Defend and Betray

chapter 5
Oliver Rathbone awaited the arrival of Monk with some hope, in spite of his reason telling him that it was extremely unlikely he had been able to find any worthwhile evidence that it was not after all Alexandra Carlyon who had killed the general. He shared Monk's contempt for Runcom personally, but he had a considerable respect for the police in general, and had found that when they brought a case to trial, they were seldom fundamentally in error. But he did hope that Monk might have turned up a stronger and more sympathetic motive than jealousy. And if he were honest, there was a lingering corner in his mind which cherished a vague idea that it might indeed have been someone else -  although how it would be any better had it been Sabella, he had no idea, except that so far Sabella was not his client.

As well as Monk, he had invited Hester Latterly. He had hesitated before doing so. She had no official part in die case, nor indeed had she had in any other case. But she had opportunities for observation of the Carlyon family that neither he nor Monk possessed. And it had been she who had brought him the case in the first place and enlisted his help. She was owed some information as to the conclusion - if indeed there was a conclusion. Monk had sent him a message that he had incontrovertible evidence which he must share, so it was unquestionably a decisive point.

Apart from that, he felt a wish that she should be included, and he chose not to examine the cause of it. Therefore at ten minutes before eight on the evening of May 14, he was awaiting their arrival with uncharacteristic nervousness. He was sure he was concealing it perfectly, and yet it was there, once or twice a flutter in his stomach, a very slight tightening of his throat, and several changed decisions as to what he intended to say. He had chosen to receive them in his home rather than his office, because in the office time was precious and he would feel compelled simply to hear the bare outlines of what Monk had learned, and not to question him more deeply and to explore his understanding and his instinct. At home there was all evening, and no sense of haste, or of time being money.

And also, since it was in all probability a miserable tale, perhaps he owed Monk something more generous than simply a word of thanks and dismissal, and his money. And if she had heard from Monk directly what his discoveries were, it would be far easier for Hester to accept Rathbone's declining the case, if that were the only reasonable choice left to him. That was all most logical, nevertheless he found himself repeating it over and over, as if it required justification.

Although he was expecting them, their arrival caught him by surprise. He had not heard them come, presumably by hansom since neither of them had a carriage of their own. He was startled by the butler, Eames, announcing their presence, and a moment later they were in the room, Monk as beautifully tailored as usual. His suit must have cost as much as Rathbone's own, obviously bought in his police days when he had money for such luxuries. The waistcoat was modishry short with a shawl collar, and he wore a pointed, standing collar with a lavish bow tie.

Hester was dressed much more reservedly, in a cool teal-green gown with pointed waist and pagoda sleeves with separate gathered undersleeves of white broderie anglaise. There was no glamour to it, and yet he found it remarkably pleasing. It was both simple and subtle, and the shade accentuated the slight flush in her cheeks.

They greeted each other very formally, even stiffly, and he invited them to be seated. He noticed Hester's eyes glancing around the room, and suddenly it seemed to him less satisfactory than it had. It was bare of feminine touches. It was his, not inherited from his family, and there had been no woman resident in it since he came, some eleven years ago. His housekeeper and his cook he did not count. They maintained what he had, but introduced nothing new, nothing of their own taste.

He saw Hester look at the forest-green carpet and upholstery, and the plain white walls, the mahogany woodwork. It was very bare for current fashion, which favored oak, ornate carving and highly decorative china and ornaments. It was on the tip of his tongue to make some comment to her, but he could think of nothing that did not sound as if he were seeking a compliment, so he remained silent.

"Do you wish for my findings before dinner, or after?" Monk asked. "If you care what I say, I think you may prefer them after."

"I cannot but leap to the conclusion that they are unpleasant, " Rathbone replied with a twisted smile."In which case, do not let us spoil our meal."

"A wise decision," Monk conceded.

Eames returned with a decanter of sherry, long-stemmed glasses and a tray of savory tidbits. They accepted them and made trivial conversation about current political events, the possibility of war in India, until they were informed that dinner awaited them.

The dining room was in the same deep green, a far smaller room than that in the Furnivals' house; obviously Rathbone seldom entertained more than half a dozen people at the most. The china was imported from France, a delicately gold-rimmed pattern of extreme severity. The only concession to flamboyance was a magnificent Sevres urn covered in a profusion of roses and other flowers in blazing reds, pinks, golds and greens. Rathbone saw Hester look at it several times, but forbore from asking her opinion. If she praised it he would think it mere politeness; if not then he would be hurt, because he feared it was ostentatious, but he loved it.

Throughout the meal conversation centered on subjects of politics and social concern, which he would not personally have imagined discussing in front of a woman. He was well versed in the fashion and graces of Society, but Hester was different. She was not a woman in the customary sense of someone separate from the business of life outside the home, a person to be protected from the affairs or the emotions that involved the mind.

After the final course they returned to the withdrawing room and at last there was no reason any longer to put off the matter of the Carlyon case.

Rathbone looked across at Monk, his eyes wide.

"A crime contains three elements," Monk said, leaning back in his chair, a dour, ironic smile on his face. He was perfectly sure that Rathbone knew this, and quite possibly Hester did also, but he was going to tell them in his own fashion.

Rathbone could feel an irritation rising inside him already. He had a profound respect for Monk, and part of him liked the man, but there was also a quality in him which abraded the nerves like fine sandpaper, an awareness that at any time he might lash out with die unforeseeable, the suddenly disturbing, cutting away comforts and safely held ideas.

"The means were there to hand for anyone," Monk went on. "To wit, the halberd held by the suit of armor. They all had access to it, and they all knew it was there because any person entering the hall had to see it. That was its function-to impress."

"We knew they all could have done it," Rathbone said tersely. His irritation with Monk had provoked him into haste. "It does not take a powerful person to push a man over a banister, if he is standing next to it and is taken by surprise. And the halberd eould have been used by anyone of average build - according to the medical report - although to penetrate the body and scar the floor beneath it must have been driven with extraordinary violence." He winced very slightly, and felt a chill pass through him at such a passion of hate. "At least four of them were upstairs," he hurried on. "Or otherwise out of the withdrawing room and unobserved during the time the general went upstairs until Maxim Purnival came in and said he had found him on the floor of the hall."

"Opportunity," Monk said somewhat officiously. "Not quite true, Ito afraid. That is the painful part. Apparently the police questioned the guests and Mr. and Mrs. Furnival at some length, but they only corroborated with the servants what they already knew."

"One of the servants was involved?" Hester said slowly. There was no real hope in her face, because of his warning that the news was not good. "I wondered that before, if one of mem had a military experience, or was related to someone who had. The motive might be quite different, something in his professional life and nothing personal at all ..." She looked at Monk.

There was a flicker in Monk's face, and Rathbone knew in that instant that he had not thought of that himself. Why not? Inefficiency - or had he reached some unarguable conclusion before he got that far?

"No." Monk glanced at him, then away again. "They did not question the movements of the servants closely enough. The butler said they had all been about their duties and noticed nothing at all, and since their duties were in the kitchen and servants' quarters, it was not surprising they had not heard the suit of armor fall. But on questioning him more closely, he admitted one footman tidied the dining room, which was not in the time period we are interested in. He was told to fill the coal scuttles for the rest of the house, including the morning room and the library, which are off the front hall."

Hester turned her head to watch him. Rathbone sat up a little straighter.

Monk continued impassively, only the faintest of smiles touching the corners of his mouth.

"The footman's observations as to the armor, and he could hardly have missed it had it been lying on the floor in pieces with the body of the general across it and the halberd sticking six feet out of his chest like a flagpole - "

"We take your point," Rathbone said sharply. "That reduces the opportunities of the suspects. I assume that is what you are eventually going to tell us?"

A flush of annoyance crossed Monk's face, then vanished and was replaced by satisfaction, not at the outcome, but at his own competence in proving it.

"That, and the romantic inclinations of the upstairs maid, and the fact that the footman had a lazy streak, and preferred to carry the scuttles up the front stairs instead of the back, for Mrs. Furnival's bedroom, make it impossible that anyone but Alexandra could have killed him. I'm sorry."

"Not Sabella?" Hester asked with a frown, leaning a little forward in her seat.

"No." He turned to her, his face softening for an instant. "The upstairs maid was waiting around the stair head to catch the footman, and when she realized she had missed him, and heard someone coming, she darted into the room where Sabella was resting, just off the first landing, on the pretext that she thought she had heard her call. And when she came out again the people had passed, and she went on back up to the servants' back stairs, and her own room. The people who passed her must have been Alexandra and the general, because after the footman had finished, he went down the back stairs, just in time to meet the news that General Carlyon had had an accident, and the butler had been told to keep the hall clear, and to send for the police."

Rathbone let out his breath in a sigh. He did not ask Monk if he were sure; he knew he would not have said it if there were the slightest doubt.

Monk bit his lip, glanced at Hester, who looked crushed, then back at Rathbone.

"The third element is motive," he said.

Rathbone's attention jerked back. Suddenly there was hope again. If not, why would Monk have bothered to mention it?

Damn the man for his theatricality! It was too late to pretend he was indifferent, Monk had seen his change of expression. To affect a casual air now would make himself ridiculous.

"I presume your discovery there is more useful to us?" he said aloud.

Monk's satisfaction evaporated.

"I don't know," he confessed. "One could speculate all sorts of motives for the others, but for her there seems only jealousy - and yet that was not the reason."

Rathbone and Hester stared at him. There was no sound in the quiet room but a leaf tapping against the window in the spring breeze.

Monk pulled a dubious face."It was never easy to believe, in spite of one or two people accepting it, albeit reluctantly. I believed it myself for a while." He saw the sudden start of interest in their faces, and continued blindly. "Louisa Furnival is certainly a woman who would inspire uncertainty, self-doubt and then jealousy in another woman - and must have done so many times. And there is the possibility that Alexandra could have hated her not because she was so in love with the general but simply because she could not abide publicly being beaten by Louisa, being seen to be second best in the rivalry which cuts deepest to a person's self-esteem, most especially a woman's."

"But..." Hester could not contain herself. "But what? Why don't you believe it now?"

"Because Louisa was not having an affair with the general, and Alexandra must have known he was not."

"Are you sure?" Rathbone leaned forward keenly. "How do you know?"

"Maxim has money, which is important to Louisa," Monk replied, watching their faces carefully. "But even more important is her security and her reputation. Apparently some time ago Maxim was in love with Alexandra." He glanced up as Hester leaned forward, nodding quickly. "You knew that too?"

"Yes - yes, Edith told me. But he would not do anything about it because he is very moral, and believes profoundly in his marriage vows, regardless of emotions afterwards."

"Precisely," Monk agreed. "And Alexandra must have known that, because she was so immediately concerned. Louisa is not a woman to throw away anything - money, honor, home, Society's acceptance - for the love of a man, especially one she knew would not marry her. And the general would not; he would lose his own reputation and career, not to mention the son he adored. In fact I doubt Louisa ever threw away anything intentionally. Alexandra knew her, and knew the situation. If Louisa had been caught hi an affair with the general, Maxim would have made life extremely hard for her. After all, he had already made a great sacrifice in order to sustain his marriage. He would demand the same of her. And all this Alexandra knew . . ." He left the rest unsaid, and sat staring at them, his face somber.

Rathbone sat back with a feeling of confusion and incompleteness in his mind. There must be so much more to this story they had not even guessed at. They had only pieces, and the most important one that held it all together was missing.

"It doesn't make sense," he said guardedly. He looked across at Hester, wondering what she thought, and was pleased to see the same doubt reflected in her face. Better than that, the attention in her eyes betrayed that she was still acutely involved in the matter. In no way had she resigned interest merely because the answer eluded them but left the guilt undeniable.

"And you have no idea what the real motive was?" he said to Monk, searching his face to see if he concealed yet another surprise, some final piece held back for a last self-satisfying dramatic effect. But there was nothing. Monk's face was perfectly candid.

"I've tried to think," he said frankly. "But there is nothing to suggest he used her badly in any way, nor has anyone else suggested anything." He also glanced at Hester.

Rathbone looked at her. "Hester? If you were in her place, can you think of anything which would make you kill such a man?"

"Several things," she admitted with a twisted smile, then bit her lip as she realized what they might think of her for such feelings.

Rathbone grinned in sudden amusement. "For example?" he asked.

"The first thing that comes to mind is if I loved someone else."

"And the second?"

"If he loved someone else." Her eyebrows rose. "Frankly I should be delighted to let him go. He sounds so - so restricting. But if I could not bear the social shame of it, what my friends would say, ox my enemies, the laughter behind my back, and above all the pity~and the other woman's victory ..."

"But he was not having an affair with Louisa," Monk pointed out. "Oh - you mean another woman entirely? Someone we have not even thought of? But why that night?"

Hester shrugged. "Why not? Perhaps he taunted her. Perhaps that was the night he told her about it. We shall probably never know what they said to one another."

"What else?"

The butler returned discreetly and enquired if there was anything more required. After asking his guests, Rathbone thanked him and bade him good-night.

Hester sighed. "Money?" she answered as the door closed. "Perhaps she overspent, or gambled, and he refused to pay her debts. Maybe she was frightened her creditors would shame her publicly. The only thing..." She frowned, looking first at one, then the other of them. Somewhere outside a dog barked. Beyond the windows it was almost dark. "The thing is, why did she say she had done it out of jealousy of Louisa? Jealousy is an ugly thing, and in no way an excuse - is it?" She turned to Rathbone again. "Will the law take any account of that? "

"None at all," he answered grimly. "They will hang her, if they find her guilty, and on this evidence they will have no choice."

"Then what can we do?" Hester's face was full of anxiety. Her eyes held Rathbone's and there was a sharp pity in them. He wondered at it. She alone of them had never met Alexandra Carlyon. His own dragging void of pity he could understand; he had seen the woman. She was a real living being like himself. He had been touched by her hopelessness and her fear. Her death would be the extinguishing of someone he knew. For Monk it must be the same, and for all his sometime ruthlessness, Rathbone had no doubt Monk was just as capable of compassion as he was himself.

But for Hester she was still a creature of the imagination, a name and a set of circumstances, no more.

"What are we going to do?" Hester repeated urgently.

"I don't know," he replied. "If she doesn't tell us the truth, I don't know what there is that I can do."

"Then ask her," Hester retorted. "Go to her and tell her what you know, and ask her what the truth is. It may be better. It may offer some ..." Her voice tailed off. "Some mitigation," she finished lamely.

"None of your suggestions were any mitigation at all," Monk pointed out. "She would hang just as surely as if it had been what she claims."

"What do you want to do, give up?" Hester snapped.

"What I want is immaterial," Monk replied. "I cannot afford the luxury of meddling in other people's affairs for entertainment."

"I'll go and see her again," Rathbone declared. "At least I will ask her."

* * * * *

Alexandra looked up as he came into the cell. For an instant her face lit with hope, men knowledge prevailed and fear took its place.

"Mr. Rathbone?" She swallowed with difficulty, as though there were some constriction in her throat. "What is it?"

The door clanged shut behind him and they both heard the lock fall and then the silence. He longed to be able to comfort her, at least to be gentle, but there was no time, no place for evasion.

"I should not have doubted you, Mrs. Carlyon," he answered, looking straight at her remarkable blue eyes. "I thought perhaps you had confessed in order to shield your daughter. But Monk has proved beyond any question at all that it was, as you say, you who killed your husband. However, it was not because he was having an affair with Louisa Furnival. He was not - and you knew he was not."

She stared at him, white-faced. He felt as if he had struck her, but she did not flinch. She was an extraordinary woman, and the feeling renewed in him that he must know the truth behind the surface facts. Why in heaven's name had she resorted to such hopeless and foredoomed violence? Could she ever have imagined she would get away with it?

"Why did you kill him, Mrs. Carlyon?" he said urgently, leaning towards her. It was raining outside and the cell was dim, the air clammy.

She did not look away, but closed her eyes to avoid seeing him.

"I have told you! I was jealous of Louisa!"

"That is not true!"

"Yes it is." Still her eyes were closed.

"They will hang you," he said deliberately. He saw her wince, but she still kept her face towards his, eyes tight shut. "Unless we can find some circumstance that will at least in part explain what you did, they will hang you, Mrs. Carlyon! For heaven's sake, tell me why you did it." His voice was low, grating and insistent. How could he get through the shield of denial? What could he say to reach her mind with reality? He wanted to touch her, take her by those slender arms and shake sense into her. But it would be such a breach of all possible etiquette, it would shatter the mood and become more important, for the moment, than the issue that would save or lose her life.

"Why did you kill him?" he repeated desperately.

"Whatever you say, you cannot make it worse than it is already."

"I killed him because he was having an affair with Louisa," she repeated flatly. "At least I thought he was."

And he could get nothing further from her. She refused to add anything, or take anything from what she had said.

Reluctantly, temporarily defeated, he took his leave. She remained sitting on the cot, immobile, ashen-faced.

Outside in the street the rain was a steady downpour, the gutter filling, people hurrying by with collars up. He passed a newsboy shouting the latest headlines. It was something to do with a financial scandal and the boy caressed the words with relish, seeing the faces of passersby as they turned. "Scandal, scandal in the City! Financier absconds with fortune. Secret love nest! Scandal in the City!"

Rathbone quickened his pace to get away from it. They had temporarily forgotten Alexandra and the murder of General Carlyon, but as soon as the trial began it would be all over every front page and every newsboy would be crying out each day's revelations and turning them over with delight, poring over the details, imagining, condemning.

And they would condemn. He had no delusion that there would be any pity for her. Society would protect itself from threat and disruption. They would close ranks, and even the few who might feel some twinge of pity for her would not dare to admit it. Any woman who was in the same situation, or imagined herself so, would have even less compassion. If she herself had to endure it, why should Alexandra be able to escape? And no man whose eyes or thoughts had ever wandered, or who considered they might in the future, would countenance the notion that a wife could take such terrible revenge for a brief and relatively harmless indulgence of his very natural appetites. Carlyon's offense of flirtation, not even proved to be adultery, would be utterly lost in her immeasurably deeper offense of murder.

Was there anything at all Rathbone could do to help her? She had robbed him of every possible weapon he might have used. The only thing still left to him was time. But time to do what?

He passed an acquaintance, but was too absorbed' in thought to recognize him until he was twenty yards farther along the pavement. By then it was too late to retrieve his steps and apologize for having ignored his greeting.

The rain was easing into merely a spring squall. Bright shafts of sunlight shone fitfully on the wet pavement.

If he went into court with all he had at present he would lose. There would be no doubt of it. He could imagine it vividly, the feeling of helplessness as the prosecution demolished his case effortlessly, the derision of the spectators, the quiet and detached concern of the judge that there should be some semblance of a defense, the crowds in the gallery, eager for details and ultimately for the drama of conviction, the black cap and the sentence of death. Worse than those, he could picture the jury, earnest men, overawed by the situation, disturbed by the story and the inevitability of its end, and Alexandra herself, with the same white hopelessness he had seen in her face in the cell.

And afterwards his colleagues would ask him why on earth he had given such a poor account of himself. What ailed him to have taken so foregone a case? Had he lost his skills? His reputation would suffer. Even his junior would laugh and ask questions behind his back.

He hailed a cab and rode the rest of the way to Vere Street in a dark mood, almost resolved to decline the case and tell Alexandra Carlyon that if she would not tell him the truth then he was sorry but he could not help her.

At his offices he alighted, paid the driver and went in to be greeted by his clerk, who informed him that Miss Latterly was awaiting him.

Good. That would give him the opportunity to tell her now that he had seen Alexandra, and failed to elicit from her a single thing more than the idiotic insistence of the story they all knew to be untrue. Perhaps Peverell Erskine could persuade her to speak, but if even he could not, then the case was at an end as far as he was concerned.

Hester stood up as soon as he was inside, her face curious, full of questions.

He felt a flicker of doubt. His certainty wavered. Before he saw her he had been resolved to decline the case. Now her eagerness confounded him.

"Did you see her?" She made no apology for having come. The matter was too important to her, and she judged to him also, for her to pretend indifference or make excuses.

"Yes, I have just come from the prison . . ."he began.

"Oh." She read from his expression, the weariness in him, that he had failed. "She would not tell you." For a moment she was taken aback; disappointment filled her. Then she took a deep breath and lifted her head a little. A momentary compassion for him was replaced by anxiety again. "Then the reason must be very deep - something she would rather die than reveal." She shuddered and her face pulled into an expression of pain. "It had to be something very terrible - and I cannot help believing it must concern some other person."

"Then please sit down," he asked, moving to the large chair behind the desk himself.

She obeyed, taking the upright chair opposite him. When she was unconscious of herself she was curiously graceful. He brought his mind back to the case.

"Or be so ugly that it would only make her situation worse," he went on reasonably, then wished he had not. "I ta sorry," he said quickly."But Hester - we must be honest."

She did not even seem to notice his use of her Christian name. Indeed it seemed very natural to her.

"As it is there is nothing I can do for her. I have to tell Erskine that. I would be defrauding him if I allowed him to think I could say anything more than the merest novice barrister could."

If she suspected fear for his reputation, the dread of losing, it did not show in her face, and he felt a twinge of shame that the thoughts had been there in his own mind.

"We have to find it!" she said uncertainly, convincing herself as well as him. "There is still time, isn't there?"

"Till the trial? Yes, some weeks. But what good will it do, and where do we begin?"

"I don'tknow, but Monk will." Her eyes never wavered from his face. She saw the shadow in his expression at mention of Monk's name, and wished she had been less clumsy. "We cannot give up now," she went on. There was no time for self-indulgence. "Whatever it is, surely we must find out if she is protecting someone else. Oh I know she did it - the proof is beyond argument. But why? Why was she prepared to kill him, and then to confess to it, and if necessary race the gallows? It has to be something - something beyond bearing. Something so terrible that prison, trial and the rope are better!"

"Not necessarily, my dear," he said gently. "Sometimes people commit even the most terrible crimes for the most trivial of reasons. Men have killed for a few shillings, or in a rage over a petty insult..."

"Not Alexandra Carlyon," she insisted, leaning across the desk towards him. "You have met her! Did she? Do you believe she sacrificed all she had - her husband, her family, her home, her position, even her life - over something trivial?" She shook her head impatiently. "And what woman cares about an insult? Men fight duels of honor - women don't! We are perfectly used to being insulted; the best defense is to pretend you haven't noticed - then you need not reply. Anyway, with a mother-in-law like Felicia Carlyon, I imagine Alexandra had sufficient practice at being insulted to be mistress of anything. She is not a fool, is she?"

"No."

"Or a drunkard?"

"No."

"Then we must find out why she did it! If you are thinking of the worst, what has she to lose? What better way to spend her money than to try to save her life?"

"I doubt I can ..." he began. Then not only Hester's face but memory of Alexandra herself, the remarkable eyes, the strong, intelligent features and sensuous mouth, the possibility of humor came back to him. He wanted to know; it would hurt him as long as he did not.

"I'll try," he conceded, and felt a surprising stab of pleasure as her eyes softened and she smiled, relaxing at last.

"Thank you."

"But it may do no good," he warned her, hating to curb her hope, and afraid of the darker despair and anger with him if he misled her.

"Of course," she assured him."I understand. But at least we shall try."

"For what it may be worth ..."

"Shall you tell Monk?"

"Yes - yes, I shall instruct him to continue his search."

She smiled, a sudden brilliant gesture lighting her face.

"Thank you - thank you very much."

* * * * *

Monk was surprised that Rathbone should request him to continue in the case. As a matter of personal curiosity he would like to have known the real reason why Alexandra Carlyon had killed her husband. But he could afford neither the time nor the finance to seek an answer when it could scarcely affect the outcome of any trial, and would almost certainly be a long and exhausting task.

But Rathbone had pointed out that if Erskine wished it, as her solicitor and acting in her best interest, then that was possibly the best use for her money. Certainly there was no other use that could serve her more. And presumably her heirs and the general's were all cared for.

Perhaps that was a place to begin - money? He doubted it would show anything of use, but if nothing else, it must be eliminated, and since he had not even a guess as to what the answer might be, this was as good a place as any. He might be fortunately surprised.

It was not difficult to trace the Carlyon estate, since wills were a matter of public record. Thaddeus George Randolph Carlyon had died possessed of a very considerable wealth. His family had invested fortunately in the past. Although his father was still alive, Thaddeus had always had a generous allowance, which he in turn had spent sparingly and invested on excellent advice, largely in various parts of the Empire: India, southern Africa and the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, in export business which had brought him a more than handsome return. And he had lived comfortably, but at very moderate expense in view of his means.

It occurred to Monk while reading the financial outlines that he had not yet seen Carlyon's house, and that was an omission which must be rectified. One occasionally learned a great deal about people from their choice of books, furnishings, pictures, and the small items on which they did or did not spend their money.

He turned his attention to the disposition the general had chosen for his estate. The house was Alexandra's to live in for the duration of her life, then it passed to their only son, Cassian. He also bequeathed her sufficient income to ensure the upkeep of the house and a reasonable style of living for the duration of her life, adequately, but certainly not extravagantly, and there was no provision made should she wish to undertake any greater expense. She would not be able to purchase any new horses or carriages without considerable savings on other things, nor would she be able to take any extended journeys, such as a tour of Italy or Greece or any other sunny climate.

There were small bequests to his daughters, and personal mementos to his two sisters and to Maxim and Louisa Furnival, to Valentine Furnival, and to Dr. Charles Hargrave. But the vast bulk of his estate, both real and financial, went to Cassian, during his minority to be held in trust for him by a firm of solicitors, and administered by them. Alexandra had no say in the matter and there was no stipulation that she should even be consulted.

It was an inescapable conclusion that she had been far better off while Thaddeus was alive. The only question was, had she been aware of that prior to his death, or had she expected to become a wealthy woman?

Was there any purpose in asking the solicitors who had drawn the will, and who were to administer the estate? They might tell him, in the interests of justice. There was no point to be served by hiding such a thing now.

An hour later he presented himself at Messrs. Goodbody, Pemberton and Lightfoot. He found Mr. Lightfoot, the only surviving original partner, to be quite agreeable to informing him that on hearing of the general's death - such a sad affair, heaven only knew what the world was coming to when respectable women like Mrs. Carlyon sank to such depths - of course he could not believe it at die time. When he had called upon her to acquaint her with her position and assure her of his best services, she showed no surprise or distress at the news. Indeed she had seemed scarcely to be interested. He had taken it then to be shock and grief at the death of her husband. Now, of course! He shook his head, and wondered again what had happened to civilized society that such things came to pass.

It was on the edge of Monk's tongue to tell him that she had not yet been tried, let alone convicted of anything, but he knew it would be a waste of time. She had confessed, and as far as Mr. Lightfoot was concerned, that was the end of the matter. And indeed, he might well be right. Monk had no reasonable argument to offer.

He was hurrying along Threadneedle Street, past the Bank of England, and turned left down Bartholomew Lane, then suddenly did not know where he was going. He stopped, momentarily confused. He had turned the corner with absolute confidence, and now he did not know where he was. He looked around. It was familiar. There was an office opposite him; the name meant nothing, but the stone doorway with a brass plate in it woke in him a sense of anxiety and profound failure.

Why? When had he been here before, and for whom? Was it something to do with that other woman he had remembered briefly and so painfully in the prison with Alexandra Carlyon? He racked his mind for any link of memory that might have to do with her: prison, courtroom, police station, a house, a street. . . Nothing came - nothing at all.

An elderly gentleman passed him, walking briskly with a silver-topped cane in his hand. For an instant Monk thought he knew him, then the impression faded and he realized the set of the shoulder was wrong, the breadth of the man. Only the gait and the silver-topped cane were somehow familiar.

Of course. It was nothing to do with the woman that tugged at his mind. It was the man who had helped him in his youth, his mentor, the man whose wife wept silently, stricken with a grief he had shared, and had had helpless inability to prevent.

What had happened? Why was - was . . . Walbrook!

With singing triumph he knew the name quite clearly and without doubt. Walbrook - that had been his name. Frederick Walbrook. . . banker - commercial banker. Why did he have this terrible feeling of failure? What had his part been in the disaster that had struck?

He had no idea.

He gave up for the moment and retraced his steps back to Threadneedle Street, and then Cheapside and up towards Newgate.

He must bring back his mind to Alexandra Carlyon. What he could learn might be her only chance. She had begged him to help her, save her from the gallows and clear her name. He quickened his pace, visualizing her anguished face and the terror in her, her dark eyes . . .

He cared about it more intensely than anything he had ever known before. The emotion surging up inside him was so urgent he was hardly even aware of his feet on the pavement or the people passing by him. He was jostled by bankers and clerks, errand runners, peddlers and newsboys without even being aware of them. Everything hung on this.

He suddenly recalled a pair of eyes so clearly, wide and golden brown - but the rest of her face was a blank - no lips, no cheeks, no chin, just the golden eyes.

He stopped and the man behind him bumped into him, apologized bitterly, and moved on. Blue eyes. He could picture Alexandra Carlyon's face in his mind quite clearly, and it was not what his inner eye had seen: wide mouth full of humor and passion, short aquiline nose, high cheekbones and blue eyes, very blue. And she had not begged him to help, in fact she seemed almost indifferent about it, as if she knew his efforts were doomed.

He had met her only once, and he was pursuing the case because Oliver Rathbone asked him, not because he cared about her, more than a general compassion because she was in desperate trouble.

Who was it that came so vividly to his mind, and with such a powerful emotion, filling him with urgency, and terror of failure?

It must be someone from that past which haunted him and which he so ached to retrieve. It was certainly nothing since his accident. And it was not Imogen Latterly. Her face he could recall without any effort at all, and knew his relationship with her had been simply her trust in him to help clear her father's name - which he had failed to do.

Had he failed to help this other woman also? Had she hanged for a murder she did not commit? Or did she?

He started to walk rapidly again. At least he would do everything humanly possible to help Alexandra Carlyon -  with her help or without it. There must be some passionate reason why she had pushed the general over the stairs, and then followed him down and as he lay senseless at her feet, picked up the halberd and driven it through his body.

It seemed money could not have been the cause, because she had known she would be less well off with him dead than she had been when he was alive. And socially she would be a widow, which would mean at least a year of mourning, then in all probability several more years of dark gowns, modest behavior and few if any social engagements. Apart from the requirements of mourning, she would be invited very infrequently to parties. Widows were something of a disadvantage, having no husband to escort them; except wealthy and eligible widows, which Alexandra was not, nor had she expected to be.

He must enquire into her life and habits as her friends knew her. To be of any value, those enquiries should be with those who were as unbiased as possible and would give a feu-view. Perhaps Edith Sobell would be the person most likely to help. After all, it was she who had sought Hester's aid, convinced that Alexandra was innocent.

Edith proved more than willing to help, and after an enforced idleness on Sunday, for the next two days Monk pursued various friends and acquaintances who all gave much the same observations. Alexandra was a good friend, agreeable in nature but not intrusive, humorous but never vulgar. She appeared to have no vices except a slight tendency to mockery at times, a tongue a little sharp, and an interest in subjects not entirely suitable for ladies of good breeding, or indeed for women at all. She had been seen reading political periodicals, which she had very rapidly hidden when disturbed. She was impatient with those of slower wit and could be very abrupt when questions were inquisitive or she felt pressed to an opinion she preferred not to give. She was overfond of strawberries and loud band music, and she liked to walk alone - and speak to unsuitable strangers. And yes -  she had on occasion been seen going into a Roman Catholic church! Most odd. Was she of that faith? Certainly not!

Was she extravagant?

Occasionally, with clothes. She loved color and form.

With anything else? Did she gamble, like new carriages, fine horses, furniture, silver, ornate jewelry?

Not that anyone had remarked. Certainly she did not gamble.

Did she flirt?

No more than anyone.

Did she owe money?

Definitely not.

Did she spend inordinate periods of time alone, or where no one knew where she was?

Yes - that was true. She liked solitude, the more especially in the last year or so.

Where did she go?

To the park.

Alone?

Apparently. No one had observed her with someone else.

All the answers seemed frank and without guile; the women who gave them bemused, sad, troubled - but honest. And all were unprofitable.

As he went from one smart house to another, echoes of memory drifted across his mind, like wraiths of mist, and as insubstantial. As soon as he grasped them they became nothing. Only the echo of emotion remained, fierce and painful, love, fear, terrible anxiety and a dread of failure.

Had Alexandra gone to seek counsel or comfort from a Roman Catholic priest? Possibly. But there was no point in looking for such a man; his secrets were inviolable. But it must surely have been something profound to have driven her to find a priest of a different faith, a stranger in whom to confide.

There were two other outstanding possibilities to investigate. First, that Alexandra had been jealous not of Louisa Furnival but of some other woman, and in this case justifiably so. From what he had learned of him, Monk could not see the general as an amorous adventurer, or even as a man likely to fall passionately in love to a degree where he would throw away his career and his reputation by abandoning his wife and his only son, still a child. And a mere affair was not cause for most wives to resort to murder. If Alexandra had loved her husband so possessively as to prefer him dead rather than in the arms of another woman, then she was a superb actress. She appeared intelligent and somewhat indifferent to the fact that her husband was dead. She was stunned, but not racked with grief; frightened for herself, but even more frightened for her secret being discovered. Surely a woman who had just killed a man she loved in such a fashion would show some traces of such a consuming love -  and the devastation of grief.

And why hide it? Why pretend it was Louisa if it was not? It made no sense.

Nevertheless he would investigate it. Every possibility must be explored, no matter how remote, or seemingly nonsensical.

The other possibility - and it seemed more likely - was that Alexandra herself had a lover; and now that she was a widow, she intended in due course to marry whoever it was. That made far more sense. It would be understandable, in those circumstances, if she hid the facts. If Thaddeus had betrayed her with another woman, she was at least the injured party. She might have, in some wild hope, imagined society would excuse her.

But if she wished to betray him with a lover of her own, and had murdered him to free herself, no one on earth would excuse that.

In fact the more Monk thought about it, the more did it seem the only solution that fitted all they knew. It was an exceedingly ugly thought - but imperative he learn if it were the truth.

He decided to begin at Alexandra Carlyon's home, which she had shared with the general for the last ten years of his life, since his return from active service abroad. Since Monk was indirectly in Mrs. Carlyon's employ, and she had so far not been convicted of any crime, he felt certain he would find a civil, even friendly reception.

The house on Portland Place was closed and forbidding in appearance, the blinds drawn in mourning and a black wreath on the door. For the first time he could recall, he presented himself at the servants' entrance, as if he had been hawking household goods or was calling to visit some relative in service.

The back door was opened by a bootboy of perhaps twelve years, round-faced, snub-nosed and wary.

"Yes sir?" he said guardedly. Monk imagined he had probably been told by the butler to be very careful of inquisitive strangers, most especially if they might be from the newspapers. Had he been butler he would have said something of the sort.

"Woteher want?" the boy added as Monk said nothing.

"To speak with your butler, and if he is not available, with your housekeeper," Monk replied. He hoped fervently that Alexandra had been a considerate mistress, and her staff were loyal enough to her to wish her well now and give what assistance they might to someone seeking to aid her cause, and that they would have sufficient understanding to accept that that was indeed his aim.

"Woffor?" The boy was not so easily beguiled. He looked Monk up and down, the quality of his suit, his stiff-collared white shirt and immaculate boots. " 'Oo are yer, mister?"

"William Monk, employed by Mrs. Carlyon's barrister."

The boy scowled. "Wot's a barrister?"

"Lawyer - who speaks for her in court."

"Oh - well, yer'd better come in. I'll get Mr. 'Agger." And he opened the door wider and permitted Monk into the back kitchen. He was left to stand mere while the boy went for the butler, who was in charge of the house now that both master and mistress were gone, until either Mrs. Carlyon should be acquitted or the executors should dispose of the estate.

Monk stared about him. He could see through the open doorway into the laundry room, where the dolly tub was standing with its wooden dolly for moving, lifting and turning the clothes, the mangle for squeezing out the water, and the long shelf with jars of various substances for washing the different kinds of cloth: boiled bran for sponging chintz; clean horses' hoof parings for woollens; turpentine and ground sheep's trotters, or chalk, to remove oil and grease; lemon or onion juice for ink; warm cows' milk for wine or vinegar stains; stale bread for gold, silver or silken fabrics; and of course some soap.

There were also jars of bleach, a large tub of borax for heavy starching, and a board and knife for cutting up old potatoes to soak for articles to be more lightly starched.

Monk recognized them all from dim memories, habit, and recollections of more recent investigations which had taken him into kitchens and laundry rooms. This was apparently a well-run household, with all the attentions to detail one would expect from an efficient staff.

Sharply he recalled his mother with the luxury of home made soap from fet and wood ash. For the laundry, like other poorer women, she used lye, the liquid made ftom wood ash collected from furnaces and open fires and then mixed with water. Sometimes urine, fowl dung or bran were added to make it more effective. In 1853 the tax had been taken off soap, but that was long after he left home. She would have been overwhelmed by all this abundance.

He turned his attention to the room he was in, but had little time to see more than the racks piled with brussels sprouts, asparagus, cabbage and strings of stored onions and potatoes kept from last autumn, when the butler appeared, clad in total black and looking grim. He was a man in his middle years, short, sandy-haired, with mustache, thick side whiskers, and balding on top. His voice when he spoke was very precise.

"Yes, Mr. -  er, Monk? What can we do for you? Any way in which we can help the mistress, of course we will. But you understand I shall need some proof of your identity and your purpose in coming here?" He clicked his teeth."I don't mean to be uncivil, sir, but you must understand we have had some charlatans here, pretending to be who they were not, and out to deceive us for their own purposes."

"Of course." Monk produced his card, and a letter from Rathbone, and one from Peverell Erskine. "Very prudent of you, Mr. Hagger. You are to be commended."

Hagger closed his eyes again, but the pink in his cheeks indicated that he had heard the compliment, and appreciated it.

"Well, sir, what can we do for you?" he said after he had read the letters and handed them back. "Perhaps you would care to come into the pantry where we can be private?"

"Thank you, that would be excellent," Monk accepted, and followed him into the small room, taking the offered seat. Hagger sat opposite him and looked enquiringly.

As a matter of principle, Monk told him as little as possible. One could always add more later; one could not retract.

He must begin slowly, and hope to elicit the kind of information he wanted, disguised among more trivial details.

"Perhaps you would begin by telling me something of the running of the house, Mr. Hagger? How many staff have you? How long have they been here, and if you please, something of what you know of them - where they were before here, and so on."

"If you wish, sir." Hagger looked dubious. "Although I cannot see how that can possibly help."

"Nor I - yet," Monk conceded. "But it is a place to begin."

Dutifully Hagger named the staff, their positions in the household and what their references said of them. Then at Monk's prompting he began to outline a normal week's events.

Monk stopped him once or twice to ask for more detail about a dinner party, the guests, the menu, the general's attitude, how Mrs. Carlyon had behaved, and on occasions when she and the general had gone out, whom they had visited.

"Did Mr. and Mrs. Pole dine here often?" he asked as artlessly as he could.

"No sir, very seldom," Hagger replied. "Mrs. Pole only came when the general was away from home." His face clouded. "I am afraid, sir, that there was some ill feeling there, owing to an event in the past, before Miss Sabella's marriage."

"Yes, I am aware of it. Mrs. Carlyon told me." It was an extension of the truth. Alexandra had told Edith Sobell, who had told Hester, who in turn had told him. "But Mrs. Carlyon and her daughter remained close?"

"Oh yes sir." Hagger's face lightened a little. "Mrs. Carlyon was always most fond of all her children, and relations were excellent - " He broke off with a frown so slight Monk was not sure if he had imagined it.

"But. . ."he said aloud.

Hagger shook his head. "Nothing, sir. They were always excellent."

"You were going to add something."

"Well, only that she seemed a trifle closer to her daughters, but I imagine that is natural in a woman. Master Cassian was very fond of his father, poor child. Thought the world o' the general, he did. Very natural 'e should. General took a lot o' care with 'im; spent time, which is more than many a man will with 'is son, 'specially a man as busy as the general, and as important. Admired him for that, I did."

"A fine trait," Monk agreed. "One many a son might envy. I assume from what you say that these times did not include Mrs. Carlyon's presence?"

"No, sir, I can't recall as they ever did. I suppose they spoke of man's affairs, not suitable for ladies - the army, acts o' heroism and fighting, adventures, exploration and the like." Hagger shifted in his seat a trifle. "The boy used to come downstairs with stars in his eyes, poor child - and a smile on his lips." He shook his head. "I can't think what he must be feeling, fair stunned and lost, I shouldn't wonder."

For the first time since seeing Alexandra Carlyon in prison Monk felt an overwhelming anger against her, crowding out pity and divorcing him utterly from the other woman who haunted the periphery of his mind, and whose innocence he had struggled so intensely to prove. She had had no child -  of that he was quite certain. And younger - yes, she had been younger. He did not know why he was so sure of that, but it was a certainty inside him like the knowledge one has in dreams, without knowing where it came from.

He forced himself back to the present. Hagger was staring at him, a flicker of anxiety returning to his face.

"Where is he?" Monk asked aloud.

"With his grandparents, sir, Colonel and Mrs. Carlyon. They sent for him as soon as 'is mother was took."

"Did you know Mrs. Furnival?"

"I have seen her, sir. She and Mr. Furnival dined here on occasion, but that's all I could say - not exactly 'know.' She didn't come 'ere very often."

"I thought the general was a good friend of the Furnivals'?"

"Yes sir, so 'e was. But far more often 'e went there."

"How often?"

Hagger looked harassed and tired, but there was no guilt in his expression and no evasion. "Well, as I understand it from Holmes, that's 'is valet, about once or twice a week. But if you're thinking it was anything improper, sir, all I can say is I most sincerely think as you're mistaken. The general 'ad business with Mr. Furnival, and 'e went there to 'elp the gentleman. And most obliged Mr. Furnival was too, from what I hear."

Monk asked the question he had been leading towards, the one that mattered most, and whose answer now he curiously dreaded.

"Who were Mrs. Carlyon's friends, if not Mrs. Furnival? I imagine she had friends, people she called upon and who came here, people with whom she attended parties, dances, the theater and so on?"

"Oh yes, sir, naturally."

"Who are they?"

Hagger listed a dozen or so names, most of them married couples.

"Mr. Oundel?" Monk asked. "Was there no Mrs. Oun-del?" He felt surprisingly miserable as he asked it. He did not want the answer.

"No sir, she died some time ago. Very lonely, he was, poor gentleman. Used to come 'ere often."

"I see. Mrs. Carlyon was fond of him?"

"Yes sir, I think she was. Sorry for 'im, I should say. 'E used to call in the afternoons sometimes, and they'd sit in the garden and talk for ages. Went 'ome fairly lifted in spirits." He smiled as he said it, and looked at Monk with a sudden sadness in his eyes. "Very good to 'im, she was."

Monk felt a little sick.

"What is Mr. Oundel's occupation? Or is he a gentleman of leisure?"

"Bless you, sir, 'e's retired. Must be eighty if 'e's a day, poor old gentleman."

"Oh." Monk felt such an overwhelming relief it was absurd. He wanted to smile, to say something wild and happy.

Hagger would think he had taken leave of his wits - or at the very least his manners. "Yes - yes, I see. Thank you very much. You have been most helpful. Perhaps I should speak to her ladies' maid? She is still in the house?"

"Oh yes sir, we wouldn't presume to let any of the staff go until - I mean ..." Hagger stopped awkardly.

"Of course," Monk agreed. "I understand. Let us hope it doesn't come to that." He rose to his feet.

Hagger also rose to his feet, his face tightened, and he fumbled awkwardly. "Is there any hope, sir, that..."

"I don't know," Monk said candidly. "What I need to know, Mr. Hagger, is what reason Mrs. Carlyon could possibly have for wishing her husband dead."

"Oh - I'm sure I can't think of any! Can't you - I mean, I wish..."

"No," Monk cut off hope instantly. "I am afraid she is definitely responsible; there can be no doubt."

Hagger's face fell."I see. I had hoped - I mean. . . someone else . . . and she was protecting them."

"Is that the sort of person she was?"

"Yes sir, I believe so - a great deal of courage, stood up to anyone to protect 'er own ..."

"Miss Sabella?"

"Yes sir - but..." Hagger was caught in a dilemma, his face pink, his body stiff.

"It's all right," Monk assured him. "Miss Sabella was not responsible. That is beyond question."

Hagger relaxed a little. "I don't know 'ow to 'elp," he said miserably."There isn't any reason why a decent woman kills her husband - unless he threatened her life."

"Was the general ever violent towards her?"

Hagger looked shocked. "Oh no sir! Most certainly not."

"Would you know, if he had been?"

"I believe so, sir. But you can ask Ginny, what's Mrs. Carlyon's maid. She'd know beyond question."

"I'll do that, Mr. Hagger, if you will be so good as to allow me to go upstairs and find her?"

"I'll 'ave 'er sent for."

"No - I should prefer to speak to her in her normal place of work, if you please. Make her less nervous, you understand?" Actually that was not the reason. Monk wished to see Alexandra's bedroom and if possible her dressing room and something of her wardrobe. It would furnish him a better picture of the woman. All he had seen her wearing was a dark skirt and plain blouse; far from her usual dress, he imagined.

"By all means," Hagger concurred. "If you'll follow me, sir." And he led the way through a surprisingly busy kitchen, where the cook was presiding over the first preparation for a large dinner. The scullery maid had apparently already prepared the vegetables, the kitchen maid was carrying dirty pots and pans to the sink for the scullery maid to wash, and the cook herself was chopping large quantities of meat ready to put into a pie dish, lined with pastry, and the crust ready rolled to go on when she had finished.

A packet of Purcel's portable jelly mixture, newly available since the Great Exhibition of 1851, was hying ready to make for a later course, along with cold apple pie, cream and fresh cheese. It looked as if the meal would feed a dozen.

Then of course Monk remembered that even when all the family were at home, they only added three more to the household, which was predominantly staff, and with upstairs and downstairs, indoor and outdoor, must have numbered at least twelve, and they continued regardless of the death of the general or the imprisonment of Mrs. Carlyon, at least for the moment.

Along the corridor they passed the pantry, where a footman was cleaning the knives with India rubber, a buff leather knife board and a green-and-red tin of Wellington knife polish. Then past the housekeeper's sitting room with door closed, the butler's sitting room similarly, and through the green baize door to the main house. Of course most of the cleaning work would normally be done before the family rose for breakfast, but at present there was hardly any need, so the maids had an extra hour in bed, and were now occupied in sweeping, beating carpets, polishing floors with melted candle ends and turpentine, cleaning brass with boiling vinegar.

Up the stairs and along the landing Monk followed Hagger until they came to the master bedroom, apparently the general's, past his dressing room next door, and on to a very fine sunny and spacious room which he announced as being Mrs. Carlyon's. Opening off it to the left was a dressing room where cupboard doors stood open and a ladies' maid was busy brushing down a blue-gray outdoor cape which must have suited Alexandra's fair coloring excellently.

The girl looked up in surprise as she saw Hagger, and Monk behind him. Monk judged her to be in her mid-twenties, thin and dark, but with a remarkably pleasant countenance.

Hagger wasted no time. "Ginny, this is Mr. Monk. He is working for the mistress's lawyers, trying to find out something that will help her. He wants to ask you some questions, and you will answer him as much as you can - anything 'e wants to know. Understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Hagger." She looked very puzzled, but not unwilling.

"Right." Hagger turned to Monk. "You come down when you're ready, an' if there's ought else as can 'elp, let me know."

"I will, thank you, Mr. Hagger. You have been most obliging," Monk accepted. Then as soon as Hagger had departed and closed the door, he turned to the maid.

"Go on with what you are doing," he requested. "I shall be sometime."

"I'm sure I don't know what I can tell you," Ginny said, obediently continuing to brush the cape. "She was always a very good mistress to me."

"In what way good?"

She looked surprised. "Well . . . considerate, like. She apologized if she got anything extra dirty, or if she kept me up extra late. She gave me things as she didn't want no more, and always asked after me family, and the like."

"You were fond of her?"

"Very fond of 'er, Mr. - "

"Monk."

"Mr. Monk, can you 'elp 'er now? I mean, after she said as she done it?" Her face was puckered with anxiety.

"I don't know," Monk admitted. "If there were some reason why, that people could understand, it might help."

"What would anybody understand, as why a lady should kill 'er 'usband?" Ginny put away the cape and brought out a gown of a most unusual deep mulberry shade. She shook it and a perfume came from its folds that caught Monk with a jolt of memory so violent he saw a whole scene of a woman in pink, standing with her back to him, weeping softly. He had no idea what her face was like, except he found it beautiful, and he recalled none of her words. But the feeling was intense, an emotion that shook him and filled his being, an urgency amounting to passion that he must find the truth, and free her from a terrible danger, one that would destroy her life and her reputation.

But who was she? Surely she had nothing to do with Wal-brook? No - one thing seemed to resolve in his mind. When Walbrook was ruined, and Monk's own career in commerce came to an end, he had not at that point even thought of becoming a policeman. That was what had decided him -  his total inability to either help Walbrook and his wife, or even to avenge them and put his enemy out of business.

The woman in pink had turned to him because he was a policeman. It was his job to find the truth.

But he could not bring her face to mind, nor anything to do with the case, except that she was suspected of murder-murdering her husband - like Alexandra Carlyon.

Had he succeeded? He did not even know mat. Or for that matter, if she was innocent or guilty. And why had he cared with such personal anguish? What had been their relationship? Had she cared for him as deeply, or was she simply turning to him because she was desperate and terrified?

"Sir?" Ginny was staring at him. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Oh - oh yes, thank you. What did you say?"

"What would folks reckon was a reason why it might be all right for a lady to kill 'er 'usband? I don't know of none."

"Why do you think she did it?" Monk asked baldly, his wits still too scattered to be subtle. "Was she jealous of Mrs. Furnival?"

"Oh no sir." Ginny dismissed it out of hand. "I don't like to speak ill of me betters, but Mrs. Furnival weren't the kind o' person to - well, sir, I don't rightly know 'ow to put it-"

"Simply." Monk's attention was entirely on her now, the memory dismissed for the time being. "Just in your own words. Don't worry if it sounds ill - you can always take it back, if you want."

"Thank you, sir, I'm sure."

"Mrs. Furnival."

"Well, sir, she's what my granny used to call a flighty piece, sir, beggin' yer pardon, all smiles and nods and eyes all over the place. Likes the taste o' power, but not one to fell what you'd call in love, not to care for anyone."

"But the general might have cared for her? Was he a good judge of women?"

"Lord, sir, he didn't hardly know one kind o' woman from another, if you take my meaning. He wasn't no ladies' man."

"Isn't that just the sort that gets taken in by the likes of anyone such as Mrs. Furnival?"

"No sir, because 'e weren't susceptible like. I seen 'er when she was 'ere to dinner, and he weren't interested 'ceptin' business and casual talking like to a friend. And Mrs. Carlyon, she knew that, sir. There weren't no cause for 'er to be jealous, and she never imagined there were. Besides ..." She stopped, the pink color up her cheeks.

"Besides what, Ginny?"

Still she hesitated.

"Ginny, Mrs. Carlyon's life is at stake. As it is, if we don't find some good reason, she'll hang! Surely you don't think she did it without a good reason, do you?"

"Oh no sir! Never!"

"Wellthen. . ."

"Well, sir, Mrs. Carlyon weren't that fond o' the general anyway, as to mind all that terrible if occasionally 'e took 'is pleasures elsewhere, if you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I know what you mean. Quite a common enough arrangement, when a couple have been married a long time, no doubt. And did Mrs. Carlyon - have other interests?"

She colored very faintly, but did not evade the subject.

"Some time ago, sir, I did rather think as she favored a Mr. Ives, but it was only a little flattery, and enjoying his company, like. And there was Mr. McLaren, who was obviously very taken with 'er, but I don't think she more than passing liked him. And of course she was always fond of Mr. Furnival, and at one time ..." She lowered her eyes. "But that was four years ago now. And if you ask if she ever did anything improper, I can tell you as she didn't. And bein"er maid, like, an' seein' all 'er most private things, I would know, I'll be bound."

"Yes, I imagine you would," Monk said. He was inclined to believe her, in spite of the fact that she could only be biased. "Well, if the general was not overly fond of Mrs. Furnival, is it possible he was fond of someone else, another lady, perhaps?"

"Well, if he was, sir, 'e hid it powerful well," she said vehemently. "Holmes, that's his valet, didn't know about it - an' I reckon he'd have at least an idea. No sir, I'm sorry, I can't 'elp you at all. I truly believe as the general was an exemplary man in that respect. Everything in loyalty an' honor a woman would want."

"And in other respects?" Monk persisted. He glanced along the row of cupboards. "It doesn't look as if he kept her short of money?"

"Oh no, sir. I don't think 'e was very interested in what the mistress wore, but 'e weren't never mean about it one bit. Always 'ad all she wanted, an' more."

"Sounds like a model husband," Monk said dispiritedly.

"Well, yes, I suppose so - for a lady, that is," she conceded, watching his face.

"But not what you would like?" he asked.

"Me? Well - well sir, I think as I'd want someone who -  maybe this sounds silly, you bein' a gentleman an' all - but I'd want someone as I could 'ave fun with - talk to, like. A man who'd. . ."She colored fiercely now. "Who'd give me a bit of affection - if you see what I mean, sir."

"Yes, I see what you mean." Monk smiled at her without knowing quite why. Some old memory of warmth came back to him, the kitchen in his mother's house in Northumberland, her standing there at the table with her sleeves rolled up, and cuffing him gently around the ear for being cheeky, but it was more a caress than a discipline. She had been proud of him. He knew that beyond doubt in that moment. He had written regularly from London, letting her know how he was doing, of his career and what he hoped to achieve. And she had written back, short, oddly spelled letters in a round hand, but full of pride. He had sent money when he could, which was quite often. It pleased him to help her, after all the lean, sacrificing years, and it was a mark of his success.

Then after Walbrook's ruin, there had been no more money. And in embarrassment he had ceased to write. What utter stupidity! As if that would have mattered to her. What a pride he had. What an ugly, selfish pride.

"Of course I know what you mean," he said again to the maid. "Perhaps Mrs. Carlyon felt the same way, do you suppose?"

"Oh I wouldn't know, sir. Ladies is different. They don't -  well..."

"They didn't share a room?"

"Oh no, sir - not since I been here. And I 'eard from Lucy, as I took over from, not before that neither. But then gentry don't, do they? They got bigger 'ouses than the likes of my ma and pa."

"Or mine," Monk agreed. "Was she happy?"

Ginny frowned, looking at him guardedly."No sir, I don't mink as she were."

"Did she change lately in any way?"

"She's been awful worried over something lately. An' she and the general 'ad a terrible row six months ago - but there's no use askin' me what about, because I don't know. She shut the doors and sent me away. I just know because o' the way she was all white-faced and spoke to no one, and the way she looked like she seen death face-to-face. But that was six months ago, an' I thought it was all settled again."

"Did he ever hurt her physically, Ginny?"

"Great 'eaven's, no!" She shook her head, looking at him with deep distress. "I can't 'elp you, sir, nor 'er. I really don't know of anything at all as why she should 'ave killed 'im. He were cold, and terrible tedious, but 'e were generous with 'is money, faithful to 'er, well-spoken, didn't drink too much nor gamble nor keep fast company. And although 'e were terrible 'ard to Miss Sabella over that going into a nunnery business, he were the best father to young master Cas-sian as a boy could ask. And terrible fond of 'im Master Cassian were, poor little thing. If it weren't that I know as she wasn't a wicked woman, I'd think - well, I'd think as she were."

"Yes," Monk said miserably. "Yes - I am afraid I would too. Thank you for your time, Ginny. I'll take myself downstairs."

It was not until Monk had fruitlessly interviewed the rest of the staff, who bore out what Hagger and Ginny had said, partaken of luncheon in the servants' hall, and was outside in the street that he realized just how much of his own life had come back to him unbidden: his training in commerce, his letters home, Walbrook's ruin and his own consequent change of fortune - but not the face of the woman who so haunted him, who she was, or why he cared so intensely . . . or what had happened to her.