Defend and Betray

chapter 3
Monk accepted the case of Alexandra Carlyon initially because it was Rathbone who brought it to him, and he would never allow Rathbone to think any case daunted him too much even to try. He did not dislike Rathbone; indeed there was much in him he both admired and felt instinctively drawn towards. His wit always appealed to Monk no matter how cutting, or against whom it was directed, and Rathbone was not cruel. He also admired the lawyer's brain. Monk had a swift and easy intelligence himself, and had always felt success enough in his own powers not to resent brilliance in others - or to fear it, as Runcorn did.

Before the accident he had felt himself equal to any man, and superior to most. All the evidence he had uncovered since, both of his actual achievements and of the attitudes of others towards him, indicated his opinion was not merely arrogance but a reasonably well-founded judgment.

Then one night of torrential rain, less than a year ago, the carriage in which he was riding had overturned, killing the cabby and knocking Monk senseless. When he awoke in hospital he knew nothing, not even his name. Over the succeeding months he had learned his own nature slowly, often unpleasantly, seeing himself from the outside, not understanding his reasons, only his acts. The picture was of a ruthless man, ambitious, dedicated to the pursuit of justice greater than merely the law, but a man without friendships or family ties. His only sister he had seemed to write seldom and not to have visited for years, in spite of her regular, gentle letters to him.

His subordinates admired and feared him. His seniors resented him and were frightened of his footsteps on their heels - most especially Runcorn. What injuries he had done any of them he still could only guess.

There was also the fleeting memory of some gentleness, but he could put no face to it, and certainly no name. Hester Latterly's sister-in-law, Imogen, had first woken in him such a sweetness it was momentarily almost numbing, robbing him of the present and tantalizing him with some indefinable comfort and hope. And then before he could force anything into clarity, it was gone again.

And there were also memories of an older man, a man who had taught him much, and around whom there was a sense of loss, a failure to protect at a time when his mentor desperately needed it. But this picture too was incomplete. Only fragments came into his mind, a face imperfectly, an older woman sitting by a dining room table, her face filled with grief, a woman who could weep without distorting her features. And he knew he had cared for her.

Then he had left the force in a rage over the Moidore case, without even thinking what he could do to survive without his profession. It had been hand. Private cases were few. He had only begun a couple of months ago, and the support of Lady Callandra Daviot had been necessary to avoid being put out of his rooms onto the street. All that remarkable woman had asked in return for being a financial backer in his new venture was that she be included in any story that was of interest. He had been delighted to agree to such terms, although so far he had dealt only with three missing people, two of whom he had found successfully; half a dozen minor thefts; and one debt collection, which he would not have taken had he not known the defaulter was well able to pay. As far as Monk was concerned, debtors in poverty were welcome to escape. He certainly was not going to hunt them down.

But he was very glad indeed of a well-paying job now funded by a lawyer's office, and possibly offering interest for Callandra Daviot as well, insofar as it contained more passion and need for help than anything he had worked on since leaving his position.

It was too late that afternoon to accomplish anything; already the shadows were lengthening and the evening traffic was filling the streets. But the following morning he set out early for Albany Street and the house of Maxim and Louisa Furnival, where the death had occurred. He would see the scene of the crime for himself, and hear their account of the evening. As Rathbone had said, it appeared on the surface a thankless task, since Alexandra Carlyon had confessed; but then the sister-in-law might be right, and she had done so only to protect her daughter. What they did with the truth was Alexandra Carlyon's decision, or Rathbone's, but the first thing was to find it. And he certainly did not trust Run-corn to have done so.

It was not very for from Grafton Street to Albany Street, and since it was a brisk, sunny morning he walked. It gave him time to order in his mind what he would look for, what questions to ask. He turned up Whitfield Street, along Warren Street and into the Euston Road, busy with all manner of carts and carriages about their business or their trade. A brewer's dray passed by him, great shire horses gleaming in the sun, decked in shining harness and with manes braided. Behind them were berlines and landaus and of course the ever-present hansoms.

He crossed the road opposite the Trinity Church and turned right into Albany Street, running parallel to the park, and set his mind to think as he strode the length of it to the Furnivals' house. He brushed past other pedestrians without noticing them: ladies flirting, gossiping; gentlemen taking the air, discussing sport or business; servants about errands, dressed in livery; the occasional peddler or newsboy. Carriages bowled past in both directions.

He looked a gentleman, and he had every intention of behaving as if he were one. When he arrived at Albany Street he presented himself at the front door of the Furnivals' house and asked the maid who answered it if he might speak with Mrs. Louisa Furnival. He also presented her with his card, which stated only his name and address, not his occupation.

"It concerns a legal matter in which Mrs. Furnival's assistance is required," he told her, seeing her very understandable indecision. She knew he had not called before, and in all probability her mistress did not know him. Still, he was very presentable . . .

"Yes sir. If you'll come in I'll find out if Mrs. Furnival's at home."

"Thank you," he accepted, not questioning the euphemism. "May I wait here?" he asked when they were in the hall.

"Yes sir, if you'd rather." She seemed to see nothing to object to, and as soon as she was gone he looked around. The stairway was very beautiful, sweeping down the right-hand wall as he stood facing it. The balcony stretched the full width of the landing above, a distance of about thirty-five feet as far as he could judge, and at least twenty feet above the hall. It would be an unpleasant fall, but not by any means necessarily a fatal one. In feet it would be quite possible to have overbalanced across the banister and dropped the distance without serious injury at all.

And the suit of armor was still there below the corner where the banister turned to come down. One would have had to fall over the very corner of it to land on the armor. It was a fine piece, although a trifle ostentatious, perhaps, in a London house. It belonged in a baronial hall with interior stonework and great open fireplaces, but it was extremely decorative here, and an excellent conversation piece, making the house one to remain in the memory, which was presumably the purpose of it. It was full late medieval knight's armor, covering the entire body, and the right-hand gauntlet was held as if to grasp a spear or pike of some sort, but was empty now. No doubt the police would have the halberd as evidence to be presented at Alexandra Carlyon's trial.

He looked around to see the disposition of the rest of the reception rooms. There was a door to his right, just beyond the foot of the stairs. If that were the withdrawing room, surely anyone in it must have heard that suit of armor fall to the ground, even though the hall was well scattered with carpets, either Bokhara or a good imitation. The metal pieces would crash against each other, even on cushions.

There was another door to the right, under the high point of the stairs, but that was more likely a library or billiard room. One did not often have a main reception room entrance so masked.

To the left was a very handsome double door. He went across and opened it softly. Since the maid had not gone to it, but towards the back of the house, he trusted it was empty at the moment.

He looked in. It was a very large, lavishly appointed dining room, with an oak table big enough to seat at least a dozen people. He pulled the door closed again quickly and stepped back. They could not have been dining when Thad-deus Carlyon fell onto the armor. Here too they could not have failed to hear it.

He had resumed his place in the center of the hall only just in time as the maid reappeared.

"Mrs. Furnival will see you, sir, if you like to come this way," she said demurely.

She led him to a wide corridor towards the back of the house, past another doorway, straight ahead to the withdrawing room, which opened onto the garden, as far as possible from the hall.

There was no time to look at the furnishings, except to get the briefest impression of crowding with overstuffed sofas and chairs in hot pinks and reds, rich curtains, some rather ordinary pictures, and at least two gilt-framed mirrors.

The woman who commanded his attention was actually physically quite small, but of such striking personality that she dominated the room. Her bones were slender, yet his overriding impression was of voluptuousness. She had a mass of dark hair, much fuller around her face than the current fashion; but it was also far more flattering to her broad, high cheekbones and long eyes, which were so narrow he could not at first be sure of their color, whether they were green or brown. She was not at all like a real cat, and yet there was an intensely feline quality in her, a grace and a detachment that made him think of small, fierce wild animals.

She would have been beautiful, in a sensuous and highly individual way, had not a meanness in her upper lip sent a tingling jar through him, like a warning.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Monk." Her voice was excellent, strong and level, much more immediate than he had expected, more candid. From such a woman he had expected something self-consciously childlike and artificially sweet. This was a most pleasant surprise. "How may I help you with a legal matter? I presume it is to do with poor General Carlyon?"

So she was both intelligent and forthright. He instantly altered what he had been going to say. He had imagined a sillier woman, a flirt. He was wrong. Louisa Furnival was much more powerful than he had supposed. And that made Alexandra Carlyon easier to understand. This woman in front of him was a rival to fear, not a casual pastime for an evening that might well have been heavy without a little frivolity.

"Yes," he agreed with equal frankness. "I am employed by Mr. Oliver Rathbone, counsel to Mrs. Carlyon, to make sure that we have understood correctly exactly what happened that evening."

She smiled only slightly, but there was humor in it, and her eyes were very bright.

"I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Monk. I do not mind interesting lies, but boring ones annoy me. What is it you wish to know?"

He smiled. He was not flirting with her - such a thing would not have entered his mind for himself - but he saw the spark of interest in her face, and instinctively used it.

"As much as you can remember of what happened that evening, Mrs. Furnival," he replied. "And later, all you know, and are prepared to tell me, of General and Mrs. Carlyon and their relationship."

She lowered her gaze. "How very thorough of you, Mr. Monk. Although I fear thoroughness may be all you will be able to offer her, poor creature. But you must go through the motions, I understand. Where shall I begin? When they arrived?"

"If you please."

"Then sit down, Mr. Monk," she invited, indicating the overstuffed pink sofa. He obeyed, and she walked, with more swagger and sensuality than pure grace, over towards the window where the light fell on her, and turned to face him. In that moment he realized she knew her own power to an exactness, and enjoyed it.

He leaned back, waiting for her to begin.

She was wearing a rose-colored crinoline gown, cut low I at the bosom, and against the lushly pink curtains she was strikingly dramatic to look at, and she smiled as she began her account.

"I cannot remember the order in which they arrived, but I recall their moods very clearly indeed." Her eyes never left his face, but even in the brilliance from the window he still could not see what color they were. "But I don't suppose times matter very much at that point, do they?" Her fine eyebrows rose.

"Not at all, Mrs. Furnival," he assured her.

"The Erskines were just as usual," she went on. "I suppose you know who they are? Yes, of course you do." She smoothed the fabric of her skirt almost unconsciously. "So was Fenton Pole, but Sabella was in quite a temper, and as soon as she was through the door she was rude to her father -  oh! Which means he must already have been here, doesn't it?" She shrugged. "I think the last to arrive were Dr. and Mrs. Hargrave. Have you spoken to him?"

"No, you are the first."

She seemed about to comment on that, then changed her mind. Her glance wandered away and she stared into the distance as if visualizing hi her mind.

"Thaddeus - that is, the general - seemed as usual." A tiny smile flickered over her mouth, full of meaning and amusement. He noticed it, and thought it betrayed more of her than of the general or their relationship. "He was a very masculine man, very much the soldier. He had seen some very interesting action, you know?" This time she did look at Monk, her eyebrows high, her face full of vitality. "He spoke to me about it sometimes. We were friends, you know? Yes, I daresay you do. Alexandra was jealous, but she had no cause. I mean, it was not in the least improper." She hesitated for only an instant. She was far too sophisticated to wait for the obvious compliment, and he did not pay it, but it entered his mind. If General Carlyon had not entertained a few improper ideas about Louisa Furnival, then he was a very slow-blooded man indeed.

"But Alexandra seemed in something of an ill temper right from the beginning," she went on."She did not smile at all, except briefly as was required by civility, and she avoided speaking to Thaddeus altogether. To tell you the truth, Mr. Monk, it strained my abilities as a hostess to keep the occasion from becoming embarrassing for my other guests. A family quarrel is a very ugly thing to have to witness and makes people most uncomfortable. I gather this one must have been very bitter, because all evening Alexandra was holding hi an anger which no observant person could miss."

"But one-sided, you say?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"One-sided," he repeated. "According to you, the general was not angry with Mrs. Carlyon; he behaved as normal."

"Yes - that is true," she acknowledged with something like surprise. "Perhaps he had forbidden her something, or made a decision she did not like, and she was still smarting over it. But that is hardly reason to kill anyone, is it?"

"What would be reason to kill, Mrs. Furnival?"

She drew in her breath quickly, then shot him a bright, sharp smile.

"What unexpected things you say, Mr. Monk! I have no idea. I have never thought of killing anyone. That is not how I fight my battles."

He met her eyes without a flicker. "How do you fight them, Mrs. Furnival?"

This time the smile was wider. "Discreetly, Mr. Monk, and without forewarning people."

"And do you win?"

"Yes I do." Too late she wished to take it back. "Well, usually," she amended. "Of course if I did not, I should not. . ." She tailed off, realizing that to justify herself would be clumsy. He had not accused her; in fact he had not even allowed the thought to come through his words. She had raised it herself.

She continued with the story, looking up at the far wall again."Then we all went in to dinner. Sabella was still making occasional bitter remarks, Damaris Erskine was behaving appallingly to poor Maxim, and Alex spoke to everyone except Thaddeus - oh, and very little to me. She seemed to feel I was on his side, which was foolish. Of course I was on no one's side, I was simply doing my duty as hostess."

"And after dinner?"

"Oh, as usual the gentlemen stayed at the table for port, and we went to the withdrawing room where we sat arid gossiped for a while." She lifted her beautiful shoulders in an expression of both humor and boredom. "Sabella went upstairs, as I recall, something about a headache. She has not been entirely well since the birth of her child."

"Did you gossip about anything in particular?"

"I really cannot remember. It was rather difficult, as I said. Damaris Erskine had been behaving like a complete fool all evening. I have no idea why. Usually she is quite a sensible woman, but that evening she seemed on the point of hysteria ever since just before dinner. I don't know if she had quarreled with her husband, or something. They are very close, and she did seem to be avoiding him on this occasion, which is unusual. I really wondered once or twice if she had had rather too much wine before she came. I can't think what else would account for her manner, or why poor Maxim should be the principal victim. She is rather eccentric, but this was really too much!"

"I'll enquire into it," he remarked. "Then what happened? At some point the general must have left the room."

"Yes he did. I took him up to see my son, Valentine, who was at home because he has just recovered from the measles, poor boy. They were very fond of each other, you know. Thaddeus has always taken an interest in him, and of course Valentine, like any boy looking towards manhood, has a great admiration for the military and exploration and foreign travel." She looked at him very directly. "He loved to hear Thaddeus's tales of India and the Far East. I am afraid my husband does not go in very much for that sort of thing."

"You took General Carlyon upstairs to see your son. Did you remain with him?"

"No. My husband came up to find me, because the party needed some considerable management. As I said before, several people were behaving badly. Fenton Pole and Mrs. Hargrave were struggling to keep some sort of civilized conversation going. At least that is what Maxim said."

"So you came down, leaving the general with Valentine?"

"Yes, that's right." Her face tightened. "That is the last time I saw him."

"And your husband?"

She shifted her position very slightly, but still stood against the rich swath of the curtain.

"He stayed upstairs. And almost as soon as I got back down here again, Alexandra went up. She looked furious, white-faced and so tense I thought she was intending to have a terrible quarrel, but there was nothing any of us could do to stop her. I didn't know what it was about - and I still don't."

He looked at her without any humor at all, directly and blankly.

"Mrs. Carlyon said she killed him because he was having an affair with you, and everyone knew it."

Her eyes widened and she looked at him with complete incredulity, as if he had said something absurd, so ridiculous as to be runny rather than offensive.

"Oh really! That is too foolish! She couldn't possibly believe such a thing! It is not only untrue, it is not even remotely credible. We have been agreeable friends, no more. Nor would it ever have appeared to anyone that we were more - I assure you, no one else thought so. Ask them! I am an amusing and entertaining woman, I hope, and capable of friendship, but I am not irresponsible."

He smiled, still refusing to pay the implicit compliment, except with his eyes. "Can you think of any reason why Mrs. Carlyon would believe it?"

"No - none at all. None that are sane." She smiled at him, her eyes bright and steady. They were hazel after all. "Really, Mr. Monk, I think there must be some other reason for whatever she did - some quarrel we know nothing of. And honestly, I cannot see why it matters. If she killed him, and it seems inescapable that she did, then what difference does it make why?"

"It might make a difference to the judge, when he comes to sentence her, if and when she is convicted," he replied, watching her face for pity, anger, grief, any emotions he could read. He saw nothing but cool intelligence.

"I am not familiar with the law, except the obvious." She smiled. "I would have thought they would hang her regardless."

"Indeed they may," he conceded. "You left the story with your husband and the general upstairs, and Mrs. Carlyon just going up. What happened then?"

"Maxim came down, and then a little later, maybe ten minutes, Alexandra came down, looking dreadful. Shortly after that Maxim went out into the front hall - we had all used the back stairs as it is quicker to go up to Valentine's rooms that way - and almost immediately he came back to say Thaddeus had had an accident and was seriously hurt. Charles - that is, Dr. Hargrave, went to see if he could help.

He came back after the briefest time to say Thaddeus was dead and we should call the police."

"Which you did?"

"Of course. A Sergeant Evan came, and they asked us all sorts of questions. It was the worst night I can ever remember."

"So it is possible that Mrs. Carlyon, your husband, Sabella or yourself could have killed him - as far as opportunity is concerned?"

She looked surprised. "Yes - I suppose so. But why should we?"

"I don't know yet, Mrs. Furnival. When did Sabella Pole come downstairs?"

She thought for a moment. "After Charles said Thaddeus was dead. I cannot remember who went up for her. Her mother, I expect. I realize you are employed to help Alexandra, but I cannot see how you can. Neither my husband nor I had anything to do with Thaddeus's death. I know Sabella is very emotional, but I don't believe she killed her father - and no one else could have, apart from having no possible reason."

"Is your son still at home, Mrs. Furnival?"

"Yes."

"May I speak with him?"

There was a guarded look to her face which he found most natural in the circumstances.

"Why?" she asked.

"He may have seen or heard something which precipitated the quarrel resulting in the general's death."

"He didn't. I asked him that myself."

"I would still like to hear from him, if I may. After all, if Mrs. Carlyon murdered the general a few minutes afterwards, there must have been some indication of it then. If he is an intelligent boy, he must have been aware of something."

She hesitated for several moments. He thought she was weighing up the possible distress to her son, the justification for denying his request, and the light it would cast on her own motives and on Alexandra Carlyon's guilt.

"I am sure you would like this whole affair cleared up as soon as possible," he said carefully. "It cannot be pleasant for you to have it unresolved."

Her eyes did not waver from his face.

"It is resolved, Mr. Monk. Alexandra has confessed."

"But that is not the end," he argued. "It is merely the end of the first phase. May I see your son?"

"If you find it important. I shall take you up."

He followed her out of the withdrawing room, walking behind and watching her slight swagger, the elegant, feminine line of her shoulders, and the confident way she managed the big skirt with its stiff hoops. She led him along the passage, then instead of going up the main stairs, she turned right and went up the second staircase to the landing of the north wing. Valentine's rooms were separated from the main bedrooms by a guest suite, presently unused.

She knocked briefly but opened the door without waiting for a reply. Inside the large airy room was furnished as a schoolroom with tables, a large blackboard and several bookcases and a schoolteacher's desk. The windows opened onto other roofs, and the green boughs of a great tree. Inside, sitting on the bench by the window, was a slender dark boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age. His features were regular, with a long nose, heavy eyelids and clear blue eyes. He stood up as soon as he saw Monk. He was far taller than Monk expected, very close to six feet, and his shoulders were already broadening, foreshadowing the man he would become. He towered over his mother. Presumably Maxim Furnival was a tall man.

"Valentine, this is Mr. Monk. He works for Mrs. Carlyon's lawyer. He would like to ask you some questions about the evening the general died." Louisa was as direct as Monk would have expected. There was no attempt at evasion in her, no protection of him from reality.

The boy was tense, his face wary, and even as Louisa spoke Monk saw a tension in his body, an anxiety narrowing his eyes, but he did not look away.

"Yes sir?" he said slowly. "I didn't see anything, or I would have told the police. They asked me."

"I'm sure." Monk made a conscious effort to be gentler than he would with an adult. The boy's face was pale and there were marks of tiredness around his eyes. If he had been fond of the general, admired him as both a friend and a hero, then this must have been a brutal shock as well as a bereavement. "Your mother brought the general up to see you?"

Valentine's body tightened and there was a bleakness in his face as if he had been dealt a blow deep inside him where the pain was hidden, only betraying itself as a change in his muscles, a dulling in his eyes.

"Yes."

"You were friends?"

Again the look was guarded. "Yes."

"So it was not unusual that he should call on you?"

"No, I've - I've known him a long time. In fact, all my life."

Monk wished to express some sympathy, but was uncertain what words to use. The relationship between a boy and his hero is a delicate thing, and at times very private, composed in part of dreams.

"His death must be a great blow to you. I'm sorry." He was uncharacteristically awkward. "Did you see your mother or your father at that time?"

"No. I - the general was - alone here. We were talking..." He glanced at his mother for an instant so brief Monk almost missed it.

"About what?" he asked.

"Er . . ." Valentine shrugged. "I don't remember now. Army - army life ..."

"Did you see Mrs. Carlyon?"

Valentine looked very white. "Yes - yes, she came in."

"She came into your rooms here?"

"Yes." He swallowed hard. "Yes she did."

Monk was not surprised he was pale. He had seen a murderer and her victim a few minutes before the crime. He had almost certainly been the last one to see General Carlyon alive, except for Alexandra. It was a thought sufficient to chill anyone.

"How was she?" he asked very quietly. "Tell me what you can remember - and please be careful not to let your knowledge of what happened afterwards color what you say, if you can help it."

"No sir." Valentine looked squarely at him; his eyes were wide and vividly blue. "Mrs. Carlyon seemed very upset indeed, very angry. In fact she was shaking and she seemed to find it difficult to speak. I've seen someone drunk once, and it was rather like that, as if her tongue and her lips would not do what she wished."

"Can you remember what she said?"

Valentine frowned. "Not exactly. It was more or less that he should come downstairs, and that she had to speak to him - or that she had spoken, I don't remember which. I thought they had had a quarrel over something and it looked as if she wanted to start it up again. Sir?"

"Yes?"

This time he avoided his mother's eyes deliberately. "Can you do anything to help Mrs. Carlyon?"

Monk was startled. He had expected the opposite.

"I don't know yet. I have only just begun." He wanted to ask why Valentine should wish her helped, but he knew it would be clumsy in front of Louisa.

Valentine turned to the window. "Of course. I'm sorry."

"Not at all," Monk said quietly. "It is very decent of you to ask."

Valentine looked at him quickly, then away again, but in that instant Monk saw the flash of gratitude.

"Did the general seem upset?" he asked.

"No, not really."

"So you think he had no idea she was in such a fury?"

"No, I don't think so. Well if he had known, he wouldn't have turned his back on her, would he? He's a lot bigger than she is and he would have to have been caught by surprise ..."

"You are quite right. It's a good point."

Valentine smiled unhappily.

Louisa interrupted for the first time.

"I don't think he can tell you anything more, Mr. Monk."

"No. Thank you." He spoke to Valentine. "I am grateful for your forbearance."

"You're welcome, sir."

They were back downstairs in the hall and Monk was ready to take his leave when Maxim Furnival came in, handing his hat and stick to the maid. He was a tall, slender man with hair almost black and deep-set dark brown eyes. He was very nearly handsome, except his lower Up was a trifle too full, and when he smiled there was a gap between his front teeth. It was a moody lace, emotional, intelligent and without cruelty.

Louisa explained Monk's presence quickly. "Mr. Monk is working for Alexandra Carlyon's lawyer."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Furnival." Monk inclined his head. He needed this man's help. "I appreciate your courtesy."

Maxim's face darkened immediately, but it was with pity rather than irritation.

"I wish there was something we could do. But it's too late now." His voice was constricted, as though his distress were startlingly deep and full of anger. "We should have done it weeks ago." He moved towards the passage leading to the withdrawing room. "What is there now, Mr. Monk?"

"Only information," Monk answered. "Is there anything you remember of that evening that might explain things better?"

A flash of ironic humor crossed Maxim's face, and something that looked like self-blame. "Believe me, Mr. Monk, I've racked my brain trying to think of an explanation, and I know nothing now I didn't know then. It's a complete mystery to me. I know, of course, that Alex and Thaddeus had differences of opinion. In fact, to be honest, I know they did not get on particularly well; but that is true of a great many people, if not most, at some time or another. It does not excuse one breaking the marriage vows, and it certainly doesn't result in their killing each other."

"Mrs. Carlyon says she did it out of jealousy over her husband's attention towards Mrs. Furnival..."

Maxim's eyes widened in surprise. "That's absurd! They've been friends for years, in fact since before - before Valentine was born. Nothing has happened suddenly to make her jealous, nothing has changed at all." He looked genuinely confused. If he were an actor he was superb. It had crossed Monk's mind to wonder if it might have been he and not Alexandra who was the jealous spouse, or even for a wild moment if the general was Valentine's father. But he could think of no reason why Alexandra should confess to protect Maxim, unless they were lovers - in which case he had little cause to be jealous over the general and Louisa. In fact, it was in his interest it should continue.

"But Mrs. Carlyon was distressed that evening?" he asked aloud.

"Oh yes." Maxim poked his hands deep into his pockets and frowned. "Very. But I don't know what about, except that Thaddeus rather ignored her, but that is hardly cause for violence. Anyway, everyone seemed rather excitable that evening. Damaris Erskine was almost to the point of frenzy." He did not mention that she had singled him out for her abuse. "And I have no idea why about that either." He looked bewildered. "Nor had poor Peverell, to judge by his face. And Sabella was very overwrought as well - but then she has been rather often lately." His expression was rueful and more than a little embarrassed. "Altogether it was a pretty dreadful evening."

"But nothing happened to make you think it would end in murder?"

"Good God, no! No, nothing at all. It was just. . ."He stopped, his face bleak, lost for any words adequate to explain his feelings.

"Thank you, Mr. Furnival." Monk could think of nothing further to ask at this point. He thanked Louisa also and took his leave, going out into the patchy sunshine of Albany Street with his mind crowded with thoughts and impressions: Louisa's arrogant walk and her confident, inviting face with an element of coldness in it in repose; Valentine's hidden pain; and Maxim's innocence.

* * * * *

Next Monk visited Alexandra Carlyon's younger daughter, Sabella. The elder daughter lived in Bath, and was no part of this tragedy, except as it deprived her of her father, and almost certainly in due course of the law, of her mother also. But Sabella might well be at the heart of it, either the true motive for Alexandra's crime or even the murderer herself.

The Poles' house was on George Street, only a short walk away, the other side of the Hampstead Road, and it took him ten minutes on foot to reach the step. When the door opened he explained to the parlormaid that he was engaged to do all he could to assist Mrs. Carlyon, and he would be obliged if he might speak to Mr. or Mrs. Pole to that end.

He was shown into the morning room, a small, chilly place even in the bright, gusty winds of May with a sudden rain squall battering against the heavily curtained windows. And to be fair, they were very newly in mourning for Sabella's father.

It was not Sabella who came, but Fenton Pole, a pleasant, unremarkable young man with strawberry fair hair and an earnest face, regular features and china-blue eyes. He was fashionably dressed in a shawl-collared waistcoat, very white shirt and somber suit. He closed the door behind him and regarded Monk with misgiving.

"I am sorry to disturb you in a time of such family grief," Monk began straightaway. "But the matter of helping Mrs. Carlyon cannot wait."

Fenton Pole's frown became deeper and he moved towards Monk with a candid expression, as if he would confide something, then stopped a few feet away.

"I cannot think what anyone can do to help her," he said anxiously. "Least of all my wife or I. We were present that evening, but anything I saw or heard only adds to her troubles. I think, Mr. Monk, that the least damage we can do would be to say as little as possible and let the end be as mercifully rapid as may be." He looked down at his shoes, then up at Monk with a frown. "My wife is not well, and I refuse to add anymore to her distress. She has lost both father and mother, in the most dreadful circumstances. I am sure you appreciate that?"

"I do, Mr. Pole," Monk conceded. "It would be hard to imagine anything worse than what appears to have happened. But so far it is only an appearance. We owe it to her, as well as ourselves, to see if there are other explanations, or mitigating circumstances. I am sure your wife, in love for her mother, would wish that too."

"My wife is not well . . ." Pole repeated rather sharply.

"I regret it profoundly," Monk interrupted. "But events will make no allowance for individual illness or grief." Then before Pole could protest again, "But perhaps if you would tell me what you recall of the evening, I will have to disturb your wife very little - only to see if she can add anything you do not know."

"I don't see that it can help." Pole's jaw hardened and there was a stubborn light in his blue eyes.

"Neither do I, until I hear what you have to say." Monk was beginning to grow irritated, and he concealed it with difficulty. He did not suffer foolishness, prejudice or complacency with any grace, and this man was exhibiting at least two of these faults. "But it is my profession to learn such things, and I have been employed by Mrs. Carlyon's barrister to discover what I can."

Pole regarded him without answering.

Deliberately Monk sat down on one of the higher chairs as if he intended to be there for some time.

"The dinner party, Mr. Pole," he insisted. "I understand your wife quarreled with her father almost as soon as she arrived at the Furnivals' house. Do you know what was the cause of that difference?"

Pole looked discomfited. "I cannot see what that has to do with the general's death, but since you ask, I don't know what the cause was. I imagine it was some old misunderstanding and nothing new or of any importance."

Monk looked at him with disbelief as civil as he could make it.

"Surely something was said? It is impossible to have a quarrel without mentioning what it is about, at least nominally, even if what is spoken of is not the real cause."

Pole's blond eyebrows rose. He pushed his hands even deeper into his pockets and turned away irritably. "If that is what you want. I thought from what you were saying that you wished to know the real cause - although it can hardly matter now."

Monk felt his anger rising. His muscles were tight and his voice was harsh when he replied.

"What did they say to each other, Mr. Pole?"

Pole sat down and crossed his legs. He looked at Monk coldly.

"The general made some observation about the army in India, and Sabella said she had heard there was a very tense situation there. The general told her it was nothing. In fact he was rather dismissive of her opinions, and it angered her. She felt he was being condescending and told him so. Sabella imagines that she knows something about India - and I am afraid that perhaps I have indulged her. At that point Maxim Furnival intervened and tried to turn the subject to something else, not entirely successfully. It was not anything remarkable, Mr. Monk. And it certainly had no bearing upon Mrs. Carlyon's quarrel with him."

"What was that about?"

"I have no idea!" he snapped. "I simply assume there was one, because she could not possibly have killed him unless there was a most violent difference between them. But none of us were aware of anything of the sort, or naturally we should have done something to prevent it." He looked annoyed, as if he could not believe Monk was so stupid intentionally.

Before Monk could reply the door opened and a lovely but disheveled young woman stood facing them, her fair hair over her shoulders, her gown wrapped around by a shawl.

She held it with one slender, pale hand grasped close to her throat. She stared at Monk, disregarding Pole.

"Who are you? Polly said you are trying to help Mama. How can you do that?"

Monk rose to his feet. "William Monk, Mrs. Pole. I am employed by your mother's barrister, Mr. Rathbone, to see if I can learn something to mitigate her case."

She stared at him in silence. Her eyes were very wide and fixed, and there was a hectic color in her cheeks.

Pole had risen when she came in, and now he turned to her gently. "Sabella, my dear, there is no cause to let this concern you. I think you should go back and lie down ..."

She pushed him away angrily and came towards Monk. Pole put his hand on her arm and she snatched it away from him.

"Mr. Monk, is it possible you can do something to help my mother? You said 'mitigation.' Does that mean the law might take into account what manner of man he was? How he bullied us, forced us to his will regardless of our own desires?"

"Sabella . . ." Pole said urgently. He glared at Monk. "Really, Mr. Monk, this is all irrelevant and I - "

"It is not irrelevant!" Sabella said angrily, cutting across him."Will you be good enough to answer me, Mr. Monk?"

He heard the rising hysteria in her voice and it was quite obvious she was on the edge of losing control altogether. It was hardly remarkable. Her family had been shattered by the most appalling double tragedy. She had effectively lost both her parents in a scandal which would ruin their reputations and tear her family life apart and expose it to public ignominy. What could he say to her that would not either make it worse or be totally meaningless? He forced his dislike of Pole out of his mind.

"I don't know, Mrs. Pole," he said very gently. "I hope so. I believe she must have had some reason to do such a thing - if indeed it was she who did it. I need to learn what the reason was: it may be grounds for some sort of defense."

"For God's sake, man!" Pole exploded furiously, his face tight with rage. "Have you no sense of decency at all? My wife is ill - can you not see that? I am sorry, but Mrs. Carlyon's defense, if indeed there can be any, lies with her solicitors, not with us. You must do what you can and not involve my wife. Now I must ask you to leave, without causing any more distress than you already have." He stood, holding his position rather than moving towards Monk, but his threat was plain. He was a very angry man, and Monk thought he was also frightened, although his fear might well be for his wife's mental state and nothing more. Indeed she did look on the border of complete collapse.

Monk no longer had authority to insist, as he had when a policeman. He had no choice but to leave, and do it with as much dignity as possible. Being asked to leave was galling enough, being thrown out would be a total humiliation, which he would not endure. He turned from Pole to Sabella, but before he could collect his own excuses, she spoke.

"I have the deepest affection for my mother, Mr. Monk, and regardless of what my husband says, if there is anything at all I can do . . ." She stood rigidly, her body shaking, very deliberately ignoring Pole. "I shall do it! You may feel free to call upon me at any time. I shall instruct the servants that you are to be allowed in, and I am to be told."

"Sabella!" Pole was exasperated. "I forbid it! You really have no idea what you are saying - "

Before he could finish she swung around on him in fury, her face spotted with color, her eyes brilliant, lips twisted.

"How dare you forbid me to help my mother! You are just like Papa - arrogant, tyrannical, telling me what I may and may not do, regardless of my feelings or what I know to be right." Her voice was getting higher and more and more shrill. "I will not be dictated to - I - "

" Sabella! Keep your voice down!" he said furiously."Remember who you are - and to whom you speak. I am your husband, and you owe me your obedience, not to mention your loyalty."

"Owe you?" She was shouting now. "I do not owe you anything! I married you because my father commanded me and I had no choice."

"You are hysterical!" Pole's face was scarlet with fury and embarrassment. "Go to your room! That is an order, Sabella, and I will not be defied!" He waved his arm towards the door. "Your father's death has unhinged you, which is understandable, but I will not have you behave like this in front of a - a - " He was lost for words to describe Monk.

As if she had just remembered his presence, Sabella looked back at Monk, and at last realized the enormity of her behavior. Her color paled and with shuddering breath she turned and went out of the room without speaking again, leaving the door swinging.

Pole looked at Monk with blazing eyes, as if it were Monk's fault he had witnessed the scene.

"As you can see, Mr. Monk," he said stiffly, "my wife is in a very distressed state. It will be perfectly clear to you that nothing she says can be of any use to Mrs. Carlyon, or to anyone else." His face was hard, closed to all entreaty. "I must ask you not to call again. In spite of what she says, you will not be permitted in. I regret I cannot help, but it must be plain Co anyone that we are in no state to do so. Good day to you. The maid will show you to the door." And so saying he turned around on his heel and went out, leaving Monk alone.

There was nothing to do but leave also, his mind filled with images and doubts. Surely Sabella Pole was passionate enough, and lightly balanced enough as Edith Sobell had apparently believed, to have pushed her father downstairs and then lifted that halberd and speared him to death. And she certainly seemed to have no idea at all of propriety, or what her station required of her, or perhaps even of sanity.

Monk met Hester Latterly, by arrangement, the following day. It was not that he entirely wanted to - his emotions were very mixed - but she was an excellent ally. She had acute observation, an understanding of women he would never achieve simply because he was a man. Also she was born of a different social class, and so would perceive and interpret nuances he might easily misunderstand. And of course in this instance she knew Edith Sobell, and had access to the Carlyon family, which might be invaluable if the case proved worth fighting and there was any weapon to use.

He had first met her in the Grey case nearly a year ago. She had been staying at Shelburne Court, the Grey country seat, and he had bumped into her when out walking on the estate. She had been conceited, opinionated, extremely bossy, far too outspoken, and as far as he was concerned, hi no way attractive. She had proved to be resourceful, courageous, determined, and her candid tongue had at times been a blessing. She had bullied him out of defeat with her rudeness and her blind refusal to accept despair.

In fact there had been moments when he had felt a kind of friendship for her more totally honest than he had for anyone else, even John Evan. She saw him without any deluding mists of admiration, self-interest or fear for her own position, and there was something extraordinarily sweet and comfortable about a friend who knows you and accepts you at your worst, your most bitter, or defeated, who sees your emotional ugliness naked and is not afraid to call it by name, and yet does not turn from you or allow you to cease to struggle, who wills your survival as precious.

Therefore he went out in the early afternoon to meet Hester just outside Major Tiplady's apartment in Great Titchfield Street, and walk with her down to Oxford Street, where they could find an agreeable place to take tea or hot chocolate. Perhaps her company would even be pleasant.

He had barely arrived at Tiplady's house when she came down the steps, head high, back stiff as if she were on parade. It reminded him sharply of the first occasion on which they had met; she had a very individual way of carrying herself. It both jarred on him for its assurance and sense of purpose, not a feminine characteristic at all, rather more like a soldier; and also was oddly comforting because of its familiarity. It evoked most sharply the way she alone had been willing to fight the Grey case and had not recoiled from him in horror or disappointment when his part in it all had looked not only hopeless but inexcusable.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Monk," she said rather stiffly. She made no concession to ordinary civilities and the small trifles that most people indulged in as a preamble to more serious conversation."Have you begun on the Carlyon case? I imagine it is not easy. I admit, from what Edith Sobell says, there can be little chance of a happy outcome. Still, to send the wrong person to the gallows would be even worse - as, I presume, we are agreed?" She shot him a sharp, very candid glance.

There was no need to make any comment; memory was a blade pointed between them, full of pain, but there was no blame in it, only shared emotion.

"I haven't seen Mrs. Carlyon herself yet." He set a smart pace and she kept up with him without difficulty. "I shall do that tomorrow. Rathbone has arranged it for me in the morning. Do you know her?"

"No - I know only the general's family, and that very slightly."

"What is your opinion?"

"That is a very large question." She hesitated, uncertain what her considered judgment was.

He looked at her with unconcealed scorn.

"You have become uncharacteristically genteel, Miss Latterly. You were never backwards in expressing your opinions of people in the past." He smiled wryly. "But of course that was when your opinion was unasked for. The fact that I am interested seems to have frozen your tongue."

"I thought you wanted a considered opinion," she retorted brusquely. "Not something merely given on the spur of the moment and without reflection."

"Assuming your opinions in the past have been on the spur of the moment, perhaps a considered opinion would be better," he agreed with a tight smile.

They came to the curb, hesitated while a carriage went past, harness gleaming, horses stepping high, then crossed Margaret Street into Market Place. Oxford Street was clearly visible ahead of them, crowded with traffic, all manner of vehicles of fashion, business, leisure and trade, pedestrians, idlers and street sellers of every sort.

"Mrs. Randolph Carlyon seems to be the most powerful member of the family," Hester answered when they reached the farther pavement. "A very forceful person, I should judge, ten years younger than her husband, and perhaps in better health - "

"It is unlike you to be so diplomatic," he interrupted. "Do you mean the old man is senile?"

"I - I'm not sure."

He glanced at her with surprise. "It is unlike you not to say what you mean. You used to err on the side of being far too frank. Have you suddenly become tactful, Hester? Why, for heaven's sake?"

"I am not tactful," she snapped back. "I am trying to be accurate - which is not at all the same thing." She lengthened her stride a fraction."I am not sure whether he is senile or not. I have not seen him at sufficient length to judge. It is my opinion so far that he is definitely losing his vitality but that she was always the stronger personality of the two."

"Bravo," he said with slightly sarcastic approval. "And Mrs. Sobell, who seems to think her sister-in-law innocent? Is she a rose-gathering optimist? It seems, in the face of a confession, about the only sort of person who could still imagine there is anything to be done for Mrs. Carlyon, apart from pray for her soul."

"No she isn't," she replied with considerable acerbity. "She is a clear-sighted widow of considerable good sense. She thinks it far more likely Sabella Pole, the general's daughter, is the one who killed him."

"Not unreasonable," he conceded. "I have just met Sabella, and she is very highly emotional, if not outright hysterical."

"Is she?" Hester said quickly, turning to look at him, interest dismissing all her irritation. "What was your judgment of her? Might she have killed her father? I know from Damaris Erskine, who was at the party, that she had the opportunity."

They were at the corner of Market Street and Oxford Street, and turned into the thoroughfare, walking side by side along the footpath. He took her arm, largely to make sure they remained together and were not divided by passersby bustling in the opposite direction.

"I have no idea," he replied after a moment or two. "I form my opinions on evidence, not intuition."

"No you don't," she contradicted. "You cannot possibly be so stupid, or so pompous, as to disregard your intuitive judgment. Whatever you have forgotten, you remember enough of past experiences with people to know something of them merely by their faces and the way they behave to each other, and when you speak to them."

He smiled dryly. "Then I think Fenton Pole believes she could have done it," he replied. "And that is indicative."

"Then perhaps there is some hope?" Unconsciously she straightened up and lifted her chin a little.

"Hope of what? Is that any better an answer?"

She stopped so abruptly a gentleman behind bumped into her and growled under his breath, tripping over his cane and going around her with ill grace.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Monk said loudly. "I did not catch your remark. I presume you apologized to the lady for jostling her?"

The man colored and shot him a furious glance.

"Of course I did!" he snapped, then glowered at Hester. "I beg your pardon, ma'am!" Then he turned on his heel and strode off.

"Clumsy fool," Monk said between his teeth.

"He was only a trifle awkward-footed," she said reasonably.

"Not him - you." He took her by the arm and moved her forward again. "Now attend to what we are doing, before you cause another accident. It can hardly be better that Sabella Pole should be guilty - but if it is the truth, then we must discover it. Do you wish for a cup of coffee?"

* * * * *

Monk entered the prison with a sharp stab of memory, not from the time before his accident, although surely he must have been in places like this on countless occasions, probably even this prison itself. The emotion that was so powerful now was from only a few months back, the case which had caused him to leave the police force, throw away all the long years of learning and labor, and the sacrifices to ambition.

He followed the turnkey along the grim passages, a chill on his skin. He still had little idea what he would say to Alexandra Carlyon, or indeed what kind of woman she would be - presumably something like Sabella.

They came to the cell and the turnkey opened the door.

"Call w'en yer want ter come aht," she said laconically. Making no further comment, she turned around without interest, and as soon as Monk was inside, slammed the door shut and locked it.

The cell was bare but for a single cot with straw pallet and gray blankets. On it was sitting a slender woman, pale-skinned, with fair hair tied loosely and pinned in a knot at the back of her head. As she turned to look at him he saw her face. It was not at all what he had expected; the features were nothing like Sabella's, far from being ordinarily pretty. She had a short, aquiline nose, very blue eyes and a mouth far too wide, too generous and full of sensuality and humor. Now she gazed at him almost expressionlessly and he knew in that single moment that she had no hope of reprieve of any sort. He did not bother with civilities, which could serve no purpose. He too had been mortally afraid and he knew its taste too well.

"I am William Monk. I expect Mr. Rathbone told you I would come."

"Yes," she said tonelessly. "But there is nothing you can do. Nothing you could discover would make any difference."

"Confessions alone are not sufficient evidence, Mrs. Carlyon." He remained standing in the center of the floor looking down at her. She did not bother to rise. "If you now wish to retract it for any reason," he went on, "the prosecution will still have to prove the case. Although admittedly it will be harder to defend you after your saying you had done it. Unless, of course, there is a good reason." He did not make it a question. He did not think her hopelessness was due to a feeling that her confession condemned her so much as to some facts he as yet did not fully understand. But this was a place to begin.

She smiled briefly, without light or happiness. "The best of reasons, Mr. Monk. I am guilty. I killed my husband." Her voice was remarkably pleasing, low-pitched and a trifle husky, her diction very clear.

Without any warning he had an overwhelming sense of having done this before. Violent emotions overwhelmed him: fear, anger, love. And then as quickly it was gone again, leaving him breathless and confused. He was staring at Alexandra Carlyon as if he had only just seen her, the details of her face sharp and surprising, not what he expected.

"I beg your pardon?" He had missed whatever she had said.

"I killed my husband, Mr. Monk," she repeated.

"Yes - yes, I heard that. What did you say next?" He shook his head as if to clear it.

"Nothing." She frowned very slightly, puzzled now.

With a great effort he brought his mind back to the murder of General Carlyon.

"I have been to see Mr. and Mrs. Furnival."

This time her smile was quite different; there was sharp bitterness in it, and self-mockery.

"I wish I thought you could discover Louisa Furnival was guilty, but you cannot." There was a catch in her voice which at any other time he could have taken for laughter."If Thad-deus had rejected her she might have been angry, even violently so, but I doubt she ever loved anyone enough to care greatly if he loved her or not. The only person I could imagine her killing would be another woman - a really beautiful woman, perhaps, who rivaled her or threatened her well-being." Her eyes widened as thoughts raced through her imagination. "Maybe if Maxim fell so deeply in love with someone he could not hide it - then people would know Louisa had been bested. Then she might kill."

"And Maxim was not fond of you?" he asked.

There was very faint color in her cheeks, so slight he noticed it only because she was feeing the small high window and the light fell directly on her.

"Yes - yes, he was, in the past - but never to the degree where he could have left Louisa. Maxim is a very moral man. And anyway, I am alive. It is Thaddeus who is dead." She said the last words without feeling, certainly without any shred of regret. At least there was no playacting, no hypocrisy in her, and no attempt to gain sympathy. For that he liked her.

"I saw the balcony, and the banister where he went over."

She winced.

"I assume he fell backwards?"

"Yes." Her voice was unsteady, little more than a whisper.

"Onto the suit of armor?"

"Yes."

"That must have made a considerable noise."

"Of course. I expected people to come and see what had happened - but no one did."

"The withdrawing room is at the back of the house. You knew that."

"Of course I did. I thought one of the servants might hear."

"Then what? You followed him down and saw he was struck senseless with the fell - and no one had come. So you picked up the halberd and drove it into his body?"

She was white-faced, her eyes like dark holes. This time her voice would hardly come at all.

"Yes."

"His chest? He was lying on his back. You did say he went over backwards?"

"Yes." She gulped. "Do we have to go over this? It cannot serve any purpose."

"You must have hated him very much."

"I didn't - " She stopped, drew in her breath and went on, her eyes down, away from his. "I already told Mr. Rathbone. He was having an affair with Louisa Furnival. I was . . .jealous."

He did not believe her.

"I also saw your daughter."

She froze, sitting totally immobile.

"She was very concerned for you." He knew he was being cruel, but he saw no alternative. He had to find the truth. With lies and defenses Rathbone might only make matters worse in court. "I am afraid my presence seemed to precipitate a quarrel between her and her husband."

She glared at him fiercely. For the first time there was real, violent emotion in her.

"You had no right to go to her! She is ill - and she has just lost her father. Whatever he was to me, he was her father. You ..." She stopped, perhaps aware of the absurdity of her position, if indeed it was she who had killed the general.

"She did not seem greatly distressed by his death," he said deliberately, watching not only her face but also the tension in her body, the tight shoulders under the cotton blouse, and her hands clenched on her knees. "In fact, she made no secret that she had quarreled bitterly with him, and would do all she could to aid you - even at the cost of her husband's anger."

Alexandra said nothing, but he could feel her emotion as if it were an electric charge in the room.

"She said he was arbitrary and dictatorial - that he had forced her into a marriage against her will," he went on.

She stood up and turned away from him.

Then again he had a sudden jolt of memory so sharp it was like a physical blow. He had been here before, stood in a cell with a small fanlight like this, and watched another slender woman with fair hair that curled at her neck. She too had been charged with killing her husband, and he had cared about it desperately.

Who was she?

The image was gone and all he could recapture was a shaft of dim light on hair, the angle of a shoulder, and a gray dress, skirts too long, sweeping the floor. He could recall no more, no voice, certainly no faintest echo of a face, nothing -  eyes, lips - nothing at all.

But the emotion was there. It had mattered to him so fiercely he had thrown all his mind and will into defending her.

But why? Who was she?

Had he succeeded? Or had she been hanged?

Was she innocent - or guilty?

Alexandra was talking, answering him at last.

"What?"

She swung around, her eyes bright and hard.

"You come in here with a cruel tongue and no - no gentleness, no - no sensibility at all. You ask the harshest questions." Her voice caught in her throat, gasping for breath. "You remind me of my daughter whom I shall probably never see again, except across the rail of a courtroom dock - and then you haven't even the honor to listen to my answers! What manner of man are you? What do you really want here?"

"I am sorry!" he said with genuine shame. "My thoughts were absent for only a moment - a memory . . . a - a painful one - of another time like this."

The anger drained out of her. She shrugged her shoulders, turning away again.

"It doesn't matter. None of it makes any difference."

He pulled his thoughts together with an effort.

"Your daughter quarreled with her father that evening. . ."

Instantly she was on guard again, her body rigid, her eyes wary.

"She has a very fierce temper, Mrs. Carlyon - she seemed to be on the edge of hysteria when I was there. In fact I gathered that her husband was anxious for her."

"I already told you." Her voice was low and hard. "She has not been well since the birth of her child. It happens sometimes. It is one of the perils of bearing children. Ask anyone who is familiar with childbirth - and ..."

"I know that," he agreed. "Women quite often become temporarily deranged - "

"No! Sabella was ill - that's all." She came forward, so close he thought she was going to grasp his arm, then she stood still with her hands by her sides. "If you are trying to say that it was Sabella who killed Thaddeus, and not I, then you are wrong! I will confess it in court, and will certainly hang" - she said the word plainly and deliberately, like pushing her hand into a wound - "rather than allow my daughter to take the blame for my act. Do you understand me, Mr. Monk?"

' There was no j ar of memory, nothing even faintly familiar. The echo was as far away now as if he had never heard it.

"Yes, Mrs. Carlyon. It is what I would have expected you to say."

"It is the truth." Her voice rose and there was a note of desperation in it, almost of pleading. "You must not accuse Sabella! If you are employed by Mr. Rathbone - Mr. Rathbone is my lawyer. He cannot say what I forbid him to."

It was half a statement, half a reassurance to herself.

"He is also an officer of the court, Mrs. Carlyon," he said with sudden gentleness. "He cannot say something which he knows beyond question to be untrue."

She stared at him without speaking.

Could his memory have something to do with that older woman who wept without distorting her face? She had been the wife of the man who had taught him so much, upon whom he had modeled himself when he first came south from Northumberland. It was he who had been ruined, cheated in some way, and Monk had tried so hard to save him, and failed.

But the image that had come to him today was of a young woman, another woman like Alexandra, charged with murdering her husband. And he had come here, like this, to help her.

Had he failed? Was that why she no longer knew him? There was no record of her among his possessions, no letters, no pictures, not even a name written down. Why? Why had he ceased to know her?

The answers crowded in on him: because he had failed, she had gone to the gallows . . .

"I shall do what I can to help, Mrs. Carlyon," he said quietly. "To find the truth - and then you and Mr. Rathbone must do with it whatever you wish."