Defend and Betray

chapter 11
Monk began the weekend with an equal feeling of gloom, not because he had no hope of finding the third man but because the discovery was so painful. He had liked Peverell Erskine, and now it looked inevitable it was he. Why else would he have given a child such highly personal and useless gifts? Cassian had no use for a quill knife, except that it was pretty and belonged to Peverell -as for a silk handkerchief, children did not use or wear such things. It was a keepsake. The watch fob also was too precious for an eight-year-old to wear, and it was personal to Peverell's profession, nothing like the Carlyons', which would have been something military, a regimental crest, perhaps.

He had told Rathbone, and seen the same acceptance and unhappiness in him. He had mentioned the bootboy also, but told Rathbone that there was no proof Carlyon had abused him, and that that was the reason the boy had turned and fled in the Furnival house the night of the murder. He did not know if Rathbone had understood his own action, what were the reasons he accepted without demur, or if he felt his strategy did not require the boy.

Monk stood at the window and stared out at the pavement of Grafton Street, the sharp wind sending a loose sheet of newspaper bowling along the stones. On the corner a peddler was selling bootlaces. A couple crossed the street, arm in arm, the man walking elegantly, leaning over a little towards the woman, she laughing. They looked comfortable together, and it shot a pang of loneliness through him that took him by surprise, a feeling of exclusion, as if he saw the whole of life that mattered, the sweeter parts, through glass, and from a distance.

Evan's last case file lay on the desk unopened. In it might lie the answer to the mystery that teased him. Who was the woman that plucked at his thoughts with such insistence and such powerful emotion, stirring feelings of guilt, urgency, fear of loss, and over all, confusion? He was afraid to discover, and yet not to was worse. Part of him held back, simply because once he had uncovered it there would be nothing left to offer hope of finding something sweet, a better side of himself, a gentleness or a generosity he had failed in so far. It was foolish, and he knew it, even cowardly - and that was the one criticism strong enough to move him. He walked over to the table and opened the cover.

He read the first page still standing. The case was not especially complex. Hermione Ward had been married to a wealthy and neglectful husband, some years older than herself. She was his second wife and it seemed he had treated her with coolness, keeping her short of funds, giving her very little social life and expecting her to manage his house and care for the two children of his first wife.

The house had been broken into during the night, and Albert Ward had apparently heard the burglar and gone downstairs to confront him. There had been a struggle and he had been struck on the head and died of the wound.

Monk pulled around a chair and sat down. He continued with the second page.

The local police in Guildford had investigated, and found several circumstances which roused their suspicions. The glass from the broken window was outside, not in, where one might have expected it to fall. The widow could name nothing which had been stolen, nor did she ever amend her opinion in the cooler light of the following week. Nothing was found in pawnshops or sold to any of the usual dealers known to the police. The resident servants, of whom there were six, heard nothing in the night, no sound, no disturbance. No footprints or any other marks of intruders were seen.

The police arrested Hermione Ward and charged her with having murdered her husband. Scotland Yard was sent for. Runcorn dispatched Monk to Guildford. The rest of the record presumably lay with the Guildford police.

The only way he could find out would be to go there. It was a short journey and easily made by train. But this was Saturday. It might be awkward. Perhaps the officer he needed would not be there. And the Carlyon trial would be resumed on Monday, and he must be present. What could he do in two days? Maybe not enough.

They were excuses because he was afraid to find out.

He despised cowardice; it was the root of all the weaknesses he hated most. Anger he could understand, thoughtlessness, impatience, greed, even though they were ugly enough - but without courage what was there to fire or to preserve any virtue, honor or integrity? Without the courage to sustain it, not even love was safe.

He moved over to the window again and stared at the buildings opposite and the roofs shining in the sun. There was not even any point in evading it. It would hurt him until he found out what had happened, who she was and why he had felt so passionately, and yet walked away from it, and from her. Why were mere no mementos in his room that reminded him of her, no pictures, no letters, nothing at all? Presumably the idea of her was one thing too painful to wish to remember. The reality was quite different. This would go on hurting. He would wake in the night with scalding disillusion - and terrible loneliness. For once he could easily, terribly easily, understand those who ran away.

And yet it was also too important to forget, because his mind would not let him bury it. Echoes kept tugging at him, half glimpses of her face, a gesture, a color she wore, the way she walked, the softness of her hair, her perfume, the rustle of silk. For heaven's sake, why not her name? Why not all her face?

There was nothing he could do here over the weekend. The trial was adjourned and he had nowhere else to search for the third man. It was up to Rathbone now.

He turned from the window and strode over to the coat stand, snatching a jacket and his hat and going out of the door, only just saving it from slamming behind him.

"I'm going to Guildford," he informed his landlady, Mrs. Worley. "I may not be back until tomorrow."

"But you'll be back then?" she said firmly, wiping her hands on her apron. She was an ample woman, friendly and businesslike. "You'll be at the trial of that woman again?"

He was surprised. He had not thought she knew.

"Yes - I will."

She shook her head. "I don't know what you want to be on cases like that for, I'm sure. You've come a long way down, Mr. Monk, since you was in the police. Then you'd 'a bin chasin' after people like that, not tryin" to 'elp them."

"You'd have killed him too, in her place, if you'd had the courage, Mrs. Worley," he said bitingly. "So would any woman who gave a damn."

"I would not," she retorted fiercely. "Love o' no man's ever goin' to make me into a murderess!"

"You know nothing about it. It wasn't love of a man."

"You watch your tongue, Mr. Monk," she said briskly. "I know what I read in die newspapers as comes 'round the vegetables, and they're plain enough."

"They know nothing, either," he replied. "And fancy you reading the newspapers, Mrs. Worley. What would Mr. Worley say to that? And sensational stories, too." He grinned at her, baring his teeth.

She straightened her skirts with a tweak and glared at him.

"That isn't your affair, Mr. Monk. What I read is between me and Mr. Worley."

"It's between you and your conscience, Mrs. Worley - it's no one else's concern at all. But they still know nothing. Wait till the end of the trial - then tell me what you think."

"Ha!" she said sharply, and turned on her heel to go back to the kitchen.

* * * * *

He caught the train and alighted at Guildford in the middle of the morning. It was a matter of another quarter of an hour before a hansom deposited him outside the police station and he went up the steps to the duty sergeant at the desk.

"Yes sir?" The man's face registered dawning recognition. "Mr. Monk? 'Ow are you, sir?" There was respect in his voice, even awe, but Monk did not catch any fear. Please God at least here he had not been unjust.

"I'm very well, thank you, Sergeant," he replied courteously. "And yourself?"

The sergeant was not used to being asked how he was, and his face showed his surprise, but he answered levelly enough.

"I'm well, thank you sir. What can I do for you? Mr. Markham's in, if it was 'im you was wanting to see? I ain't 'eard about another case as we're needin' you for; it must be very new." He was puzzled. It seemed impossible there could be a crime so complicated they needed to call in Scotland Yard and yet it had not crossed his desk. Only something highly sensitive and dangerous could be so classed, a political assassination, or a murder involving a member of the aristocracy.

"I'm not with the police anymore," Monk explained. There was little to be gained and everything to be risked by lying. "I've gone private." He saw the man's incredulity and smiled. "A difference of opinion over a case - a wrongful arrest, I thought."

The man's face lightened with intelligence. "That'd be the Moidore case," he said with triumph.

"That's right!" It was Monk's turn to be surprised."How did you know about that?"

"Read it, sir. Know as you was right." He nodded with satisfaction, even if it was a trifle after the event. "What can we do for you now, Mr. Monk?"

Again honesty was the wisest. So far the man was a friend, for whatever reason, but that could easily slip away if he lied to him and were caught.

"I've forgotten some of the details of the case I came here for, and I'd like to remind myself. I wondered if it would be possible to speak with someone. I realize it's Saturday, and those who worked with me might be off duty, but today was the only day I could leave the City. I'm on a big case."

"No difficulty, sir. Mr. Markham's right 'ere in the station, an' I expect as 'e'd be 'appy to tell you anything you wanted. It was 'is biggest case, an"e's always 'appy to talk about it again." He moved his head in the direction of the door leading off to the right. "If you go through there, sir, you'll find 'im at the back, like always. Tell 'im I sent you."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Monk accepted, and before it became obvious that he did not remember the man's name, he went through the door and through the passageway. Fortunately the direction was obvious, because he remembered none of it.

Sergeant Markham was standing with his back to Monk, and as soon as Monk saw him there was something in the angle of his shoulders and the shape of his head, the set of his arms, that woke a memory and suddenly he was back investigating the case, full of anxiety and hard, urgent fear.

Then Markham turned and looked at him, and the moment vanished. He was in the present again, standing in a strange police duty room facing a man who knew him, and yet about whom he knew nothing except that they had worked together in the past. His features were only vaguely familiar; his eyes were blue like a million Englishmen, his skin fair and pale so early in the season, his hair still thick, bleached by sun a little at the front.

"Yes sir?" he enquired, seeing first of all Monk's civilian clothes. Then he looked more closely at his face, and recognition came flooding back. "Why, it's Mr. Monk." The eagerness was tempered. There was admiration in his eyes, but caution as well. " 'Ow are you, sir? Got another case?" The interest was well modified with other emotions less sanguine.

"No, the same as before." Monk wondered whether to smile, or if it would be so uncharacteristic as to be ridiculous. The decision was quickly made; it was false and it would freeze on his face. "I've forgotten some of the details and for reasons I can't explain, I need to remind myself, or to be exact, I need your help to remind me. You still have the records?"

"Yes sir." Markham was obviously surprised, and there was acceptance in his expression as habit. He was used to I obeying Monk and it was instinctive, but there was no com prehension.

"I'm not on the force anymore." He dared not deceive Markham.

Now Markham was totally incredulous.

"Not on the force." His whole being registered his amazement. "Not - not - on the force?" He looked as if he did not understand the words themselves.

"Gone private," Monk explained, meeting his eyes."I 've got to be back in the Old Bailey on Monday, for the Carlyon case, but I want to get these details today, if I can."

"What for, sir?" Markham had a great respect for Monk, but he had also learned from him, and knew enough to accept no one's word without substantiation, or to take an order from a man with no authority. Monk would have criticized him unmercifully for it in the past.

"My own private satisfaction," Monk replied as calmly as he could. "I want to be sure I did all I could, and that I was right. And I want to find the woman again, if I can." Too late he realized how he had betrayed himself. Markham would think him witless, or making an obscure joke. He felt hot all over, sweat breaking out on his body and then turning cold.

"Mrs. Ward?" Markham asked with surprise. "Yes, Mrs. Ward!" Monk gulped hard. She must be alive, or Markham would not have phrased it that way. He could still find her!

"You didn't keep in touch, sir?" Markham frowned. Monk was so overwhelmed with relief his voice caught in his throat. "No." He swallowed and coughed. "No - did you expect me to?"

"Well, sir." Markham colored faintly. "I know you worked on the case so hard as a matter of justice, of course, but I couldn't help but see as you were very fond of the lady too - and she of you, it looked like. I 'alf thought, we aU thought. . ." His color deepened. "Well, no matter. Beg-gin' your pardon, sir. It don't do to get ideas about people and what they feel or don't feel. Like as not you'll be wrong. I can't show you the files, sir; seein' as you're not on the force any longer. But I ain't forgot much. I can tell you just about all of it. I'm on duty right now. But I get an hour for luncheon, leastways I can take an hour, and I 'm sure the duty sergeant'll come for me. An' if you like to meet me at the Three Feathers I'll tell you all I can remember."

"Thank you, Markham, that's very obliging of you. I hope you'll let me stand you to a meal?"

"Yes, sir, that's handsome of you."

* * * * *

And so midday saw Monk and Sergeant Markham sitting at a small round table in the clink and chatter of the Three Feathers, each with a plate piled full of hot boiled mutton and horseradish sauce, potatoes, spring cabbage, mashed turnips and butter; a glass of cider at the elbow; and steamed treacle pudding to follow.

Markham was as good as his word, meticulously so. He had brought no papers with him, but his memory was excellent. Perhaps he had refreshed it discreetly for the occasion, or maybe it was sufficiently sharp he had no need. He began as soon as he had taken the edge off his appetite with half a dozen mouthfuls.

"The first thing you did, after reading the evidence, was go back over the ground as we'd already done ourselves." He left out the "sir" he would have used last time and Monk noted it with harsh amusement.

"That was, go to the scene o' the crime and see the broken window," Markham went on. "O' course the glass was all cleaned up, like, but we showed you where it 'ad lain. Then we questioned the servants again, and Mrs. Ward 'erself. Do you want to know what I can remember o' that?"

"Only roughly," Monk replied. "If there was anything of note? Not otherwise."

Markham continued, outlining a very routine and thorough investigation, at the end of which any competent policeman would have been obliged to arrest Hermione Ward. The evidence was very heavy against her. The great difference between her and Alexandra Carlyon was that she had everything to gain from the crime: freedom from a domineering husband and the daughters of a previous wife, and the inheritance of at least half of his very considerable wealth. Whereas, on the surface at least, Alexandra had everything to lose: social position, a devoted father for her son, and all but a small interest in his money. And yet Alexandra had confessed very early on, and Hermione had never wavered in protesting her total innocence.

"Go on!" Monk urged.

Markham continued, after only a few more mouthfuls. Monk knew he was being unfair to the man in not allowing him to eat, and he did not stop himself.

"You wouldn't let it rest at that," Markham said with admiration still in his voice at the memory of it. "I don't know why, but you believed 'er. I suppose that's the difference between a good policeman and a really great one. The great ones 'ave an instinct for innocence and guilt that goes beyond what the eye can see. Anyway, you worked night and day; I never saw anyone work so 'ard. I don't know when you ever slept, an' that's the truth. An' you drove us till we didn't know whether we was comin' or goin'."

"Was I unreasonable?" Monk asked, then instantly wished he had not. It was an idiotic question. What could this man answer? And yet he heard his own voice going on. "WasI. . . offensive?"

Markham hesitated, looking first at his plate, then up at Monk, trying to judge from his eyes whether he wanted a candid answer or flattery. Monk knew what the decision would have to be; he liked flattery, but he had never in his life sought it. His pride would not have permitted him. And Markham was a man of some courage. He liked him now. He hoped he had had the honesty and the good judgment to like him before, and to show it.

"Yes," Markham said at last. "Although I wouldn't 'ave said so much offensive. Offense depends on who takes it. I don't take it. Can't say as I always liked you - too 'ard on some people because they didn't meet your standards, when they couldn't 'elp it. Different men 'as different strengths, and you weren't always prepared to see that."

Monk smiled to himself, a trifle bitterly. Now that he was no longer on the force, Markham had shown a considerable temerity and put tongue to thoughts he would not have dared entertain even as ideas in his mind a year ago. But he was honest. That he would not have dared say such things before was no credit to Monk, rather the reverse.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Monk." Markham saw his face. "But you did drive us terrible 'ard, and tore strips off them as couldn't match your quickness." He took another mouthful and ate it before adding, "But then you was right. It took us a long time, and tore to shreds a few folk on the way, as was lying for one reason or another; but in the end you proved as it weren't Mrs. Ward at all. It was 'er ladies' maid and the butler together. They were 'avin' an affair, the two o' them, and 'ad planned to rob their master, but 'e came down in the night and found them, so they 'ad to kill 'im or face a life in gaol. And personally I'd rather 'ang than spend forty years in the Coldbath Fields or the like - an' so would most folk."

So it was he who had proved it - he had saved her from the gallows. Not circumstance, not inevitability.

Markham was watching him, his face pinched with curiosity and puzzlement. He must find him extraordinary. Monk was asking questions that would be odd from any policeman, and from a ruthless and totally assured man like himself, beyond comprehension.

Instinctively he bent his head to slice his mutton, and kept at least his eyes hidden. He felt ridiculously vulnerable. This was absurd. He had saved Hermione, her honor and her life.

Why did he no longer even know her? He might have been keen for justice, as he was for Alexandra Carlyon - even passionate for it - but the emotion that boiled up in him at the memory of Hermione was far more than a hunger for the right solution to a case. It was deep and wholly personal. She haunted him as she could have only if he loved her. The ache was boundless for a companionship that had been immeasurably sweet, a gentleness, a gateway to his better self, the softer, generous, tender part of him.

Why? Why had they parted? Why had he not married her?

He had no idea what the reason was, and it frightened him.

Perhaps he should leave the wound unopened. Let it heal.

But it was not healing. It still hurt, like a skin grown over a place that suppurated yet.

Markham was looking at him.

"You still want to find Mrs. Ward?" he asked.

"Yes - yes I do."

"Well she left The Grange. I suppose she had too many memories from there. And folk still talked, for all it was proved she 'ad nothing to do with it. But you know 'ow it is - in an investigation all sorts o' things come out, that maybe 'ave nothing to do with the crime but still are better not known. I reckon there's no one as 'asn't got something they'd sooner keep quiet."

"No, I shouldn't think so," Monk agreed. "Where did she go, do you know?"

"Yes - yes, she bought a little 'ouse over Milton way. Next to the vicarage, if I remember rightly. There's a train, if you've a mind to get there."

"Thank you." He ate the treacle pudding with a dry mouth, washed it down with the cider, and thanked Mark-ham again.

* * * * *

It was Sunday just after midday when he stood on the step of the Georgian stone house next to the vicarage, immaculately kept, weedless graveled path, roses beginning to bloom in the sun. Finally he summoned courage to knock on the door. It was a mechanical action, done with a decision of the mind, but almost without volition. If he permitted his emotions through he would never do it.

It seemed an age of waiting. There was a bird singing somewhere behind him in the garden, and the sound of wind in the young leaves in the apple trees beyond the wall around the vicarage. Somewhere in the distance a lamb bleated and a ewe answered it.

Then without warning the door opened. He had not heard the feet coming to the other side. A pert, pretty maid stood expectantly, her starched apron crisp, her hair half hidden by a lace cap.

His voice dried in his throat and he had to cough to force out the words.

"Good morning, er - good afternoon. I - I'm sorry to trouble you at this - this hour - but I have come from London - yesterday. . ."He was making an extraordinary mess ofthis. When had he ever been so inarticulate? "Maylspeak with Mrs. Ward, please? It is a matter of some importance." He handed her a card with his name, but no occupation printed.

She looked a little doubtful, but regarded him closely, his boots polished and very nearly new, his trousers with a little dust on the ankles from his walk up from the station, but why not on such a pleasant day? His coat was excellently cut and his shirt collar and cuffs very white. Lastly she looked at his face, normally with the confidence of a man of authority but now a facade, and a poor one. She made her decision.

"I'll ask." Something like amusement flickered in her smile and her eyes definitely had laughter in them. "If you'll come to the parlor and wait, please, sir."

He stepped inside and was shown to the front parlor. Apparently it was a room not frequently used; probably there was a less formal sitting room to the rear of the house.

The maid left him and he had time to look. There was a tall upright clock against the nearest wall, its case elaborately carved. The soft chairs were golden brown, a color he found vaguely oppressive, even in this predominantly gentle room with patterned carpet and curtains, all subdued and comfortable. Over the mantelpiece was a landscape, very traditional, probably somewhere in the Lake District - too many blues for his taste. He thought it would have been subtler and more beautiful wim a limited palette of grays and muted browns.

Then his eyes went to the backs of the chairs and he felt a wild lurch of familiarity clutch at him and his muscles tightened convulsively. The antimacassars were embroidered with a design of white heather and purple ribbons. He knew every stitch of it, every bell of the flowers and curl of scroll.

It was absurd. He already knew that this was the woman. He knew it from what Markham had told him. He did not need this wrench of the emotional memory to confirm it. And yet this was knowledge of quite a different nature, not expectation but feeling. It was what he had come for - at last.

There was a quick, light step outside the door and the handle turned.

He almost choked on his own breath.

She came in. There was never any doubt it was her. From the crown of her head, with its softly curling fair hair; her honey-brown eyes, wide-set, long-lashed; her full, delicate lips; her slender figure; she was completely familiar.

When she saw him her recognition was instant also. The color drained out of her skin, leaving her ashen, then it flooded back in a rich blush.

"William!" She gasped, then collected her own wits and closed the door behind her. "William - what on earth are you doing here? I didnt think I should ever - I mean - that we should meet again." She came towards him very slowly, her eyes searching his face.

He wanted to speak, but suddenly he had no idea what to say. All sorts of emotions crowded inside him: relief because she was so exactly what all his memories told him, all the gentleness, the beauty, the intelligence were there; fear now that the moment of testing was here and there was no more time to prepare. What did she think of him, what were her feelings, why had he ever left her? Incredulity at himself.

How little he knew the man he used to be. Why had he gone? Selfishness, unwillingness to commit himself to a wife and possibly a family? Cowardice? Surely not that - selfishness, pride, he could believe. That was the man he was discovering.

"William?" Now she was even more deeply puzzled. She did not understand silence from him. "William, what has happened?"

He did not know how to explain. He could not say, I have found you again, but I cannot remember why I ever lost you!

"I - I wanted to see how you are," he said. It sounded weak, but he could think of nothing better.

"I - I am well. And you?" She was still confused. "What brings you to . . . ? Another case?"

"No - no." He swallowed. "I came to see you."

"Why?"

"Why!" The question seemed preposterous. Because he loved her. Because he should never have left. Because she was all the gentleness, the patience, the generosity, the peace that was the better side of him, and he longed for it as a drowning man for air. How did she not know that? "Her-mione!" The need burst from him with the passion he had been trying to suppress, violent and explosive.

She backed away, her face pale again, her hands moving up to her bosom.

"William! Please ..."

Suddenly he felt sick. Had he asked her before, told her his feelings, and she had rejected him? Had he forgotten that, because it was too painful - and only remembered that he loved her, not that she did not love him?

He stood motionless, overcome with misery and appalling, desolating loneliness.

"William, you promised," she said almost under her breath, looking not at him but at the floor. "I can't. I told you before - you frighten me. I don't feel that - I can't. I don't want to. I don't want to care so much about anything, or anyone. You work too hard, you get too angry, too involved in other people's tragedies or injustices. You fight too hard for what you want, you are prepared to pay more than I - for anything. And you hurt too much if you lose." She gulped and looked up, her eyes full of pleading. "I don't want to feel all that. It frightens me. I don't like it. You frighten me. I don't love that way - and I don't want you to love me like that - I can't live up to it - and I would hate trying to. I want ..." She bit her lip. "I want peace - I want to be comfortable."

.Comfortable! God Almighty!

"William? Don't be angry - I can't help it - I told you all that before. I thought you understood. Why have you come back? You'll only upset things. I'm married to Gerald now, and he's good to me. But I don't think he would care for you coming back. He's grateful you proved my innocence, of course he is - " She was speaking even more rapidly now, and he knew she was afraid. "And of course I shall never cease to be grateful. You saved my life - and my reputation -  I know that. But please - I just can't ..." She stopped, dismayed by his silence, not knowing what else to add.

For the sake of his own dignity, some salve to his self-respect, he must assure her he would go quietly, not cause her any embarrassment. There was no purpose whatever in staying anyway. It was all too obvious why he had left in the first place. She had no passion to match his. She was a beautiful vessel, gentle at least outwardly, but it was born from fear of unpleasantness, not of compassion, such as a deeper woman might have felt - but she was a shallower vessel than he, incapable of answering him. She wanted to be comfortable; there was something innately selfish in her.

"I am glad you are happy," he said, his voice dry, catching in his throat. "There is no need to be frightened. I shall not stay. I came across from Guildford. I have to be in London tomorrow morning anyway - a big trial. She - the woman accused - made me think of you. I wanted to see you - know how you are. Now I do; it is enough."

"Thank you." The relief flooded her face. "I - I would rather Gerald did not know you were here. He - he wouldn't like it."

"Then don't tell him," he said simply. "And if the maid mentions it, I was merely an old friend, calling by to enquire after your health, and to wish you happiness."

"I am well - and happy. Thank you, William." Now she was embarrassed. Perhaps she realized how shallow she sounded; but it was at least past, and she had no intention of apologizing for it or trying to ameliorate its truth.

Nor did she offer him refreshment. She wanted him to leave before her husband returned from wherever he was -  perhaps church.

There was nothing of any dignity or worth to be gained by remaining - only a petty selfishness, a desire for a small revenge, and he would despise it afterwards.

"Then I shall walk to the station and catch the next train towards London." He went to the door, and she opened it for him hastily, thanking him once again.

He bade her good-bye and two minutes later was walking along the lane under die trees with the wind-swung leaves dancing across the sunlight, birds singing. Here and there was a splash of white hawthorn blossom in the hedges, its perfume so sweet in the air that quite suddenly it brought him close to unexpected tears, not of self-pity because he had lost a love, but because what he had truly hungered for with such terrible depth had never existed - not in her. He had painted on her lovely face and gentle manner a mask of what he longed for - which was every bit as unfair to her as it was to him.

He blinked, and quickened his pace. He was a hard man, often cruel, demanding, brilliant, unflinching from labor or truth - at least he had been - but by God he had courage. And with all the changes he meant to wreak in himself, that at least he would never change.

* * * * *

Hester spent Sunday, with Edith's unintentional help, visiting Damaris. This time she did not see Randolph or Felicia Carlyon, but went instead to the gate and the door of the wing where Damaris and Peverell lived and, when they chose, had a certain amount of privacy. She had nothing to say to Felicia, and would be grateful not to be faced with the duty of having to try to find something civil and noncommittal to fill the silences there would inevitably be. And she also felt a trifle guilty for what she intended to do, and what she knew it would cost them.

She wished to see Damaris alone, absolutely alone, without fear of interruption from anyone (least of all Felicia), so she could confront her with the terrible facts that Monk had found, and perhaps wring from her the truth about the night of the murder.

Without knowing why, Edith had agreed to distract Peverell and keep him from home, on whatever pretext came to her mind. Hester had told her only that she needed to see Damaris, and that it was delicate and likely to be painful, but that it concerned a truth they had to learn. Hester felt abominably guilty that she had not told Edith what it was, but knowledge would also bring the obligation to choose, and that was a burden she dared not place on Edith in case she chose the wrong way, and love for her sister outweighed pursuit of truth. And if the truth were as ugly as they feared, it would be easier for Edith afterwards if she had had no conscious hand in exposing it.

She repeated this over to herself as she sat in Damaris's elegant, luxurious sitting room waiting for her to come, and finding sparse comfort in it.

She looked around the room. It was typical of Damaris, the conventional and the outrageous side by side, the comfort of wealth and exquisite taste, the safety of the established order - and next to it the wildly rebellious, the excitement of indiscipline. Idealistic landscapes hung on one side of the room, on the other were reproductions of two of William Blake's wilder, more passionate drawings of the human figure. Religion, philosophy and daring voyages into new politics sat on the same bookshelf. Artifacts were romantic or blasphemous, expensive or tawdry, practical or useless, personal taste side by side with the desire to shock. It was the room of two totally different people, or one person seeking to have the best of opposing worlds, to make daring voyages of exploration and at the same time keep hold of comfort and the safety of the long known.

When Damaris came in she was dressed in a gown which was obviously new, but so old in style it harked back to lines of the French Empire. It was startling, but as soon as Hester got over the surprise of it, she realized it was also extremely becoming, the line so much more natural than all the current layers of stiff petticoats and hooped skirts. It was also certainly far more comfortable to wear. Although she thought Damaris almost certainly chose it for effect, not comfort.

"How nice to see you," Damaris said warmly. Her face was pale and there were shadows of sleeplessness around her eyes. "Edith said you wanted to speak to me about the case. I don't know what I can tell you. It's a disaster, isn't it." She flopped down on the sofa and without thinking tucked her feet up to be comfortable. She smiled at Hester rather wanly. "I'm afraid your Mr. Rathbone is out of his depth - he isn't clever enough to get Alexandra out of this." She pulled a face. "But from what I have seen, he doesn't even appear to be trying. Anyone could do all that he has so far. What's that matter, Hester? Doesn't he believe it is worth it?"

"Oh yes," Hester said quickly, stung for Rathbone as well as for the truth. She sat down opposite Damaris. "It isn't time yet - his turn comes next."

"But it will be too late. The jury have already made up their minds. Couldn't you see that in their faces? I did."

"No it isn't. There are facts to come out that will change everything, believe me."

"Are there?" Damaris screwed up her face dubiously. "I can't imagine that."

"Can't you?"

Damaris squinted at her. "You say that with extra meaning - as if you thought I could. I can't think of anything at all that would alter what the jury think now."

There was no alternative, no matter how Hester hated it, and she did hate it. She felt brutal, worse than that, treacherous.

"You were at the Furnivals' house the night of the murder," she began, although it was stating what they both knew and had never argued.

"I don't know anything," Damaris said with absolute candor. "For heaven's sake, if I did I would have said so before now."

"Would you? No matter how terrible it was?"

Damaris frowned. "Terrible? Alexandra pushed Thad-deus over the banister, then followed him down and picked up the halberd and drove it into his body as he lay unconscious at her feet! That's pretty terrible. What could be worse?"

Hester swallowed but did not look away from Damaris's eyes.

"Whatever you found out when you went upstairs to Valentine Furnival's room before dinner - long before Thaddeus was killed."

The blood fled from Damaris's face, leaving her looking ill and vulnerable, and suddenly far younger than she was.

"That has nothing to do with what happened to Thaddeus," she said very quietly. "Absolutely nothing. It was something else - something ..." She hunched her shoulders and her voice trailed off. She pulled her feet a little higher.

"I think it has." Hester could not afford to be lenient.

The ghost of a smile crossed Damaris's mouth and vanished. It was self-mockery and there was no shred of happiness in it.

"You are wrong. You will have to accept my word of honor for that."

"I can't. I accept that you believe it. I don't accept you are right."

Damaris's face pinched. "You don't know what it was, and I shall not tell you. I'm sorry, but it won't help Alexandra, and it is my - my grief, not hers."

Hester felt knotted up inside with shame and pity.

"Do you know why Alexandra killed him?"

"No."

"I do."

Damaris's head jerked up, her eyes wide.

' "Why?" she said huskily.

Hester took a deep breath.

, "Because he was committing sodomy and incest with his own son," she said very quietly. Her voice sounded obscenely matter-of-fact in the silent room, as if she had made some banal remark that would be forgotten in a few moments, instead of something so dreadful they would both remember it as long as they lived.

Damaris did not shriek or faint. She did not even look away, but her skin was whiter than before, and her eyes hol-lower.

Hester realized with an increasing sickness inside that, far from disbelieving her, Damaris was not even surprised. It was as if it were a long-expected blow, coming at last. So Monk had been right. She had discovered that evening that Peverell was involved. Hester could have wept for her, for the pain. She longed to touch her, to take her in her arms as she would a weeping child, but it was useless. Nothing could reach or fold that wound.

"You knew, didn't you?" she said aloud. "You knew it that night!"

"No I didn't." Damaris's voice was fiat, almost without expression, as if something in her were already destroyed.

"Yes you did. You knew Peverell was doing it too, and to Valentine Furnival. That's why you came down almost beside yourself with horror. You were close to hysterical. I don't know how you kept any control at all. I wouldn't have -  I don't think - "

"Oh God - no!" Damaris was moved to utter horror at last. "No!" She uncurled herself so violently she half-fell off the settee, landing awkwardly on the ground. "No. No, I didn't. Not Pev. How could you even think such a thing? It's - it's - wild - insane. Not Pev!"

"But you knew." For the first time Hester doubted. "Wasn't that what you discovered when you went up to Valentine's room?"

"No." Damaris was on the floor in front of her, splayed out like a colt, her long legs at angles, and yet she was absolutely natural. "No! Hester - dear heaven, please believe me, it wasn't."

Hester struggled with herself. Could it be the truth?

"Then what was it?" She frowned, racking her mind. "You came down from Valentine's room looking as if you'd seen the wrath of heaven. Why? What else could you possibly have found out? It was nothing to do with Alexandra or Thaddeus - or Peverell, then what?"

"I can't tell you!"

"Then I can't believe you. Rathbone is going to call you to the stand. Cassian was abused by his father, his grandfather - I'm sorry - and someone else. We have to know who that other person was, and prove it. Or Alexandra will hang."

Damaris was so pale her skin looked gray, as if she had aged in moments.

"I can't. It - it would destroy Pev." She saw Hester's face. "No. No, it isn't that. I swear by God - it isn't."

"No one will believe you," Hester said very quietly, although even as she said it, she knew it was a lie - she believed it. "What else could it be?"

Damaris bowed her head in her hands and began to speak very quietly, her voice aching with unshed tears.

"When I was younger, before I met Pev, I fell in love with someone else. For a long time I did nothing. I loved him with . . . chastity. Then - I thought I was losing him. I - I loved him wildly ... at least I thought I did. Then ..."

"You made love," Hester said the obvious. She was not shocked. In the same circumstances she might have done the same, had she Damaris's beauty, and wild beliefs. Even without them had she loved enough . . .

"Yes." Damaris's voice choked. "I didn't keep his love ... in feet I think in a way that ended it."

Hester waited. Obviously there was more. By itself it was hardly worth repeating.

Damaris went on, her voice catching as she strove to control it, and only just succeeding. "I learned I was with child. It was Thaddeus who helped me. That was what I was talking about when I said he could be kind. I had no idea Mama knew anything about it. Thaddeus arranged for me to go away for a while, and for the child to be adopted. It was a boy. I held him once - he was beautiful." At last she could keep the tears back no longer and she bent her head and wept, sobs shaking her body and long despairing cries tearing her beyond her strength to conceal.

Hester slid down onto the floor and put both her arms around her, holding her close, stroking her head and letting the storm burn itself out and exhaust her, all the grief and guilt of years bursting its bounds at last.

It was many minutes later when Damaris was still, and Hester spoke again.

"And what did you learn that night?"

"I learned where he was." Damaris sniffed fiercely and sat up, reaching for a handkerchief, an idiotic piece of lace and cambric not large enough to do anything at all.

Hester stood up and went to the cloakroom and wrung out a hand towel in cold water and brought it back, and also a large piece of soft linen she found in the cupboard beside the basin. Without saying anything she handed them to Damaris.

"Well?" she asked after another moment or two.

"Thank you." Damaris remained sitting on the floor. "I learned where he was," she said, her composure back again: She was too worn out for any violent emotion anymore. "I learned what Thaddeus had done. Who he had . . . given him to."

Hester waited, resuming her seat.

"The Furnivals," Damaris said with a small, very sad smile. "Valentine Furnival is my son. I knew that when I saw him. I hadn't seen Valentine for years, you see, not since he was a small child - about Cassian's age, or even less. Actually I so dislike Louisa, and I didn't go there very often, and when I did he was always away at school, or when he was younger, already in bed. That evening he was at home because he'd had measles. But this time, when I saw him, he'd changed so much - grown up - and ..." She took a deep, rather shaky breath. "He was so like his father when he was younger, I knew ..."

"Like his father?" Hester searched her brains, which was stupid. There was no reason in the world why it should be anyone she had even heard of, much less met; in fact, there was every reason why it should not. Yet there was something tugging at the corners of her mind, a gesture, something about the eyes, the color of hair, the heavy lids . . .

"Charles Hargrave," Damaris said very quietly, and in-standy Hester knew it was the truth: the eyes, the height, the way of standing, the angle of die shoulders.

Then another, ugly thought pulled at the edge of her mind, insistent, refusing to be silenced.

"But why did that upset you so terribly? You were frantic when you came down again, not quiet shaken, but frantic. Why? Even if Peverell found out Valentine was Hargrave's son - and I assume he doesn't know - even if he saw the resemblance between Valentine and Dr. Hargrave, there is no reason why he should connect it with you."

Damaris shut her eyes and again her voice was sharp with pain.

"I didn't know Thaddeus abused Cassian, believe me, I really didn't. But I knew Papa abused him - when he was a child. I knew the look in his eyes, that mixture of fear and excitement, the pain, the confusion, and the kind of secret pleasure. I suppose if I'd ever really looked at Cass lately I'd have seen it there too - but I didn't look. And since the murder I just thought it was part of his grief. Not that I've spent much time with him anyway - I should have, but I haven't. I know about Thaddeus, because I saw it once . . . and ever after it was in my mind."

Hester drew breath to say sometiring - and nothing seemed adequate.

Damaris closed her eyes.

"I saw the same look in Valentine's face." Her voice was tight, as if her throat were burned inside. "I knew he was being abused too. I thought it was Maxim - I hated him so much I would have killed him. It never occurred to me it was Thaddeus. Oh God. Poor Alex." She gulped. "No wonder she killed him. I would have too - in her place. In fact if I'd known it was he who abused Valentine, I would have anyway. I just didn't know. I suppose I assumed it was always fathers." She laughed harshly, a tiny thread of hysteria creeping back into her voice. "You should have suspected me. I would have been just as guilty as Alexandra - in thought and intent, if not in deed. It was only inability that stopped me - nothing else."

"Many of us are innocent only through lack of chance -  or of means," Hester said very softly. "Don't blame yourself. You'll never know whether you would have or not if the chance had been there."

"I would." There was no doubt in Damaris's voice, none at all. She looked up at Hester. "What can we do for Alex? It would be monstrous if she were hanged for that. Any mother worth a damn would have done the same!"

"Testify," Hester answered without hesitation. "Tell the truth. WeVe got to persuade the jury that she did the only thing she could to protect her child."

Damaris looked away, her eyes filling with tears.

"Do I have to tell about Valentine? Peverell doesn't know! Please. . ."

"Tell him yourself," Hester said very quietly. "He loves you - and he must know you love him."

"But men don't forgive easily - not things like that." The despair was back in Damaris's voice.

Hester felt wretched, still hoping against all likelihood that it was not Peverell.

"Peverell isn't'men,' " she said chokingly. "Don't judge him by others. Give him the chance to be all - all that he could be." Did she sound as desperate and as hollow as she felt? "Give him a chance to forgive - and love you for what you really are, not what you think he wants you to be. It was a mistake, a sin if you like - but we all sin one way or another. What matters is that you become kinder and wiser because of it, that you become gentler with others, and that you have never repeated it!"

"Do you think he will see it like that? He might if it were anyone else - but it's different when it's your own wife."

"For heaven's sake - try him."

"But if he doesn't, I'll lose him!"

"And if you lie, Alexandra will lose her life. What would Peverell think of that?"

"I know." Damaris stood up slowly, suddenly all her grace returning. "I've got to tell him. God knows I wish I hadn't done it. And Charles Hargrave, of all people. I can hardly bear to look at him now. I know. Don't tell me again, I do know. I've got to tell Pev. There isn't any way out of it-lying would only make it worse."

"Yes it would." Hester put out her hand and touched Damaris's arm. "I'm sorry - but I had no choice either."

"I know." Damaris smiled with something of the old charm, although the effort it cost her was apparent. "Only if I do this, you'd better save Alex. I don't want to say all this for nothing."

"Everything I can. I'll leave nothing untried - I promise."