The Silent Cry

chapter 11
Monk sat in the armchair in his room staring at the ceiling. The rain had stopped and the air was warm and clammy, but he was still chilled to the bone.

Why?

Why? It was as inconceivably senseless as a nightmare, and as entanglingly, recurringly inescapable.

He had been in Grey's flat that night, and something had happened after which he had gone in such haste he had left his stick in the stand behind him. The cabby had picked him up from Doughty Street, and then barely a few miles away, met with an accident which had robbed him of his life, and Monk of all memory.

But why should he have killed Grey? In what connection did he even know him? He had not met him at the Latter-lys'; Imogen had said so quite clearly. He could imagine no way in which he could have met him socially. If he were involved in any case, then Runcorn would have known; and his own case notes would have shown it.

So why? Why kill him? One did not follow a complete stranger to his house and then beat him to death for no reason. Unless one were insane?

Could that be it-he was mad? His brain had been damaged even before the accident? He had forgotten what he had done because it was another self which had enacted such a hideousness, and the self he was in now knew nothing of it, was unaware even of its lusts and compulsions, its very existence? And mere had been feeling-inescapable, consuming, and appalling feeling-a passion of hate. Was it possible?

He must think. Thought was the only possible way of dealing with this, making some sense, finding an escape back into reason and an understandable world again, following and examining it, piece by piece-but he could not believe it. But then perhaps no clever, ambitious man truly believes he is mad? He turned that over in his mind too.

Minutes turned into hours, dragging through the night. At first he paced restlessly, back and forth, back and forth, till his legs ached, then he threw himself into the chair and sat motionless, his hands and feet so cold he lost all sensation in them, and still the nightmare was just as real, and just as senseless. He tormented his memory, scrambling after tiny fragments, retelling himself everything he could remember from the schoolroom onward, but there was nothing of Joscelin Grey, not even his face. There was no reason to it, no pattern, no vestige of anger left, no jealousy, no hatred, no fear-only the evidence. He had been there; he must have gone up when Grimwade had taken Bartholomew Stubbs up to see Yeats and been absent for a moment on his other errand.

He had been in Joscelin Grey's flat for three quarters of an hour, and Grimwade had seen him going out and presumed he was Stubbs leaving, whereas in truth Stubbs must have passed him on the stair, as Stubbs left and he arrived. Grimwade had said that the man leaving had seemed heavier, a little taller, and he had especially noticed his eyes. Monk remembered the eyes he had seen staring back at him from the bedroom mirror when he had first come from the hospital. They were unusual, as Grimwade had said, level, dark, clear gray; clever, almost hypnotic eyes. But he had been trying to find the mind beyond, a flash of the memory-the shade was irrelevant. He had made no connection of thought between his grave policeman's gaze-and the stare of the man that night-any more than had Grimwade.

He had been there, inside Grey's flat; it was incontrovertible. But he had not followed Grey; he had gone afterwards, independently, knowing where to find him. So he had known Grey, known where he lived. But why? Why in God's name did he hate him enough to have lost all reason, ignored all his adult life's training and beliefs and beaten the man to death, and gone on beating him when even a madman must have seen he was dead?

He must have known fear before, of the sea when he was young. He could dimly remember its monumental power when the bowels of the deep opened to engulf men, ships, even the shore itself. He could still feel its scream like an echo of all childhood.

And later he must have known fear on the dark streets of London, fear in the rookeries; even now his skin crawled at the memory of the anger and the despair in them, the hunger and the disregard for life in the fight to survive. But he was too proud and too ambitious to be a coward. He had grasped what he wanted without flinching.

But how do you face the unknown darkness, the monstrosity inside your own brain, your own soul?

He had discovered many things in himself he did not like: insensitivity, overpowerful ambition, a ruthlessness. But they were bearable, things for which he could make amends, improve from now on-indeed he had started.

But why should he have murdered Joscelin Grey? The more he struggled with it the less did it make any sense. Why should he have cared enough? There was nothing in his life, no personal relationship that called up such passion.

And he could not believe he was simply mad. Anyway, he had not attacked a stranger in the street, he had deliberately sought out Grey, taken trouble to go to his home; and even madmen have some reason, however distorted.

He must find it, for himself-and he must find the reason before Runcorn found it.

Only it would not be Runcorn, it would be Evan.

The cold inside him grew worse. That was one of the most painful realizations of all, the time when Evan must know that it was he who had killed Grey, he was the murderer who had raised such horror in both of them, such revulsion for the mad appetite, the bestiality. They had looked upon the murderer as being another kind of creature, alien, capable of some darkness beyond their comprehension. To Evan it would still be such a creature, less than quite human-whereas to Monk it was not outward and foreign, where he could sometimes forget it, bar it out, but the deformed and obscene within himself.

Tonight he must sleep; the clock on the mantel said thirteen minutes past four. But tomorrow he would begin a new investigation. To save his own mind, he must discover why he had killed Joscelin Grey; and he must discover it before Evan did.

***

He was not ready to see Evan when he went into his office in the morning, not prepared; but then he would never be.

"Good morning, sir," Evan said cheerfully.

Monk replied, but kept his face turned away, so Evan could not read his expression. He found lying surprisingly hard; and he must lie all the time, every day in every contact from now on.

"I've been thinking, sir." Evan did not appear to notice anything unusual. "We should look into all these other people before we try to charge Lord Shelburne. You know, Joscelin Grey may well have had affairs with other women. We should try the Dawlishes; they had a daughter. And there's Fortescue's wife, and Charles Latterly may have a wife."

Monk froze. He had forgotten that Evan had seen Charles's letter in Grey's desk. He had been supposing blithely that Evan knew nothing of the Latterlys.

Evan's voice cut across him, low and quite gentle. It sounded as though there were nothing more than concern in it.

"Sir?"

"Yes," Monk agreed quickly. He must keep control, speak sensibly. "Yes I suppose we had better." What a hypocrite he was, sending Evan off to pry the secret hurts out of people in the search for a murderer. What would Evan think, feel, when he discovered that the murderer was Monk?

"Shall I start with Latterly, sir?" Evan was still talking. "We don't know much about him."

"No!"

Evan looked startled.

Monk mastered himself; when he spoke his voice was quite calm again, but still he kept his face away.

"No, I'll try the people here: I want you to go back to Shelburne Hall." He must get Evan out of the city for a while, give himself time. "See if you can learn anything more from the servants," he elaborated. "Become friendly with the upstairs maids, if you can, and the parlor maid. Parlor maids are on in the morning; they observe all sorts of things when people are off their guard. It may be one of the other families, but Shelburne is still the most likely. It can be harder to forgive a brother for cuckolding you than it would be a stranger-it's not just an offense, it's a betrayal-and he's constantly there to remind you of it."

"You think so, sir?" There was a lift of surprise in Evan's voice.

Oh God. Surely Evan could not know, could not suspect anything so soon? Sweat broke out on Monk's body, and chilled instantly, leaving him shivering.

"Isn't that what Mr. Runcorn thinks?" he asked, his voice husky with the effort of seeming casual. What isolation this was. He felt cut off from every human contact by his fearful knowledge.

"Yes sir." He knew Evan was staring at him, puzzled, even anxious. "It is, but he could be wrong. He wants to see you arrest Lord Shelburne-" That was an understanding he had not committed to words before. It was the first time he had acknowledged that he understood Runcorn's envy, or his intention. Monk was startled into looking up, and instantly regretted it. Evan's eyes were anxious and appallingly direct.

"Well he won't-unless I have evidence," Monk said slowly. "So go out to Shelburne Hall and see what you can find. But tread softly, listen rather than speak. Above all, don't make any implications."

Evan hesitated.

Monk said nothing. He did not want conversation.

After a moment Evan left and Monk sat down on his own chair, closing his eyes to shut out the room. It was going to be even harder than it had seemed last night. Evan had believed in him, liked him. Disillusionment so often turned to pity, and then to hate.

And what about Beth? Perhaps far up in Northumberland she need never know. Maybe he could find someone to write to her and say simply that he had died. They would not do it for him; but if he explained, told them of her children, then for her?

"Asleep, Monk? Or dare I hope you are merely thinking?" It was Runcorn's voice, dark with sarcasm.

Monk opened his eyes. He had no career left, no future. But one of the few reliefs it brought was that he need no longer be afraid of Runcorn. Nothing Runcorn could do would matter in the least, compared with what he had already done to himself.

"Thinking," Monk replied coldly. "I find it better to think before I face a witness than after I have got there. Either one stands foolishly silent, or rushes, even more foolishly, into saying something inept, merely to fill the chasm."

"Social arts again?" Runcom raised his eyebrows. "I would not have thought you would have had time for them now.'' He was standing in front of Monk, rocking a little on his feet, hands behind his back. Now he brought them forward with a sheaf of daily newspapers displayed belligerently. "Have you read the newspapers this morning? There has been a murder in Stepney, a man knifed in the street, and they are saying it is time we did our job, or were replaced by someone who can."

"Why do they presume there is only one person in London capable of knifing a man?" Monk asked bitterly.

"Because they are angry and frightened," Runcorn snapped back. "And they have been let down by the men they trusted to safeguard them. That is why." He slammed the newspapers down on the desk top. "They do not care whether you speak like a gentleman or know which knife and fork to eat with, Mr. Monk; but they care very much whether you are capable of doing your job and catching murderers and taking them off the streets."

"Do you think Lord Shelburne knifed this man in Stepney?" Monk looked straight into Runcorn's eyes. He was pleased to be able to hate someone freely and without feeling any guilt about lying to him.

"Of course I don't." Runcorn's voice was thick with anger. "But I think it past time you stopped giving yourself airs and graces and found enough courage to forget climbing the ladder of your own career for a moment and arrested Shelburne."

"Indeed? Well I don't, because I'm not at all sure that he's guilty," Monk answered him with a straight, hard stare. "If you are sure, then you arrest him!"

"I'll have you for insolence!" Runcorn shouted, leaning forward towards him, fists clenched white. "And I'll make damned sure you never reach senior rank as long as I'm in this station. Do you hear me?"

"Of course I hear you." Monk deliberately kept calm. "Although it was unnecessary for you to say so, your actions have long made it obvious; unless of course you wish to inform the rest of the building? Your voice was certainly loud enough. As for me, I knew your intentions long ago. And now..."He stood up and walked past him to the door. "If you have nothing else to say, sir; I have several witnesses to question."

"I'll give you till the end of the week," Runcorn bellowed behind him, his face purple, but Monk was outside and going down the stairs for his hat and coat. The only advantage of disaster was that all lesser ills are swallowed up in it.

***

By the time he had reached the Latterlys' house and been shown in by the parlor maid, he had made up his mind to do the only thing that might lead him to the truth. Runcorn had given him a week. And Evan would be back long before that. Time was desperately short.

He asked to see Imogen, alone. The maid hesitated, but it was morning and Charles was quite naturally out; and anyway, as a servant she had not the authority to refuse.

He paced backwards and forwards nervously, counting seconds until he heard light, decisive footsteps outside and the door opened. He swung around. It was not Imogen but Hester Latterly who came in.

He felt an immediate rush of disappointment, then something almost resembling relief. The moment was put off; Hester had not been here at the time. Unless Imogen had confided in her she could not help. He would have to return. He needed the truth, and yet it terrified him.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk," she said curiously. "What may we do for you this time?"

"I am afraid you cannot help me," he replied. He did not like her, but it would be pointless and stupid to be rude. "It is Mrs. Latterly I would like to see, since she was here at the time of Major Grey's death. I believe you were still abroad?"

"Yes I was. But I am sorry, Imogen is out all day and I do not expect her return until late this evening." She frowned very slightly and he was uncomfortably aware of her acute perception, the sensitivity with which she was regarding him. Imogen was kinder, immeasurably less abrasive, but there was an intelligence in Hester which might meet his present need more readily.

"I can see that something very serious troubles you," she said gravely. "Please sit down. If it is to do with Imogen, I would greatly appreciate it if you would confide in me, and I may help the matter to be dealt with with as little pain as possible. She has already suffered a great deal, as has my brother. What have you discovered, Mr. Monk?'

He looked at her levelly, searching the wide, very clear eyes. She was a remarkable woman and her courage must be immense to have defied her family and traveled virtually alone to one of the most dreadful battlefields in the world, and to have risked her own life and health to care for the wounded. She must have very few illusions, and that thought was comforting now. There was an infinity of experience between himself and Imogen: horror, violence, hatred and pain outside her grasp to think of, and which from now on would be his shadow, even his skin. Hester must have seen men in the very extremity of life and death, the nakedness of soul that comes when fear strips everything away and the honesty that loosens the tongue when pretense is futile.

Perhaps after all it was right he should speak to her.

"I have a most profound problem, Miss Latterly," he began. It was easier to talk to her than he had expected. "I have not told you, or anyone else, the entire truth about my investigation of Major Grey's death."

She waited without interruption; surprisingly, she did know when to keep silent.

"I have not lied," he went on. "But I have omitted one of the most important facts."

She was very pale. "About Imogen?"

"No! No. I do not know anything about her, beyond what she told me herself-that she knew and liked Joscelin Grey, and that he called here, as a friend of your brother George. What I did not tell you is about myself."

He saw the flash of concern in her face, but he did not know the reason for it. Was it her nurse's professional training, or some fear for Imogen, something she knew and he did not? But again she did not interrupt.

"The accident I suffered before beginning the Joscelin Grey case is a severe complication which I did not mention." Then for a hideous moment he thought she might imagine he was seeking some kind of sympathy, and he felt the blood burn up his skin. "I lost my memory." He rushed to dispel the idea. "Completely. When I came to my senses in the hospital I could not even think of my own name." How far away that minimal nightmare seemed now! "When I was recovered enough to go back to my rooms they were strange to me, like the rooms of a man I had never met. I knew no one, I could not even think how old I was, or what I looked like. When I saw myself in the mirror I did not recognize myself even then."

There was pity in her face, gentle and quite pure, without a shadow of condescension or setting herself apart. It was far sweeter than anything he had expected.

"I'm deeply sorry," she said quietly. "Now I understand why some of your questions seemed so very odd. You must have had to learn everything over again."

"Miss Latterly-I believe your sister-in-law came to me before, asked me something, confided-perhaps to do with Joscelin Grey-but I cannot remember. If she could tell me everything she knows of me, anything I may have said-"

"How could that help you with Joscelin Grey?" Then suddenly she looked down at the hand in her lap. "You mean you think Imogen may have something to do with his death?" Her head came up sharply, her eyes candid and full of fear. "Do you think Charles may have killed him, Mr. Monk?"

"No-no, I am quite sure he did not." He must lie; the truth was impossible, but he needed her help. "I found old notes of mine, made before the accident, which indicate I knew something important then, but I can't remember it. Please, Miss Latterly-ask her to help me.''

Her face was a little bleak, as if she too feared the outcome.

"Of course, Mr. Monk. When she returns I will explain the necessity to her, and when I have something to tell you I shall come and do so. Where may I find you that we can talk discreetly?"

He was right: she was afraid. She did not wish her family to overhear-perhaps especially Charles. He stared at her, smiling with a bitter humor, and saw it answered in her eyes. They were in an absurd conspiracy, she to protect her family as far as was possible, he to discover the truth about himself, before Evan or Runcorn made it impossible. He must know why he had killed Joscelin Grey.

"Send me a message, and I shall meet you in Hyde Park, at the Piccadilly end of the Serpentine. No one will remark two people walking together."

"Very well, Mr. Monk. I shall do what I can."

"Thank you." He rose and took his leave, and she watched his straight, very individual figure as he walked down the steps and out into the street. She would have recognized his stride anywhere; there was an ease in it not unlike a soldier's who was used to the self-discipline of long marches, and yet it was not military.

When he was out of sight she sat down, cold, unhappy, but knowing it was unavoidable she should do exactly as he had asked. Better she should learn the truth first than that it should be dragged out longer, and found by others.

She spent a solitary and miserable evening, dining alone in her room. Until she knew the truth from Imogen she could not bear to risk a long time with Charles, such as at a meal table. It was too likely her thoughts would betray her and end in hurting them both. As a child she had imagined herself to be marvelously subtle and capable of all sorts of deviousness. At about twenty she had mentioned it quite seriously at the dinner table. It was the only occasion she could recall of every member of her family laughing at once. George had begun, his face crinkling into uncontrollable delight and his voice ringing out with hilarity. The very idea was funny. She had the most transparent emotions any of them had seen. Her happiness swept the house in a whirlwind; her misery wrapped it in a purple gloom.

It would be futile, and painful, to try to deceive Charles now.

***

It was the following afternoon before she had the opportunity to speak alone with Imogen for any length of time. Imogen had been out all morning and came in in a swirl of agitation, swinging her skirts around as she swept into the hallway and deposited a basket full of linen on the settle at the bottom of the stairs and took off her hat.

"Really, I don't know what the vicar's wife is thinking of," she said furiously. "Sometimes I swear that woman believes all the world's ills can be cured with an embroidered homily on good behavior, a clean undershirt and a jar of homemade broth. And Miss Wentworth is the last person on earth to help a young mother with too many children and no maidservant."

"Mrs. Addison?" Hester said immediately.

"Poor creature doesn't know whether she is coming or going," Imogen argued. "Seven children, and she's as thin as a slat and exhausted. I don't think she eats enough to keep a bird alive-giving it all to those hungry little mouths forever asking for more. And what use is Miss Wentworth? She has fits of the vapors every few minutes! I spend half my time picking her up off the floor."

"I'd have fits of the vapors myself if my stays were as tight as hers," Hester said wryly. "Her maid must lace them with one foot on the bedpost. Poor soul. And of course her mother's trying to marry her off to Sydney Ab-ernathy-he has plenty of money and a fancy for wraith-like fragility-it makes him feel masterful."

"I shall have to see if I can find a suitable homily for her on vanity." Imogen ignored the basket and led the way through to the withdrawing room and threw herself into one of the large chairs. "I am hot and tired. Do have Martha bring us some lemonade. Can you reach the bell?"

It was an idle question, since Hester was still standing.

Absently she pulled the end. "It isn't vanity," she said, still referring to Miss Wentworth. "It's survival. What is the poor creature to do if she doesn't marry? Her mother and sisters have convinced her the only alternative is shame, poverty and a lonely and pitiful old age."

"That reminds me," Imogen said, pushing her boots off. "Have you heard from Lady Callandra's hospital yet? I mean the one you want to administer."

"I don't aim quite so high; I merely want to assist," Hester corrected.

"Rubbish!" Imogen stretched her feet luxuriously and sank a little further into the chair. "You want to order around the entire staff."

The maid came in and stood waiting respectfully.

"Lemonade, please, Martha," Imogen ordered. "I'm so hot I could expire. This climate really is ridiculous. One day it rains enough to float an ark, the next we are all suffocated with heat."

"Yes ma'am. Would you like some cucumber sandwiches as well, ma'am?"

"Oh yes. Yes I would-thank you."

"Yes ma'am." And with a whisk of skirts she was gone.

Hester filled the few minutes while the maid was absent with trivial conversation. She had always found it easy to talk to Imogen and their friendship was more like that of sisters than of two women related only by marriage, whose patterns of life were so different. When Martha had brought the sandwiches and lemonade and they were alone, she turned at last to the matter which was pressing so urgently on her mind.

"Imogen, that policeman, Monk, was here again yesterday-"

Imogen's hand stopped in the air, the sandwich ignored, but there was curiosity in her face and a shadow of amusement. There was nothing that looked like fear. But then Imogen, unlike Hester, could conceal her feelings perfectly if she chose.

"Monk? What did he want this time?"

"Why are you smiling?"

"At you, my dear. He annoys you so much, and yet I think part of you quite likes him. You are not dissimilar in some ways, full of impatience at stupidity and anger at injustice, and perfectly prepared to be as rude as you can."

"I am nothing like him whatever," Hester said impatiently. "And this is not a laughing matter." She could feel an irritating warmth creep up in her cheeks. Just once in a while she would like to take more naturally to feminine arts, as Imogen did as easily as breathing. Men did not rush to protect her as they did Imogen; they always assumed she was perfectly competent to take care of herself, and it was a compliment she was growing tired of.

Imogen ate her sandwich, a tiny thing about two inches square.

"Are you going to tell me what he came for, or not?"

"Certainly I am." Hester took a sandwich herself and bit into it; it was lacily thin and the cucumber was crisp and cool. "A few weeks ago he had a very serious accident, about the time Joscelin Grey was killed."

"Oh-I'm sorry. Is he ill now? He seemed perfectly recovered."

"I think his body is quite mended," Hester answered, and seeing the sudden gravity and concern in Imogen's face felt a gentleness herself. "But he was struck very severely on the head, and he cannot remember anything before regaining his senses in a London hospital."

"Not anything." A flicker of amazement crossed Imogen's fece. "You mean he didn't remember me-I mean us?"

"He didn't remember himself," Hester said starkly. "He did not know his name or his occupation. He did not recognize his own face when he saw it in the glass."

"How extraordinary-and terrible. I do not always like myself completely-but to lose yourself! I cannot imagine having nothing at all left of all your past-all your experiences, and the reason why you love or hate things."

"Why did you go to him, Imogen?"

"What? I mean, I beg your pardon?"

"You heard what I said. When we first saw Monk in St. Marylebone Church you went over to speak to him. You knew him. I assumed at the time that he knew you, but he did not. He did not know anyone."

Imogen looked away, and very carefully took another sandwich.

"I presume it is something Charles does not know about," Hester went on.

"Are you threatening me?" Imogen asked, her enormous eyes quite frank.

"No I am not!" Hester was annoyed, with herself for being clumsy as well as Imogen for thinking such a thing. "I didn't know there was anything to threaten you with. I was going to say that unless it is unavoidable, I shall not tell him. Was it something to do with Joscelin Grey?"

Imogen choked on her sandwich and had to sit forward sharply to avoid suffocating herself altogether.

"No,'' she said when at last she caught her breath. "No it was not. I can see that perhaps it was foolish, on reflection. But at the time I really hoped-"

"Hoped"what? For goodness sake, explain yourself."

Slowly, with a good deal of help, criticism and consolation from Hester, Imogen recounted detail by detail exactly what she had done, what she had told Monk, and why.

***

Four hours later, in the golden sunlight of early evening, Hester stood in the park by the Serpentine watching the light dimple on the water. A small boy in a blue smock carrying a toy boat under his arm passed by with his nursemaid. She was dressed in a plain stuff dress, had a starched lace cap on her head and walked as uprightly as any soldier on parade. An off-duty bandsman watched her with admiration.

Beyond the grass and trees two ladies of fashion rode along Rotten Row, their horses gleaming, harnesses jingling and hooves falling with a soft thud on the earth.

Carriages rattling along Knightsbridge towards Piccadilly seemed in another world, like toys in the distance.

She heard Monk's step before she saw him. She turned when he was almost upon her. He stopped a yard away; their eyes met. Lengthy politeness would be ridiculous between them. There was no outward sign of fear in him- his gaze was level and unflinching-but she knew the void and the imagination that was there.

She was the first to speak.

"Imogen came to you after my father's death, in the rather fragile hope that you might discover some evidence that it was not suicide. The family was devastated. First George had been killed in the war, then Papa had been shot in what the police were kind enough to say might have been an accident, but appeared to everyone to be suicide. He had lost a great deal of money. Imogen was trying to salvage something out of the chaos-for Charles's sake, and for my mother's." She stopped for a moment, trying to keep her composure, but the pain of it was still very deep.

Monk stood perfectly still, not intruding, for which she was grateful. It seemed he understood she must tell it all without interruption in order to be able to tell it at all.

She let out her breath slowly, and resumed.

"It was too late for Mama. Her whole world had collapsed. Her youngest son dead, financial disgrace, and then her husband's suicide-not only his loss but the shame of the manner of it. She died ten days later-she was simply broken-" Again she was obliged to stop for several minutes. Monk said nothing, but stretched out his hand and held hers, hard, firmly, and the pressure of his fingers was like a lifeline to the shore.

In the distance a dog scampered through the grass, and a small boy chased a penny hoop.

"She came to you without Charles's knowing-he would not have approved. That is why she never mentioned it to you again-and of course she did not know you hadj forgotten. She says you questioned her about everything that had happened prior to Papa's death, and on successive meetings you asked her about Joscelin Grey. I shall tell you what she told me-"

A couple in immaculate riding habits cantered down the Row. Monk still held her hand.

"My family first met Joscelin Grey in March. They had none of them heard of him before and he called on them quite unexpectedly. He came one evening. You never met him, but he was very charming-even I can remember that from his brief stay in the hospital where I was in Scutari. He went out of his way to befriend other wounded men, and often wrote letters for those too ill to do it for themselves. He often smiled, even laughed and made small jokes. It did a great deal for morale. Of course his wound was not as serious as many, nor did he have cholera or dysentery."

Slowly they began to walk, so as not to draw attention to themselves, close together.

She forced her mind back to that time, the smell, the closeness of pain, the constant tiredness and the pity. She pictured Joscelin Grey as she had last seen him, hobbling away down the steps with a corporal beside him, going down to the harbor to be snipped back to England.

"He was a little above average height," she said aloud. "Slender, rair-haired. I should think he still had quite a limp-I expect he always would have had. He told them his name, and that he was the younger brother of Lord Shelburne, and of course that he had served in the Crimea and been invalided home. He explained his own story, his time in Scutari, and that his injury was the reason he had delayed so long in calling on them.''

She looked at Monk's face and saw the unspoken question.

"He said he had known George-before the battle of the Alma, where George was killed. Naturally the whole family made him most welcome, for George's sake, and for his own. Mama was still deeply grieved. One knows with one's mind that if young men go to war there is always a chance they will be killed, but that is nothing like a preparation for the feelings when it happens. Papa had his loss, so Imogen said, but for Mama it was the end of something Jerribly precious. George was the youngest son and she always had a special feeling for him. He was-" She struggled with memories of childhood like a patch of sunlight in a closed garden. "He looked the most like Papa-he had the same smile, and his hair grew the same way, although it was dark like Mama's. He loved animals. He was an excellent horseman. I suppose it was natural he should join the cavalry.

"Anyway, of course they did not ask Grey a great deal about George the first time he called. It would have been very discourteous, as if they had no regard for his own friendship, so they invited him to return any time he should find himself free to do so, and would wish to-"

"And he did?" Monk spoke for the first time, quietly, just an ordinary question. His face was pinched and there was a darkness in his eyes.

"Yes, several times, and after a while Papa finally thought it acceptable to ask him about George. They had received letters, of course, but George had told them very little of what it was really like." She smiled grimly. "Just as I did not. I wonder now if perhaps we both should have? At least to have told Charles. Now we live in different worlds: And I should be distressing him to no purpose."

She looked beyond Monk to a couple walking arm in arm along the path.

"It hardly matters now. Joscelin Grey came again, and stayed to dinner, and then he began to tell them about the Crimea. Imogen says he was always most delicate; he never used unseemly language, and although Mama was naturally terribly upset, and grieved to hear how wretched the conditions were, he seemed to have a special sense of how much he could say without trespassing beyond sorrow and admiration into genuine horror. He spoke of battles, but he told them nothing of the starvation and the disease. And he always spoke so well of George, it made them all proud to hear.

"Naturally they also asked him about his own exploits. He saw the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava. He said the courage was sublime: never were soldiers braver or more loyal to their duty. But he said the slaughter was the most dreadful thing he had ever seen, because it was so needless. They rode right into the guns; he told them that." She shivered as she remembered the cartloads of dead and wounded, the labor all through the night, the helplessness, all the blood. Had Joscelin Grey felt anything of the overwhelming emotions of anger and pity that she had?

"There was never any chance whatsoever that they could have survived,'' she said quietly, her voice so low it was almost carried away by the murmur of the wind. "Imogen said he was very angry about it. He said some terrible things about Lord Cardigan. I think that was the moment I most thought I should have liked him."

Deeply as it hurt, Monk also most liked him for it. He had heard of that suicidal charge, and when the brief thrill of admiration had passed, he was left with a towering rage at the monumental incompetence and the waste, the personal vanity, the idiotic jealousies that had uselessly, senselessly squandered so many lives.

For what, in heaven's name, could he have hated Joscelin Grey?

She was talking and he was not listening. Her face was earnest, pinched for the loss and the pain. He wanted to touch her, to tell her simply, elementally, without words that he felt the same.

What sort of revulsion would she feel if she knew it was he who had beaten Joscelin Grey to death in that dreadful room?

"-as they got to know him," she was saying, "they all came to like him better and better for himself. Mama used to look forward to his visits; she would prepare for them days before. Thank heavens she never knew what happened to him."

He refrained at the last moment, when it was on the tip of his tongue, from asking her when her mother had died. He remembered something about shock, a broken heart.

"Go on," he said instead. "Or is that all about him?"

"No." She shook her head. "No, there is much more. As I said, they were all fond of him; Imogen and Charles also. Imogen used to like to hear about the bravery of the soldiers, and of the hospital in Scutari, I suppose at least in part because of me."

He remembered what he had heard of the military hospital-of Florence Nightingale and her women. The sheer physical labor of it, quite apart from the social stigma. Nurses were traditionally mostly men; the few women were of the strongest, the coarsest, and they did little but clean up the worst of the refuse and waste.

She was speaking again. "It was about four weeks after they first met him that he first mentioned the watch-"

"Watch?" He had heard nothing of a watch, except he recalled they had found no watch on the body. Constable Harrison had found one at a pawnbroker's-which had turned out to be irrelevant.

"It was Joscelin Grey's," she replied. "Apparently it was a gold watch of great personal value to him because he had been given it by his grandfather, who had fought with the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo. It had a dent in it where a ball from a French musket struck it and was deflected, thus saving his grandfather's life. When he had first expressed a desire to be a soldier himself, the old man had given it to him. It was considered something of a talisman. Joscelin Grey said that poor George had been nervous that night, the night before the Battle of the Alma, perhaps something of a premonition, and Joscelin had lent him the watch. Of course George was killed the next day, and so never returned it. Joscelin did not make much of it, but he said that if it had been returned to them with George's effects, he would be most grateful if he might have it again. He described it most minutely, even to the inscription inside."

"And they returned it to him?" he asked.

"No. No, they did not have it. They had no idea what could have happened to it, but it was not among the things that the army sent them from George's body, nor his personal possessions. I can only presume someone must have stolen it. It is the most contemptible of crimes, but it happens. They felt quite dreadful about it, especially Papa."

"And Joscelin Grey?''

"He was distressed, of course, but according to Imogen he did his best to hide it; in fact he hardly mentioned it again."

"And your father?"

Her eyes were staring blindly past him at the wind in the leaves. "Papa could not return the watch, nor could he replace it, since in spite of its monetary value, its personal value was far greater, and it was that which really mattered. So when Joscelin Grey was interested in a certain business venture, Papa felt it was the very least he could do to oifer to join him in it. Indeed from what both he and Charles said, it seemed at the time to be, in their judgment, an excellent scheme."

"That was the one in which your father lost his money?"

Her face tightened.

"Yes. He did not lose it all, but a considerable amount. What caused him to take his life, and Imogen has accepted now that he did so, was that he had recommended the scheme to his friends, and some of them had lost far more. That was the shame of it. Of course Joscelin Grey lost much of his own money too, and he was terribly distressed. ''

"And from that time their friendship ceased?"

"Not immediately. It was a week later, when Papa shot himself. Joscelin Grey sent a letter of condolence, and Charles wrote back, thanking him, and suggesting that they discontinue their acquaintance, in the circumstances."

"Yes, I saw the letter. Grey kept it-I don't know why."

"Mama died a few days after that." She went on very quietly. "She simply collapsed, and never got up again. And of course it was not a time for social acquaintance: they were all in mourning." She hesitated a moment. "We still are."

"And it was after your father's death that Imogen came to see me?" he prompted after a moment.

"Yes, but not straightaway. She came the day after they buried Mama. I cannot think there was ever anything you could have done, but she was too upset to be thinking as deeply as she might, and who can blame her? She just found it too hard then to accept what must have been the truth."

They turned and began walking back again.

"So she came to the police station?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And told me everything that you have told me now?"

"Yes. And you asked her all the details of Papa's death: how he died, precisely when, who was in the house, and soon."

"And I noted it?"

"Yes, you said it might have been murder, or an accident, although you doubted it. You said that you would make some investigation."

"Do you know what I did?"

"I asked Imogen, but she did not know, only that you found no evidence that it was other than it seemed, which was that he took his own life while in deep despair. But you said you would continue to investigate it and let her know if you discovered anything further. But you never did, at least not until after we saw you again in the church, more than two months later.''

He was disappointed, and becoming frightened as well. There was still no direct connection between himself and Joscelin Grey, still less any reason why he should have hated him. He tried a last time.

"And she does not know what my investigations were? I told her nothing?"

"No." She shook her head. "But I imagine, from the questions you asked her about Papa and the business, such as she knew it, that you inquired into that."

"Did I meet Joscelin Grey?"

"No. You met a Mr. Marner, who was one of the principals. You spoke of him; but you never met Joscelin Grey so far as she knows. In fact the last time she saw you you said quite plainly that you had not. He was also a victim of the same misfortune, and you seemed to consider Mr. Marner the author of it, whether intentionally or not."

It was something, however frail; a place to begin.

"Do you know where I can find Mr. Mamer now?"

"No, I am afraid not. I asked Imogen, but she had no knowledge."

"Did she know his Christian name?"

Again she shook her head. "No. You mentioned him only very briefly. I'm sorry. I wish I could help."

"You have helped. At least now I know what I was doing before the accident. It is somewhere to begin." That was a lie, but there was nothing to be gained in the truth.

"Do you think Joscelin Grey was killed over something to do with the business? Could he have known something about this Mr. Marner?" Her face was blank and sad with the sharpness of memory, but she did not evade the thought. "Was the business fraudulent, and he discovered it?"

Again he could only lie.

"I don't know. I'll start again, from the beginning. Do you know what manner of business it was, or at least the names of some of the friends of your father who invested in it? They would be able to give me the details."

She told him several names and he wrote them down, with addresses. He thanked her, feeling a little awkward, wanting her to know, without the embarrassment for both of them of his saying it, that he was grateful-for her candor, her understanding without pity, the moment's truce from all argument or social games.

He hesitated, trying to think of words. She put her hand very lightly on his sleeve and met his eyes for an instant. For a wild moment he thought of friendship, a closeness better than romance, cleaner and more honest; then it disappeared. There was the battered corpse of Joscelin Grey between him and everyone else.

"Thank you," he said calmly. "You have been very helpful. I appreciate your time and your frankness." He smiled very slightly, looking straight into her eyes. "Good afternoon, Miss Latterly."