched up to the ceiling on a rope fastened around a cleat at the farther wall.

A dresser carried enough crockery to serve a dozen people at a sitting, and in the bins below were no doubt flour, dried beans and lentils, barley, oatmeal and other household necessities. Strings of onions and shallots hung from the ceiling on the other side of the room. Two smoothing irons rested on trivets near the stove, and large earthenware pots were labeled for potash, lye, bran and vinegar.

Mrs. Heggerty pointed to one of the upright wooden chairs near the table and then moved to the stove to replace the kettle on the hob and fetch the tea caddy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened to them?"

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

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

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

Mrs. Heggerty sniffed.

"What did their mother do?" Monk asked.

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

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

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

"Well, you could try Buxton House, down the far end of the High Street," Mrs. Heggerty suggested. "She must have been at her wit's end, poor woman. I can't think of anything worse to happen to a soul than to have to give up your children, and them not right, so you'd never even be able to comfort yourself they'd be cared for by some other person as you would have done." She stood stiffly, her arms folded across her bosom as if holding some essence of her own children closer, and Monk remembered the rows of small clothes on the airing rack and the doll propped up on the stairs. Presumably the children were at lessons at this hour of the morning.

He rose to his feet. "Thank you, I will." The tea was half finished. Leaving it required some explanation. "I know it's futile. I want to get it over with as soon as possible. Thank you, Mrs. Heggerty, Mr. Connor."

"Sure you're welcome, sir," she said, moving to take him back to the door.

A couple of enquiries took him to Buxton House, a large, gaunt building which in earlier days had been a family home but now boasted nothing whatever beyond the strictly functional. A thin, angular-boned woman with her hair screwed back off her face was scrubbing the step, her arms sweeping back and forth rhythmically, her dreams elsewhere.

When he rang the bell it was answered by another woman, so fat the fabric strained at the seams of her gray dress. Her florid face was already angry even before she saw him.

"We're full up!" she said bluntly. "Try the orphanage over the river at Parsons Green." She made as if to close the door.

Looking into her bleak, blue eyes Monk had a sudden very ugly idea, born of knowledge and experience.

"I will, if you can't help me," he replied tersely. "I'm looking for girls about ten or eleven, old enough to start work and easy to train into good ways. I'm setting up house a few miles from here. I'd sooner have girls without family, so they're not always wanting days off to go home. I could try city girls, but I've no connections." He could easily have been stocking a brothel or selling girls abroad for the white slave trade, and she must know that as well as he did.

Her face altered like sunshine from a cloud. In an instant the line of her mouth softened and the ice in her eyes melted.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said smoothly. "I'm fair mithered to pieces to take poor children I 'aven't the means ter care for, though God knows I'm willin' enough. But you can't feed 'ungry mouths if you in't got no food." She straightened her skirt absentmindedly. "It'd be a fair blessin' if yer could take two or three girls, sir. Make room for two or three more wot's infants an' can't do a thing for theirselves. I've got several as is both willin' an able ter please, an' comely enough. Jus' coming inter young ladies, like." She smiled widely and knowingly at Monk. Perhaps in her youth she had been buxom enough; now she was grotesque. His knowledge of her trade made her repellent to him.

He forced himself to look interested. It was difficult to keep the disgust from his face.

"Best young," she went on. "Teach 'em your ways before they get taught wrong by someone else. Come into the parlor Mr...?"

For some reason he did not want to give his own name. He did not want any part of his true self connected with this business.

"Meachem," he answered, giving her the first surname that came into his head. "Horace Meachem." He must make sure he remembered it! "Thank you."

She opened the door wide enough to allow him in. The thin woman who had been scrubbing the step shot him a look of withering contempt. He wished he could have told her the truth, but it was a luxury beyond him.

The hallway was bare and painted gray. A stitched sampler with several mistakes proclaimed: "The eye of God is upon you." He hoped it was. Maybe there would be more justice in eternity than there was here.

He was led to a parlor decorated in red and a world away from the hall in comfort. She invited him to sit down and sat decorously opposite him, rearranging her bombazine skirts with fat, wrinkled hands. Then she reached for the bell and pulled it sharply.

"I'll have several girls brought for you," she said cheerfully. "You can take your pick. Very glad of a place, they'll be, and the price'U go towards carin' for more abandoned waifs, so we can give "em a start in life... that's no more than a Christian duty."

He loathed what he was about to do. The words would barely come off his tongue.

"I'd like nice-looking girls. At least one will be a parlormaid, in time."

"O' course you would, sir," she agreed. "An' nice-lookin' is wot I'll provide. We don' send 'omely girls for that sort o' position. They goes for scullery maids an' the like, or ter wash pots or such."

"I heard you even took in disfigured girls," he said relentlessly. He wished he could take the girls she would bring. God knows what would happen to them. Perhaps the uglier ones would be better off... eventually.

"Oh... well..." She prevaricated, her sharp, cold eyes weighing how much he might know. He was a customer, and he looked from his clothes as if he might have money. She did not want to offend him. "I don't know 'oo told you that."

He met her gaze squarely, allowing a slightly supercilious curl to his mouth. "I made my enquiries. I don't come blind."

"Well, it's only charitable," she excused herself. "Got ter take 'em all in. Don't keep 'em, mind. If they're bad enough, put 'em in ter work in the mills or someplace like that, w'ere they won't be seen."

He looked skeptical. "Really?"

" 'Course. Wot else can I do wif 'em? Can't carry no passengers 'ere."

The bell was answered by a child of about ten, and the woman sent her off to fetch three girls she named.

"Now, Mr. Meacham," she resumed. "Let's talk money. This place don't run on fresh air. An' like you said, I gotta feed the useless ones as well as the ones wot'U find places."

"Let's see them first," he argued. He could not bear to think of the wretched children who would be paraded in front of him, like farm animals for him to bid on; he knew he could take none of them. "How long have you been here?"

"Thirty years. I know me job, Mr. Meacham, never you fear."

"That's what I heard. But I want to be sure what I'm getting. I don't want any unpleasant surprises... when it's too late to bring them back."

"You won't!" she said sharply, narrowing her eyes. "Wot you 'eard, then? Someone blackenin' me name?"

"I heard you took in some pretty badly deformed girls in the past... real freaks." He hated using the word.

"When was that, then?" she demanded. " 'Oo said that?"

"Long time ago... more than twenty years," he replied.

"So I did, then," she agreed reluctantly. "But it was then-faces wot was twisted up. See it as quick as look at 'em, yer did. Didn't fool nobody fer an instant."

"Why did you take them?" he pressed, although he knew the answer.

" 'Cos I were paid!" she snapped. "Wot jer think? But it were all legal! An' I don't cheat no one. No one can say as I did. Sold 'em for exactly wot they was-ugly and stupid- both. I were quite plain about it."

"No one has said you weren't," he replied coldly. "So far as I am aware. I should still like to know what happened to the Jackson girls. I am acquainted with their only living relative, who might be... obliged... if they were located." He rubbed his fingers together suggestively at the word obliged.

"Ah..." She was obviously considering her possible advantage in the matter. She glanced at his polished boots, his beautiful jacket, and lastly at his face with its keen, hard lines, and judged him to be a man with a sharp eye to money and a much less discriminating one to principle-like herself. "When they was old enough ter work, I sent 'em ter the kitchens at the pub."

"Coopers Arms?" he said hopefully.

"Yeah. But they din't keep 'em. Too ugly even fer 'im. I dunno wot e' did wi' them, but you could ask 'im."

"How long ago is that? Ten years?"

"Ten years?" she said scornfully. "Yer think I'm made o' money? Fifteen years, an' I waited even then. They was six an' eight. That's plenty old ter fetch fer yerself. I'd 'a sent 'em sooner if they 'adn't bin so daft. Thought they might grow out of it an' 'ave a better chance." She prided herself on her charity.

"Thank you." He stood up, straightening his coat.

Her face fell. "Wot abaht them girls? Yer'll not find better anyw'ere, nor at a better price!"

"I've changed my mind," he said with an icy smile. "I've decided I'd like plain girls after all. Thank you for your time."

She swore at him with a string of language he had not heard since his last visit to the slums of the Devil's Acre. He walked out of the door with a positive swagger, until he saw the girls lined up in the passage, scrubbed clean, their hair tied back, their thin faces alight with hope. Then instead he felt sick.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "You're fine. I've just changed my mind." And he hurried away before he could think of it anymore.

It was close enough to noon that he could comfortably walk up to the Coopers Arms and order luncheon and casually make enquiries about the Jackson girls. Could it, after all, be so ridiculously easy that they were still in the immediate neighborhood? It was foolish to hope, and he was not even sure if he wanted to. It might easily bring Martha Jackson more distress. But it was not his job to foresee that and make decisions for her.

Was it?

He had knowledge she could not have. In telling her or not telling her, he was in effect making the decision.

He walked briskly in the bright sunlight up Putney High Street. It was full of people, mostly going about their business of buying or selling, haggling over prices, shouting their wares. Some were begging, as always. Some were standing and gossiping, women with heavy baskets, trailing children, men with barrows spilling out vegetables or bales of cloth, sacks of sticks or coal, bags of flour. The flower girl stood on a street comer with bunches of violets, another with matches. A one-legged soldier offered bootlaces. Two small boys swept the crossings clean of horse droppings. The wail of a rag and bone man drifted across, calling his wares. A brewer's dray lumbered by.

Newspaper boys called out the headlines. A running pat-terer found himself a spot, and a gathering audience, and launched into a bawdy version of Killian Melville's double life as a perverted woman who dressed as a man to deceive the world. It made Monk so angry he wanted to seize the man by the lapels and shout at him that he was a vicious, ignorant little swine who made his living on other people's misery and that he had no idea what he was talking about. And if he did not keep his mouth shut in the affair, Monk would personally shut it for him.

He strode by with his fists clenched and his jaw so tight his teeth ached. Every muscle in him was knotted with rage at the injustice. Melville was dead. That was more tragedy than enough. This was monstrous.

Why was he walking past?

He stopped abruptly, swung around, and marched back to the patterer. He did seize him by the lapels, to his amazement, and said exactly what he had wished to, which gathered twice the previous audience and much ribald laughter. He left the man breathless with indignation and astonishment, and resumed his way feeling relieved of much immediate tension.

The Coopers Arms was a very ordinary public house, and at this time of the day, crowded with people. The smells of sawdust, ale and human sweat and dirt were pungent, and the babble of voices assailed him the moment he pushed open the doors. The barman was busy, and he had to wait several minutes before purchasing a mug of stout and ordering pork pie, pickles and boiled red cabbage.

He found himself a seat at one of the tables, deliberately joining with other people. He chose a group who looked like local small tradesmen, neat, comfortable, slightly shabby, tucking into their food with relish. They looked at him guardedly but not in an unfriendly manner. He was a stranger and might prove a diversion from their day-to-day affairs. And Monk wanted to talk.

"Good day, gentlemen," he said with a smile, taking his seat. "Thank you for your hospitality." He was referring to the fact that they had moved up to make room for him.

"Not from 'round 'ere," one of them observed.

"Other side of the river," Monk replied. "Bloomsbury way."

"Wot brings you down 'ere, then?" another asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and picking up a thick roll of bread stuffed with ham. "Sellin', are yer? Or buyin'?"

"Neither," Monk answered, sipping his stout. His meal had not yet come. Looking at the food already on the table, he was remarkably hungry. It seemed like a long day already. "Probably on a pointless errand. Did any of you know a Samuel Jackson, lived here about twenty years ago?"

The third member, who had not yet spoken, pushed his cap back on his head and looked at Monk curiously. "Yeah, I knew 'im. Decent feller, 'e were. Poor devil. Died. Din't yer know that?"

"Yes, yes, I did know. I was wondering what became of his family," Monk continued.

The man guffawed with laughter, but there was a hard edge to it and his eyes were angry. "Little late, in't yer? Why d'yer wanna know fer now? 'Oo cares after all this time?"

"His sister," Monk replied truthfully. "She cared all the time but was in no position to employ anyone to find out"

"So wot's changed?" the man said, yanking his cap forward again.

A smiling girl brought Monk his meal and he thanked her and gave her threepence for herself. The man at the table frowned. Monk was setting a precedent they would not be able to follow.

"Thank you," Monk said graciously, still looking at the girl. "Do you have scullery maids in the kitchen?"

"Yes sir, three o' them," she said willingly. Any gentleman who tipped her threepence deserved a little courtesy. And he was certainly handsome looking, in a grim sort of way. Quite appealing, really, a bit mysterious. "An' two kitchen maids, an' o' course a cook... sir. Was yer wantin' ter speak ter anyone?"

"Do you have a girl with a deformed mouth?"

"A wot?"

"A twisted mouth, a funny lip?"

She looked puzzled. "No sir."

"Never mind. Thank you for answering me." It was foolish to have hoped. The woman at Buxton House had said the publican had got rid of the girls. It might not even be the same publican now. It was fifteen years ago.

The girl smiled and left and Monk began his meal.

"Yer really mean it, don't yer?" one of the men said in surprise. "You'll not find 'em now, yer know? They put people like that away inter places w'ere they can't upset folk... they'll be cleanin' up arter folk somewhere, if they're still alive. They wasn't only ugly, yer know; they was simple as well. I saw 'em w'en they was 'ere. There's summink about 'avin' yer face twisted as bothers folk more 'n if it were yer body or yer 'ands. One of 'em looked like she were sneerin' at yer, an the other like she was barin' 'er teeth. Couldn't 'elp it, o' course, but strangers don' know that."

Monk should have kept quiet. Instead he found himself asking, "Where might they be sent to, exactly?"

The man gulped down his ale. "ExacTy? Gawd knows! Any places as'd 'ave 'em, poor little things. Pity fer Sam. 'E loved them little girls."

There was only one more avenue Monk should try, then duty was satisfied.

"What about his widow? Do you know what happened to her?"

"Dolly Jackson? I dunno." He looked around the table. "D'you know, Ted? D'you know, Alf?"

Ted shrugged and picked up his tankard.

"She left Putney. I know that," Alf said decisively. "Went north, I 'eard. Up city way. Lookin' fer a soft billet, I shouldn't wonder. She were pretty enough ter please any man, long as she didn't 'ave them two little one's wif 'er."

"That's a downright cruel thing ter say!" Ted criticized.

Alf's face showed resignation. "It's true. Poor Sam. Turnin' over in 'is grave, I shouldn't wonder."

As Monk had foreseen, the public house had changed hands, and the present landlord, with the best will in the world to oblige, had no idea whatever what had happened to two little girls fifteen years ago, nor could he make any helpful suggestions. Monk had acquitted his obligations, and he left with thanks.

The obvious course was to tell Martha Jackson that he had done what he could and further pursuance was fruitless. He would not tell her his fears, only phrase things in such a manner she would not wish to waste his time on something which could not succeed.

He arrived in Tavistock Square early in the afternoon and was admitted by Martha herself. The moment she recognized him, her face filled with eagerness, hope that he had come for her battling with fear that it was only to see Hester again and dread that he had something discouraging to tell her after all.

He wished he could free himself from caring about it. It was just another case-and one which he had known from the beginning could only end this way, or worse. And yet the feeling was sharp inside him, not only for Hester but for Martha herself, and above all for Sam Jackson's children.

"I'm sorry, Miss Jackson," he said quickly. He should not keep her in even a moment's false hope. "I traced them as far as working in a public house kitchen in Putney, the Coopers Arms. But after that no one knows where they went, except it was to another job. They weren't abandoned." They might very well have been abandoned, but there was nothing to be served by telling her that.

The stiffness relaxed out of her body and her shoulders drooped. She blinked, for an instant fighting tears. Only then did he realize how much she had truly hoped, in spite of all his warnings. He felt painfully helpless. He tried to think of anything to say or do to ease her distress, and there was nothing.

She gulped once and swallowed.

"Thank you, Mr. Monk. It was very good of you to try for me." She blinked several times more, then turned away, her voice thick with unreleased weeping. "I'm sure you'd like to see Miss Latterly. Please..." She did not finish, but led him wordlessly across the hall and up the stairs towards the sitting room which she and Hester shared. She opened the door and stood back for him to enter, retreating immediately.

Hester put down her book. He noticed it was on Indian history. She stood up, coming towards him, searching his face.

"You couldn't find them," she said softly. It was not a question, but her eyes were full of disappointment she could not hide.

He hated having let her down, even though she had never expected the impossible. He realized with a jolt how much her feelings mattered to him, and he resented it. It made him dependent upon her and hideously vulnerable. That was something he had tried all his life to avoid. It had not even happened in a way he could have foreseen and over which he had control. It should have been some gentlewoman in love with him, over whom he could exercise a decent influence and whose effect upon him he could control.

"Of course I couldn't find them!" he said sharply. "I told you that in the beginning. I tried hard, I questioned everyone who had anything to do with it, but there was never any reasonable chance of success. Dammit, it was twenty years ago. What did you expect?" He took a breath, looking at the pain in her eyes. "You were irresponsible leading Martha to hope," he went on.

"I didn't!" she retorted with a sudden flare of temper. "I always said there was very little chance. She can't help hoping. Wouldn't you? No-perhaps you wouldn't. Sometimes I think you don't understand ordinary feelings at all. You haven't got any." She turned away, her body rigid.

It was so untrue it was monstrous. As usual, she was being utterly unjust. He was about to say so when there was a heavy footstep in the corridor outside. A moment later, after the merest hesitation, the door opened and Athol Sheldon stood in the threshold. He was dressed in a smart checked jacket of a Norfolk style and his face was pink with fresh air and exertion. Apparently he had just arrived. As usual, he was oblivious of the emotions of those he had interrupted.

"Good afternoon, Miss Latterly. How are you this delightful day? Good afternoon, Mr. Monk. How are you, sir?" Apparently the expressions on their faces told him nothing. "Gabriel seems a little disturbed today." He frowned slightly. "If I may say so, Miss Latterly, I think you should not have told him the news about Melville. It has distressed him unnecessarily. And, of course, poor Perdita should never have had to learn of such depravity. That was a grave misjudgment on your part, and I am disappointed in you."

The blood rushed in a tide up Hester's face. Monk's emotion changed instantly from anger with her to a rage with Athol he could barely control. He made the effort only because he did not wish to speak without thinking and possibly make the matter worse for her. To his amazement, he found himself shaking.

"Mistaken or not," Hester said between her teeth, "it is my judgment that Lieutenant Sheldon should be treated as an adult and told whatever he wishes to know. He was interested in the Melville case and concerned for both justice and the human tragedy involved."

"And what about Mrs. Sheldon?" Athol demanded, staring at Hester angrily. "Have you given the slightest thought to her feelings, with your zeal to press what you see as your duty to my brother? Have you for an instant thought what irreparable damage you might be doing to her?" His eyes widened. "What about her innocence, her susceptibilities, even her ability to continue as the charming and gentle creature she is and for which he married her... eh?"

"It is not possible to protect anyone from the tragedies and misfortunes of life forever, Mr. Sheldon," she replied stiffly. "I don't think Mrs. Sheldon wishes to be locked away. She would be denying the chance to grow up, or to be any use to anyone. No person with a whit of courage wishes to remain a child forever..."

His face was mottled with purple and his eyes were now brilliant with outrage.

"Miss Latterly, you exceed yourself! You have shown much spirit and initiative in going to the Crimea to nurse soldiers, and I am sure much worthy devotion to duty, as you perceive it, but I am afraid you are not suitable for nursing in the home of a gentleman. You have picked up too much of the manner and beliefs of army life. It is most unfortunate, but I must recommend to my brother that you be released as soon as I can find someone to replace you."

Hester was white-faced. For a moment she looked almost as if she might be about to crumple.

Monk was furious. Now he would intervene, whether she liked it or not.

But he was prevented by Perdita herself, who was standing in the doorway, also wide-eyed and extremely pale. She must have heard their raised voices. Now she was trembling as she steadied herself with one hand on the doorframe behind Athol.

"You will not be replaced, Hester," she said huskily, and cleared her throat. "Athol, I appreciate that you no doubt have my welfare in mind, but you will not dismiss my staff, or indeed give them any instructions at all. Miss Latterly is in my employ, not yours, and she will stay here as long as I wish her to and she is willing."

"You are upset, my dear," Athol said after a moment's hesitation in amazement at her outburst. "When you have had time to reconsider, you will realize that what I say is right." He nodded several times to emphasize his certainty.

"It is not right!" she contradicted him, coming into the room and facing him squarely. "Certainly I am upset that Melville is dead, poor creature, and I am upset about the manner of his death-" She corrected herself. "Her death! The whole thing is a most tragic matter altogether. But I am plain angry that you should choose to dismiss my staff without reference to me or my wishes."

"It is for your good, my dear Perdita-"

"I don't care whose good it is for!" she shouted at him. "Or whose good you think it is! You will not make my decisions for me." She took a deep breath and resumed in a normal voice. "And anyway, you are wrong. It is not for my good that should be shut away from knowing what is going on. What use am I to anybody, especially myself, if life passes me by? Would you allow me to decide for you what you should know and what you shouldn't?"

He laughed abruptly. "That is hardly comparable, my dear girl. I know an infinitely greater amount about the world and its ways than you do."

"Of course you do!" she rejoined smartly. "Nobody told you you should stay in the nursery and drink milk for the rest of your life!"

"Really, Perdita!" He bridled, stepping backwards. "Your complete loss of composure rather proves what I say. You are overwrought and quite unable to think clearly. That is not a matter you should be discussing in front of Miss Latterly and Mr. Monk."

"Why not?" she demanded. "You are trying to dismiss Hester. Should that be done behind her back?"

"Perdita, please control yourself!" Athol was becoming seriously annoyed now. His rather thin patience was worn through. "Have Martha make you a cup of tea or something. This vindicates my judgment that this has all been too much for you. If you are not careful you will take a fit of the vapors, and then you can be no help to Gabriel or anyone else."

"I shall not take a fit of the vapors!" Perdita retaliated. "The very worst I shall do is tell you precisely what I think and feel about your interfering in my household. But believe me, Athol, that could be very bad. Hester is staying here, and that is the end to it. If you do not find that something you can abide, then I shall be sorry not to see you until Gabriel is better and she has been released to care for someone else... but I shall endure it. Stoically!" Her face was bright pink, and in spite of her attitude of confidence, she was trembling.

Hester was trying very hard to keep the smile from her lips.

Monk did not bother.

"I am sure your husband will be obliged to you, Mrs. Sheldon," he said quietly. "It is not pleasant to rely on someone and have them dismissed by anyone else, no matter how well intended. And your understanding and feelings regarding the Melville case will no doubt make it much easier for him to bear his own sense of distress, since he will not have to do it alone."

"I wiE thank you to concern yourself with your own affairs, sir!" Athol said to him coldly. "You have already brought enough distress and disturbance into this house. We should not even have heard of this miserable, farcical business if it were not for you. Women dressing up as men, deceiving the world, trying to ape their betters and living a completely unnatural life. It is a debasement of all that is purest and most honorable in domestic happiness, and those things any decent man holds dear... those very values which are the cornerstone of any civilized society."

Perdita stared at him. "Why shouldn't women design houses? We live in them just as much as men do-more so."

"Because you are plainly not competent to do so!" he answered, exasperation sharpening his voice. "That is self-evident." He swept his arm sideways, dramatically. "You run households, that is an utterly different affair. It does not call for mathematical or logical skills, for special perception, individuality, or thought-and certainly not for genius-"

Monk interrupted. "If you have your household accounts kept for you by someone with no mathematical skills you will be in a very unfortunate position. But that is irrelevant. Keelin Melville was a woman, and she was the most brilliant architect of this generation, perhaps of this century."

"Nonsense!" Athol laughed derisively. "When one looks at her work with real perception, one can see that it is eccentric, highly unlikely to last. It has a femininity to it, a fundamental weakness."

Perdita let out a howl of rage and turned on her heel. Then as she reached the corridor she swung around again, staring at Athol.

"I think it is going to rain. You had better leave before you get soaked on the way home. I should not like you to catch pneumonia."

In spite of himself Monk glanced out the window. Brilliant sunshine streamed in out of a dazzling sky. He glanced at Hester and saw her eyes full of deep, shining satisfaction.

Rathbone also encountered society's prejudices regarding Keelin Melville. He knew of nothing else he could do in the case. His client was dead. There was nothing further to defend or to prosecute. There were other cases to which he needed to turn his attention. But tomorrow would be sufficient time.

Today he was weighed down by the sense of his failure.

Unfortunately, he had social obligations which, if he did not attend to them, would make the threads of daily life harder to pick up. He could not mourn the Melville case indefinitely. Perhaps thinking of something else, being surrounded by other people whose minds were occupied with other matters, would make it easier for him. It might prove like a cold bath, agonizing for the first few minutes, then invigorating, or at least leaving him a little warmer afterwards from the chill of grief.

He attended a dinner party at the house of a man who had long been an associate, and perhaps also a friend-at least their acquaintance went back to their earliest days of practicing law.

James Laurence had married well, and his house in Mayfair was very fine indeed. Rathbone could have afforded one like it if he had wanted one sufficiently. He might have had to do without one or two other things, but it would not have been impossible.

But Laurence had chosen to marry and to entertain in society. He also selected cases largely according to the fee he would charge, in order to support his choice. Rathbone did not wish to do that. His rooms suited him perfectly well. Of course, if he married that would have to change.

He went in and found several of the guests already arrived. The chandeliers were dazzling. The sound of laughter and the chink of glass filled the room amid the exquisitely colored skirts of the women, the glitter of jewels and the pallor of shoulders and bosoms.

He was greeted and absorbed into the company immediately. Everyone was courteous and spoke of all manner of subjects: what was currently playing at the theater; the last parliamentary debate and what might be expected of the next; a little bit of harmless gossip as to who might marry whom. It was light and pleasantly relaxing.

Only after dinner, when the ladies had retired to the withdrawing room and the gentlemen remained at the table, passing port and savoring a little excellent Stilton, was the matter of Keelin Melville raised, and then it was obliquely.

"Poor old Lambert," Lofthouse said ruefully, holding his glass in his hand and turning it around so the light fell through the ruby liquid. "He must feel a complete fool."

"It's his daughter I'm sorry for," Weatherall replied abruptly. "How must she feel? She's been taken in completely."

Lofthouse turned to look at him, his tufted eyebrows raised. "She hasn't paid out a fortune for buildings which are worthless now!" he retorted, his voice heavy with impatience.

Rathbone was already raw. His temper snapped.

"Neither has Lambert!" he said very clearly.

Half a dozen people at the table swiveled to look at him, caught as much by the tone of his voice as by his words.

"I beg your pardon?" Colonel Weatherall said with puzzlement, his thin, white hair catching the light.

"I said, 'Neither has Lambert,' " Rathbone repeated. "Any building he has paid for is exactly the same today as it was a week ago."

"Hardly!" Lofthouse laughed. "My dear fellow, you, of all people, know the truth! I don't mean to be unkind, or to make an issue of your misfortune, if that is the word, but Melville was a woman, for heaven's sake." He said no more, as if that fact was all the explanation required.

Weatherall cleared his throat and coughed into his handkerchief.

A ginger-haired man helped himself to more cheese.

"Precisely," Rathbone agreed, facing Lofthouse unblinkingly. "The buildings are exactly the same. Our knowledge of Melville's sex has changed, but not of her architectural skills."

"Oh! Come now!" Lofthouse laughed again, glancing along the table at the others before looking back at Rathbone. "You cannot seriously be suggesting that a woman-a young woman at that-can conceive and draw up technically perfect plans for the sort of buildings Lambert commissioned and had built, for heaven's sake? Really, Rathbone. We all sympathize with your embarrassment. We have all of us made mistakes of judgment at one time or another..." A smile curled his lips. "Although not, I think, of that order... or nature..." His smile broadened.

Rathbone could feel the rage inside him almost beyond his grasp to contain. How dare this complacent oaf make a shabby joke out of Keelin Melville's tragedy and society's prejudice?

"Lofthouse, I think..." Laurence began, although there was a look of humor in his eyes also, or so it seemed to Rathbone. He was not in the mood to consider it a reflection from the chandeliers.

"Oh, come on, my dear fellow!" Lofthouse was not going to be hushed. The port was at his elbow, and extremely good. "It has an element of the absurd, you must admit. When a genius like Rathbone gets caught out so very thoroughly, we lesser mortals must be allowed our moment of laughter. If he is not man enough to take it, then he should not enter the fray!"

Laurence opened his mouth to protest, but Rathbone spoke before he could, leaning forward across the table.

"You can jeer at me all you like. I am perfectly happy to enter the arena and do my best-win, lose, or draw. If my loss gives you pleasure, you are welcome to it!" He ignored the indrawn breath around the table and the looks of amazement. "But I am deeply offended by your making a public joke out of the death of a young woman whose only sin, so far as we know, was to be denied the opportunity to study or to practice her art so long as we knew she was a woman and not a man. She deceived us because we deserved it-in fact, in a sense demanded it."

He disregarded Lofthouse's rising anger or Colonel Weatherall's incredulity, even his host's embarrassment "And to suggest that the buildings are worth less because they were designed by a woman rather than a man is the utmost hypocrisy. You know nothing more or less about them now than you did last week, when you were full of praise. They look exactly the same, your knowledge of their design and construction and material is exactly what it was before. You marveled yesterday, and today you mock, and nothing is different except your perception of the personal rife of the architect."

"Rathbone, I really think..." Laurence protested.

Lofthouse was red in the face. He half rose to his feet, hands on the white tablecloth.

Rathbone rose also.

"You say a young woman cannot do such things," he continued, his tone even more penetrating. "Therefore what she does must be worthless, and what she had done must be worthless because she is a young woman. Actually, she was nearly forty." His voice dripped sarcasm. "But no doubt where age matures a man it merely dulls a woman. I cannot think even you can seriously believe such an argument. You are a hypocrite, and it is bigots like you who drive genius to destruction, because you don't understand it, and what you don't understand you destroy."

He had gone too far, and he knew it even as he was speaking, not that he did not mean it, but he should not have said it. He stared at their shocked faces. He should apologize, at least to Laurence. Perhaps he would tomorrow, or next week, but not today. He was too passionately, irretrievably, angry.

"You're drunk!" Lofthouse accused him with amazement, then ruined the effect by hiccuping.

Rathbone looked at him, then at the half-empty glass beside him, with withering contempt.

There was nothing left for him to do but incline his head in the barest acknowledgment to Laurence, then excuse himself and leave.

Outside he found himself shivering. It was over a mile and a half to his rooms, but he set out walking without even giving it thought, going faster and faster, oblivious of people passing him or the clatter and light in the gloom of carriages. It was only as he was crossing Piccadilly that he realized he did not really want to go home. He did not want to spend the rest of the evening alone with his thoughts.

He stopped abruptly on the curb and swung around, ready to hail the nearest cab. He climbed in and directed it to take him to Primrose Hill.

When he arrived Henry Rathbone was sitting by the fire with his slippers off, toasting his feet, sucking absentmindedly on an empty pipe, and deep in a book of philosophy, with which he profoundly disagreed. But its arguments were exercising his mind, which he enjoyed enormously. Even losing his temper in such an abstract way was a form of pleasure.

However, as soon as Oliver came in he realized that something was wrong. It did not require a great deal of deduction, since Oliver had left his hat at Laurence's, his gloves were still stuffed in his pockets and his hands were red with cold. It was now pitch-dark, and chilly enough to suspect frost.

Henry had, of course, followed the case and knew of the latest tragic developments. He stood up and regarded Oliver gravely, holding his pipe in his hand.

"Has something happened?" he asked.

Oliver ran his fingers through his hair, something totally uncharacteristic. He loathed looking untidy; it was almost as bad as being unclean.

"Not really, at least nothing in the Melville case," he answered, taking off his coat and handing it to the manservant waiting at his elbow. "I went to a dinner party this evening and lost my temper."

"Seriously, I presume." Henry nodded to the manservant, who disappeared, closing the door silently. "You look cold. Would you like a glass of port?"

"No!" Oliver declined. "I mean, no thank you. It was during the port that I told them they were hypocrites and bigots who were responsible for the ruin of a genius like Melville." He sat down in the other chair, opposite his father, watching his face to see his reaction.

"Unwise," Henry answered, resuming his own seat. "What are you doing now, thinking how to apologize?"

"No!" The reply was instant and sincere.

"Are they responsible?"

Oliver calmed down a little. "They, and people like them, yes."

"A lot of people..." Henry gazed at him very levelly.

Oh'ver's temper had worn itself out and left not a great deal but sadness and a growing feeling of his own guilt.

"You are not responsible for society's attitudes," Henry said, knocking out his pipe, forgetting there was nothing in it.

"No, but I was responsible for Melville," Oliver answered. "I was very personally and directly responsible. If she had believed she could trust me, then she would have told me the truth. We could have told Zillah Lambert, at least, and she would probably have respected the confidence, for her own sake if not for Melville's. Then there need never have been a case and Melville would still be alive... possibly even practicing her profession."

"Perhaps," Henry agreed. "Is that what is troubling you?"

"I suppose so."

"Didn't you ask her, press her for the truth?"

"Yes, of course I did! Obviously she didn't trust me."

"What was to prevent her trusting Zillah Lambert, regardless of you?"

"Well... nothing, I suppose."

"But years of rejection," Henry concluded. "Years of lying and concealing. You cannot know everything that went before which made her what she was." He reached for his tobacco and pulled out a few shreds between his fingers and thumb, pushing them into the bowl of his pipe. "Perhaps you were unimaginative not to have guessed, perhaps not. Either way, there is nothing you can do now except cripple yourself with remorse. That will serve no one. It is self-indulgent... and perhaps you need a little indulgence, but do not let it persist for too long. It can become a habit-and an excuse."

"My God, you're a harsh judge," Oliver said, jerking his head up to glare at his father.

Henry struck a match and lit his pipe. It went out again immediately. His mouth softened, but there was no equivocation in his mild blue eyes.

"Do you want to be invalided out?"

"No, of course I don't. And I'd like a glass of sherry. Actually, I left before I drank more than a sip of the port."

"It's behind you." Henry made another attempt at lighting his pipe.

The following morning a little before noon Rathbone was in his offices in Vere Street when his clerk told him the police surgeon had called with information.

"Ask him in," Rathbone said immediately.

The surgeon came in, looking grave.

"Well?" Rathbone asked as soon as the barest formalities were over.

"Definitely belladonna," the surgeon replied, sitting down in the chair opposite the desk. "Not very surprising. Easy to come by." He stopped.

"But..." Rathbone prompted, sitting a little straighter.

The surgeon bit his lips, his eyes narrowing. "But the thing that I find hard to understand, and which brings me back to you rather than merely sending you a report, is that from the amount she took, and the time she died, she must have taken it while she was still in the courthouse." He drew his brows together. "Which can only mean she had it with her, presumably against such an eventuality as... what? What happened that afternoon that suddenly became unbearable?"

Rathbone tried to think back. It had been the day Sachev-erall had put the witnesses on the stand and exposed what he thought was a homosexual affair. Had Melville known that was going to happen, or feared it? If so, why had she not told Rathbone to plead guilty and settle out of court? She would have saved Wolff's reputation at least. And if she loved him, surely she would have done that?

Had she carried belladonna all the time, just in case?

"Do you know something?" the surgeon asked. "I would guess she took it after two in the afternoon, and well before five in the evening, probably before four."

"Yes, it probably makes as much sense as suicide ever does," Rathbone answered wearily.

"You do not sound entirely convinced." The surgeon looked at him with a slight shake of his head. "Is there some fact I should know?"

"No. No... I am afraid it was a tragedy which may well have been inevitable from the moment Sacheverall called Isaac Wolff to the stand, let alone that damned prostitute. Thank you for coming to let me know in person."

The surgeon stood up and offered his hand. Rathbone took it, and then saw him to the door. He returned to his chair, still with a vague sense of unease, as if there was something unexplained or incomplete, but he could not think what. Probably it was as his father had said, his own sense of guilt.

Nevertheless that evening he went to see Monk at his rooms in Fitzroy Street. He found him brooding over a handful of letters. He seemed quite pleased to be interrupted.

"Trivial case," he said, putting them aside and rising to his feet as Rathbone came in. "You look awful. Still thinking about Keelin Melville?"

"Aren't you?" Rathbone continued, throwing himself into the large chair reserved for clients. "The police surgeon came to see me today. It was belladonna she took. Some time in the afternoon."

"But she was in court all afternoon," Monk said with surprise. "You were with her."

"Well, he was quite sure," Rathbone repeated. "Said it had to have been between two and five at the latest, more likely four."

"What time did she leave court?" Monk pressed. He was sitting upright on his chair. "Is she supposed to have swallowed the stuff?"

"Yes, of course! What else? Pulled out a syringe and put a needle into her arm?" Rathbone said tartly, but his attention was suddenly focused.

"In what form?" Monk asked.

"What?"

"What form was the belladonna?" Monk clarified. "Pills? Drops? Powder? A mixture?"

"I've no idea. I didn't ask. What does it matter now?"

Monk was frowning. "Well, didn't you notice if she swallowed pills, took a drink of water, or had a flask? Someone must have seen. It was about as public a place as you can have, dammit! Why on earth would she do it there anyway? Why not wait until she got home with a little privacy?"

"I don't know." Rathbone was thinking frantically now. "I can't imagine what must have been on her mind. She panicked when Sacheverall put that prostitute on the stand. She realized her evidence would be unarguable, interpretable only one way."

"Then she didn't know Sacheverall would call her until she saw her there?" Monk said quickly.

Rathbone thought back. "No. I don't think she did. I can't be sure, of course, but insofar as I am any judge at all, she had no idea."

"Then why would she have taken belladonna with her... in a lethal dose?" Monk was leaning farther forward, his eyes still on Rathbone's face. "And if she did know, why didn't she take it before, and save Wolff's reputation, at least? If she loved him at all, she would surely have done that. It doesn't make sense, Rathbone, not as it is."

"Then find sense to it!" Rathbone said urgently. "I'm engaging you to do it-for me!" He cast aside his personal feelings, even his awareness that Monk must consider him incompetent at best for having allowed the case to come to this tragic end. He refused to think what Hester's judgment would be. He hated asking for favors. The hard edge of his feeling was in his voice, and his awareness of vulnerability in front of Monk, of all people. "I want to know what it was that drove her to kill herself instead of fighting on. Couldn't she have left England, gone to Italy or even the Middle East, or somewhere? With genius like hers she could surely have started again. Anything rather than death. And what about Wolff? She loved him..."

Monk was looking at him for once without mockery. Only the faintest spark lit the backs of his eyes.

"I'll find out what I can." Then he did smile. "My rates are very reasonable."

"Thank you," Rathbone accepted stiffly. He felt awkward now, more than a little self-conscious. He stood up, straightening his jacket. It was nearly midnight. He had not realized how long it had taken him to travel to Primrose Hill and back. "I'm sorry to have kept you so late."

Monk stood up also. He hesitated, as if about to offer his hand. It was a peculiarly formal gesture, and at the last moment he changed his mind. "I'll let you know as soon as I find anything," he promised instead, and his face was very grave. Rathbone realized with warmth that he too felt angry and hurt and more than a little guilty.

In the morning Monk abandoned the rather tedious letters in which he had been trying to find evidence of duplicity for a woman who felt her sister-in-law was behaving immorally, and set out for the Old Bailey.

He passed several paperboys. Keelin Melville's death was not on the front pages anymore. A fresh political event in France had superseded her, and there were whispers of a financial scandal in the city.

At the courthouse he went up the steps two at a time and out of a surprisingly sharp wind. The weather had changed and there was a hint of frost in the air. He had been there often enough to know several of the clerks and ushers, too well to deceive them as to his identity or his purpose for being there.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk," an elderly usher said to him before he was a dozen yards inside.

"Good morning, Mr. Pearson," he replied, coming to a stop. "Just the man I was hoping to see."

Pearson looked interested. "Oh, yes sir? Why would that be?" Monk was one of the more colorful people to enter his world, and his arrival heralded a break in routine. Added to which, if Monk was seeking him, then for a little while at least, Pearson would be more important than merely the efficient, almost invisible functionary he usually was.

"I need to know a good deal more about the last day of the Melville trial. You are very observant of people..."

"My job, sir," Pearson answered with suitable gravity, but he stood a little straighter for the compliment. "Times there's little else to do but notice people. What is it you need to know, Mr. Monk?"

"Did Melville leave the courtroom at any time before the hearing ended?"

"No sir."

"Are you sure? Not for any reason?"

"No sir. They'd have had to halt the trial if he'd excused himself. Sir Oliver'll have told you that."

Monk sighed. "I thought not, but he could have forgotten. He is very disturbed at the outcome."

Pearson shook his head. "Nobody likes to lose a case, but for the poor soul to have taken her life is truly terrible. I was very sorry to hear about that. He always seemed like a nice gentleman to me-or I suppose I should say lady, now. I never guessed. Never came into my mind." He looked at Monk curiously, searching his face to see if he felt the same.

"Nor mine," Monk admitted. "The surgeon says she took the poison while she was here in the court, some time during that afternoon."

Pearson frowned. "I don't rightly see how that could be, Mr. Monk. Was she supposed to have swallowed it like?"

"Yes."

"T don't know where. She wouldn't have eaten nor drunk anything in the courtroom. Judge wouldn't allow it. And if she had, anyone would have seen. There's always people looking at the accused, and that's what it amounted to in this case, poor soul. Mr. Sacheverall went after him something fierce. I mean her. Still can't get it into my head that she was a woman."

A group of junior counsel passed by, glancing at Monk, and one nodded as if he thought for a moment he knew him, then continued on his way.

"Was there an adjournment for any reason?"

"Yes! Yes... Sir Oliver tried again with Mr. Sacheverall. I remember that. It must have been then!" Memory quickened Pearson's face. "Must have! No other time. I'm almost sure when Miss Melville left at the end of the day, she went straight out the back way, before the crowds could get at her. Sir Oliver went with her, then came out the front. If she really did take it here, and not after she left, then it must have been during the adjournment."

"Curious," Monk said slowly.

"Sir?"

"Why didn't she wait until she knew the result of Rathbone's talk with Sacheverall? There might have been some better resolution."

"I don't know, sir, I really don't." Pearson shook his head in agreement. "Don't make a lot of sense, does it? Poor creature must have been out of her wits... afraid for Mr, Wolff, maybe?"

Monk was not satisfied.

"Do you want to speak with the usher around the corner when everyone left at that adjournment?" Pearson enquired helpfully. "He might have noticed if Miss Melville was given a drink, and maybe took a pill or a powder with it."

"Yes, please," Monk accepted. "I can't think what difference it makes now, but it seems such a pointless time to have begun the process of ending her own life... with a poison which acts over three or four hours."

"She was very distressed," Pearson pointed out. "I remember her face. She looked like a person who has seen her whole world come to an end... more pain than she can endure." His voice sank and the weight of sadness seemed to droop in his shoulders. He led the way up the wide hallway, stopping twice to ask other people where Mr. Sutton was, and in one of the side rooms eventually found a small man with a narrow chest and bright, dark eyes.

"Oh... Mr. Sutton," he said quickly. "This is Mr. Monk. He's looking into how poor Miss Melville managed to take poison without anyone noticing. Seems it must have happened while she was here. Some time in the afternoon. Since they were in court all the time except for the adjournment, it looks like it was then."

"Wasn't then," Sutton said immediately, pursing his lips and looking beyond Pearson to Monk. "Sorry, sir, but I was outside the court all the time and Miss Melville never left the hallway."

"Did anyone bring her a glass of water, or perhaps offer her a flask?" Monk suggested.

"No sir." Sutton was quite firm. "She sat by herself until Mrs. Lambert went over to her and gave her back the gifts she'd given Miss Lambert. I saw a pair of earrings, a gold fob an' a real pretty miniature painting o' trees and such. Had them in a packet. Just opened it up and tipped them all out into Miss Melville's hands. They were dusty as if they had been pushed to the back of a drawer. I hardly think she knew what was going on, that distracted she was."

"Are you certain Miss Melville didn't eat or drink anything?" Monk pressed. It would be easy enough to understand if at this point she had taken a stiff brandy, if nothing else. Any normal person would have waited for the privacy of her own home to take poison. But Melville was a woman. Did women think or feel differently?

He could imagine no reason why they should. Surely agony such as this knew no boundaries of sex!

"What I don't understand," Pearson said, scratching the back of his neck, "is why she did it then. If it was me, I'd have done it the day before, when Mr. Sacheverall brought Mr. Wolff in-that is, if I were going to do it at all... which I can't say I would Although I can't say I wouldn't, not until I'd been there."

"No," Monk agreed, staring at Sutton. "But you saw Melville all the time, and she didn't eat or drink anything? Are you certain?"

"If she had done, she didn't drink from it in that adjournment, sir. I'd take an oath on that myself. She must've took the poison some other way, or more like some other time. I don't want to overstep my place, sir, but maybe the doc got it wrong?"

"Maybe..." Monk said, but he did not believe it. "Thank you, Mr. Sutton. You have been very helpful." And with a word of thanks to Pearson as well, he walked back down the hallway.

He spent several more hours confirming what he had been told, but he could find no variation in accounts. Melville had spoken to few people. She had been white-faced, her body rigid, her eyes reflecting the pain she must have felt, but she had neither eaten nor drunk anything.

How had she taken the belladonna which had killed her? And why had she chosen to do it at such a time, instead of either the night before, after Wolff had testified, or that evening, after the prostitute had finally sealed Sacheverall's case?

Any answer he could think of was unsatisfactory, leaving questions in his mind, a darkness unresolved.