The Silent Cry

chapter 12

The name Marner meant nothing to Monk, and the following day, even after he had been to three of the addresses Hester had given him, he still had no more than a name and the nature of the business-importing. It seemed no one else had met the elusive Mr. Marner either. All inquiries and information had come from Latterly, through Joscelin Grey. The business was for the importing of tobacco from the United States of America, and a very profitable retailing of it was promised, in alliance with a certain Turkish house. No one knew more than that; except of course a large quantity of figures which indicated the amount of capital necessary to begin the venture and the projected increase to the fortunes of those who participated.

Monk did not leave the last house until well into the afternoon, but he could not afford time for leisure. He ate briefly, purchasing fresh sandwiches from a street seller, then went to the police station to seek the help of a man he had learned investigated business fraud. He might at least know the name of dealers in tobacco; perhaps he could find the Turkish house in question.

"Marner?" the man repeated agreeably, pushing his fingers through his scant hair. "Can't say as I've ever heard of him. You don't know his first name, you say?"

"No, but he floated a company for importing tobacco from America, mixing it with Turkish, and selling it at a profit."

The man pulled a face.

"Sounds unpleasant-can't stand Turkish myself-but then I prefer snuff anyway. Marner?" He shook his head. "You don't mean old Zebedee Marner, by any chance? I suppose you've tried him, or you wouldn't ask. Very sly old bird, that. But I never knew him mixed up with importing."

"What does he do?"

The man's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Losing your grip, Monk? What's the matter with you?" He squinted a little. "You must know Zebedee Marner. Never been able to charge him with anything because he always weasels his way out, but we all know he's behind half the pawnbrokers, sweatshops and brothels in the Limehouse area right down to the Isle of Dogs. Personally I think he takes a percentage from the child prostitutes and the opium as well, although he's far too downy to go anywhere near them himself." He sighed in disgust. "But then, of course, there's a few who wouldn't say as far as that."

Monk hardly dared hope. If this were the same Marner, then here at last was something that could lead to motive. It was back to the underworld, to greed, fraud and vice. Reason why Joscelin Grey should have killed-but why should he have been the victim?

Was there something in all this evidence that could at last convict Zebedee Marner? Was Grey in collusion with Marner? But Grey had lost his own money-or had he?

"Where can I find Marner?" he asked urgently. "I need him, and time is short." There was no time to seek out addresses himself. If this man thought he was peculiar, incompetent at his job, he would just have to think it. Soon it would hardly matter anyway.

The man looked at Monk, interest suddenly sharpening in his face, his body coming upright.

"Do you know something about Marner that I don't, Monk? IVe been trying to catch that slimy bastard for years. Let me in on it?" His face was eager, a light in his eyes as if he had seen a sudden glimpse of an elusive happiness. "I don't want any of the credit; I won't say anything. I just want to see his face when he's pinched."

Monk understood. He was sorry not to be able to help.

"I don't have anything on Marner," he answered. "I don't even know if the business I'm investigating is fraudulent or not. Someone committed suicide, and I'd like to know the reasons."

"Why?'' He was curious and his puzzlement was obvious. He cocked his head a little to one side. "What do you care about a suicide? I thought you were on the Grey case. Don't tell me Runcorn's let you off it-without an arrest?"

So even this man knew of Runcorn's feelings about him. Did everyone? No wonder Runcorn knew he had lost his memory! He must have laughed at Monk's confusion, his fumbling.

"No." He pulled a wry face. "No, it's all part of the same thing. Grey was involved in the business."

"Importing?" His voice rose an octave. "Don't tell me he was killed over a shipment of tobacco!"

"Not over tobacco; but there was a lot of money invested, and apparently the company failed."

"Oh yes? That's a new departure for Marner-"

"If it's the same man," Monk said cautiously. "I don't know that it is. I don't know anything about him but his name, and only part of that. Where do I find him?"

"Thirteen Gun Lane, Limehouse." He hesitated. "If you get anything, Monk, will you tell me, as long as it isn't the actual murder? Is that what you're after?"

"No. No, I just want some information. If I find evidence of fraud I'll bring it back for you." He smiled bleakly. "You have my word."

The man's face eased into a smile. "Thank you."

***

Monk went early in the morning and was in Limehouse by nine o'clock. He would have been there sooner had there been any purpose. He had spent much of the time since he woke at six planning what he would say.

It was a long way from Grafton Street and he took a hansom eastward through Clerkenwell, Whitechapel and down towards the cramped and crowded docks and Limehouse. It was a still morning and the sun was gleaming on the river, making white sparkles on the water between the black barges coming up from the Pool of London. Across on the far side were Bermondsey-the Venice of the Drains-and Rotherhithe, and ahead of him the Surrey Docks, and along the shining Reach the Isle of Dogs, and on the far side Deptford and then the beautiful Greenwich with its green park and trees and the exquisite architecture of the naval college.

But his duty lay hi the squalid alleys of Limehouse with beggars, usurers and thieves of every degree-and Zebe-dee Marner.

Gun Lane was a byway off the West India Dock Road, and he found Number 13 without difficulty. He passed an evil-looking idler on the pavement and another lounging in the doorway, but neither troubled him, perhaps considering him unlikely to give to a beggar and too crisp of gait to be wise to rob. There was other, easier prey. He despised them, and understood them at the same time.

Good fortune was with him: Zebedee Marner was in, and after a discreet inquiry, the clerk showed Monk into the upper office.

"Good morning, Mr.-Monk." Marner sat behind a large, important desk, his white hair curled over his ears and his white hands spread on the leather-inlaid surface in front of him. "What can I do for you?"

"You come recommended as a man of many businesses, Mr. Marner," Monk started smoothly, gliding over the hatred in his voice. "With a knowledge of all kinds of things."

"And so I am, Mr. Monk, so I am. Have you money to invest?"

"What could you offer me?''

"All manner of things. How much money?" Marner was watching him narrowly, but it was well disguised as a casual cheerfulness.

"I am interested also in safety, rather than quick profit," Monk said, ignoring the question. "I wouldn't care to lose what I have."

"Of course not, who would?" Marner spread his hands wide and shrugged expressively, but his eyes were fixed and blinkless as a snake's. "You want your money invested safely?"

"Oh, quite definitely," Monk agreed. "And since I know of many other gentlemen who are also interested in investment, I should wish to be certain that any recommendation I made was secure."

Manner's eyes flickered, then the lids came down to hide his thoughts. "Excellent," he said calmly. "I quite understand, Mr. Monk. Have you considered importing and exporting? Very nourishing trade; never fails."

"So I've heard." Monk nodded. "But is it safe?"

"Some is, some isn't. It is the skill of people like me to know the difference." His eyes were wide again, his hands folded across his paunch. "That is why you came here, instead of investing it yourself.''

"Tobacco?"

Marner's face did not change in the slightest.

"An excellent commodity." He nodded. "Excellent. I cannot see gentlemen giving up their pleasures, whatever the economic turns of life. As long as there are gentlemen, there will be a market for tobacco. And unless our climate changes beyond our wit to imagine"-he grinned and his body rocked with silent mirth at his own humor-"we will be unable to grow it, so must need import it. Have you any special company in mind?"

"Are you familiar with the market?" Monk asked, swallowing hard to contain his loathing of this man sitting here like a fat white spider in his well-furnished office, safe in his gray web of lies and facades. Only the poor flies like Latterly got caught-a"d perhaps Joscelin Grey.

"Of course," Marner replied complacently. "I know it well."

"You have dealt in it?"

"I have, frequently. I assure you, Mr. Monk, I know very well what I am doing."

"You would not be taken unaware and find yourself faced with a collapse?"

"Most certainly not." Marner looked at him as if he had let fall some vulgarity at the table.

"You are sure?" Monk pressed him.

"I am more than sure, my dear sir." Now he was quite pained. "I am positive."

"Good." Monk at last allowed the venom to flood into his voice. "That is what I thought. Then you will no doubt be able to tell me how the disaster occurred that ruined Major Joscelin Grey's investment in the same commodity. You were connected with it."

Marner's face paled and for a moment he was confused to find words.

"I-er-assure you, you need have no anxiety as to its happening again," he said, avoiding Monk's eyes, then looking very directly at him, to cover the lie of intent.

"That is good," Monk answered him coolly. "But hardly of more than the barest comfort now. It has cost two lives already. Was there much of your own money lost, Mr. Marner?"

"Much of mine?" Marner looked startled.

"I understand Major Grey lost a considerable sum?"

"Oh-no. No, you are misinformed." Marner shook his head and his white hair bounced over his ears. "The company did not precisely fail. Oh dear me no. It simply transferred its operation; it was taken over. If you are not a man of affairs, you could not be expected to understand. Business is highly complicated these days, Mr. Monk."

"It would seem so. And you say Major Grey did not lose a great deal of his own money? Can you substantiate that in any way?"

"I could, of course." The smug veils came over Mar-ner's eyes again. "But Major Grey's affairs are his own, of course, and I should not discuss his affairs with you, any more than I should dream of discussing yours with him. The essence of good business is discretion, sir." He smiled, pleased with himself, his composure at least in part regained.

"Naturally," Monk agreed. "But I am from the police, and am investigating Major Grey's murder, therefore I am in a different category from the merely inquisitive." He lowered his voice and it became peculiarly menacing. He saw Marner's face tighten. "And as a law-abiding man," he continued, "I am sure you will be only too happy to give me every assistance you can. I should like to see your records in the matter. Precisely how much did Major Grey lose, Mr. Marner, to the guinea, if you please?"

Marner's chin came up sharply; his eyes were hot and offended.

"The police? You said you wanted to make an investment. ''

"No, I did not say that-you assumed it. How much did Joscelin Grey lose, Mr. Marner?"

"Oh, well, to the guinea, Mr. Monk, he-he did not lose any."

"But the company dissolved."

"Yes-yes, that is true; it was most unfortunate. But Major Grey withdrew his own investment at the last moment, just before the-the takeover."

Monk remembered the policeman from whom he had learned Marner's address. If he had been after Marner for years, let him have the satisfaction of taking him now.

"Oh." Monk sat back, altering his whole attitude, almost smiling. "So he was not really concerned in the loss?"

"No, not at all."

Monk stood up.

"Then it hardly constitutes a part of his murder. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Marner. And I thank you for your cooperation. You do, of course, have some papers to prove this, just for my superiors?"

"Yes. Yes, I have." Marner relaxed visibly. "If you care to wait for a moment-" He stood up from his desk and went to a large cabinet of files. He pulled a drawer and took out a small notebook ruled in ledger fashion. He put it, open, on the desk in front of Monk.

Monk picked it up, glanced at it, read the entry where Grey had withdrawn his money, and snapped it shut.

"Thank you." He put the book in the inside pocket of his coat and stood up.

Marner's hand came forward for the return of the book. He realized he was not going to get it, debated in his mind whether to demand it or not, and decided it would raise more interest in the subject than he could yet affordt He forced a smile, a sickly thing in his great white face.

"Always happy to be of service, sir. Where should we be without the police? So much crime these days, so much violence."

"Indeed," Monk agreed. "And so much theft that breeds violence. Good day, Mr. Marner."

Outside he walked briskly along Gun Lane and back towards the West India Dock Road, but he was thinking hard. If this evidence was correct, and not fiddled with by Zebedee Marner, then the hitherto relatively honest Jos-celin Grey had almost certainly been forewarned in time to escape at the last moment himself, leaving Latterly and his friends to bear the loss. Dishonest, but not precisely illegal. It would be interesting to know who had shares in the company that took over the tobacco importing, and if Grey was one of them.

Had he uncovered this much before? Marner had shown no signs of recognition. He had behaved as if the whole question were entirely new to him. In fact it must be, or Monk would never have been able to deceive him into imagining him an investor.

But even if Zebedee Marner had never seen him before, it was not impossible he had known all this before Grey's death, because then he had had his memory, known his contacts, who to ask, who to bribe, who could be threatened, and with what.

But there was no way yet to find out. On the West India Dock Road he found a hansom and sank back for the long ride, thinking.

At the police station he went to the man who had given him Zebedee Marner's address and told him of his visit, gave him the ledger and showed him what he thought the fraud would be. The man positively bubbled with delight, like someone who contemplates a rich feast only hours away. Monk had a brief, fierce glow of satisfaction.

It did not last.

Runcorn was waiting for him in his own office.

"No arrest yet?" he said with black relish. "No one charged?"

Monk did not bother to reply.

"Monk!" Runcorn slammed his fist on the table.

"Yes sir?"

"You sent John Evan out to Shelburne to question the staff?"

"Yes I did. Isn't that what you wanted?" He raised sarcastic eyebrows. "Evidence against Shelburne?"

"You won't get it out there. We know what his motive was. What we need is evidence of opportunity, someone who saw him here."

"I'll start looking," Monk said with bitter irony. Inside himself he was laughing, and Runcorn knew it, but he had not the faintest idea why, and it infuriated him.

"You should have been looking for the last month!" he shouted. "What in hell is the matter with you, Monk? You were always a hard, arrogant devil, with airs beyond your station, but you were a good policeman. But now you're a fool. This crack on the head seems to have impaired your brain. Perhaps you should have some more sick leave?"

"I am perfectly well." Misery was black inside Monk; he wanted to frighten this man who hated him so much and was going to have the last victory. "But maybe you ought to take over this case? You are right, I am getting nowhere with it." He looked straight back at Runcorn with wide eyes. "The powers that be want a result-you should do the job yourself.''

Runcorn's face set. "You must take me for a fool. IVe sent for Evan. He'll be back tomorrow." He held up his thick finger, wagging it in Monk's face. "Arrest Shelburne this week, or I will take you off it." He turned and strode out, leaving the door squealing on its hinges.

Monk stared after him. So he had sent for Evan to return. Time was even shorter than he had feared. Before much longer Evan must come to the same conclusion as he had, and that would be the end.

***

In fact Evan came back the next day, and Monk met him for luncheon. They sat together in a steamy public house. It was heavy and damp with the odor of massed bodies, sawdust, spilled ale and nameless vegetables stewed into soup.

"Anything?'' Monk asked as a matter of form. It would have seemed remarkable had he not.

"Lots of indication," Evan replied with a frown. "But I wonder sometimes if I see it only because I'm looking fork."

"You mean invent it for yourself?"

Evan's eyes came up quickly and met Monk's. They were devastatingly clear.

"You don't honestly believe he did it, do you, sir?"

How could he know so quickly? Rapidly Monk flew in his mind through all the possible things he might say. Would Evan know a lie? Had he seen all the lies already?

Was he clever enough, subtle enough, to be leading Monk gently into trapping himself? Was it conceivable the whole police department knew, and were simply waiting for him to uncover his own proof, his own condemnation? For a moment fear engulfed him and the cheerful rattle of the alehouse became a din like bedlam- witless, formless and persecutory. They all knew; they were merely waiting for him to know, to betray himself, and then the mystery would end. They would come out in the open, with laughter, handcuffs, questions, congratulations at another murder solved; there would be a trial, a brief imprisonment, and then the tight, strong rope, a quick pain-and nothing.

But why? Why had he killed Joscelin Grey? Surely not because Grey had escaped the crash of the tobacco company-probably even profited from it?

"Sir? Sir, are you all right?" It was Evan's voice cutting across his panic, Evan's face peering at him anxiously. "You look a little pale, sir. Are you sure you are all right?"

Monk forced himself to sit upright and meet Evan's eyes. If he were to be given one wish now, it would be that Evan would not have to know. Imogen Latterly had never really been more than a dream, a reminder of the softer self, the part of him that could be wounded and could care for something better than ambition-but Evan had been a friend. Maybe there had been others, but he could not remember them now.

"Yes," he said carefully. "Yes, thank you. I was just thinking. No, you are right; I am not at all sure it was Shelburne."

Evan leaned forward a little, his face eager.

"I'm glad you say that, sir. Don't let Mr. Runcorn push you." His long fingers were playing with the bread, too excited to eat. "I think it's someone here in London. In fact I have been looking at Mr. Lamb's notes again, and ours, and the more I read them the more I think it could have something to do with money, with business.

"Joscelin Grey seems to have lived fairly comfortably, better than the allowance from his family supported." He put down his spoon and abandoned all pretense of the meal. "So either he was blackmailing someone, or else he gambled very successfully, or, most likely of all, he had some business we know nothing about. And if it were honest, we ought to have found some record of it, and the other people concerned should have come forward. Similarly, if he borrowed money, the lenders would have put in some claim against the estate."

"Unless they were sharks," Monk said automatically, his mind cold with fear, watching Evan draw closer and closer to the thread that must lead him to the truth. Any moment now and his fine, sensitive hands would grasp it.

"But if they were sharks," Evan said quickly, his eyes alight, "they would not have lent to someone like Grey. Sharks are exceedingly careful about their investments. That much I've learned. They don't lend a second sum out before they have the first back, and with interest, or a mortgage on property." A lock of his heavy hair fell forward over, his brow and he ignored it. "Which brings us back to the same question: Where did Grey get the repayment, not to mention the interest? He was the third brother, remember, and he had no property of his own. No sir, he had some business, I'm sure of it. And I have some thoughts where to start looking for it."

He was coming closer with every new idea.

Monk said nothing; his mind was racing for a thought, any thought to put Evan off. He could not avoid it forever, the time would come; but before that he must know why. There was something vital so close, a finger's length out of his reach.

"Do you not agree, sir?" Evan was disappointed; his eyes were shadowed with it. Or was it disappointment that Monk had lied?

Monk jerked himself back, dismissing his pain. He must think clearly just a little longer.

"I was turning it over," he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "Yes, I think you may very well be right. Dawlish spoke of a business venture. I don't recall how much I told you of it; I gathered it had not yet begun, but there may easily have been others already involved." How he hated lying. Especially to Evan-this betrayal was the worst of all. He could not bear to think what Evan would feel when he knew. "It would be a good thing if we investigated it far more thoroughly."

Evan's face lit up again.

"Excellent. You know I really believe we could yet catch Joscelin Grey's murderer. I think we are near it; it will only take just one or two more clues and it will all fell into place."

Did he know how appallingly near he was to the truth?

"Possibly," Monk agreed, keeping his voice level with an effort. He looked down at the plate in front of him, anything to avoid Evan's eyes. "You will still have to be discreet, though. Dawlish is a man of considerable standing."

"Oh I will, sir, I will. Anyway, I do not especially suspect him. What about the letter we saw from Charles Latterly? That was pretty chilly, I thought. And I found out quite a lot more about him." He took a spoonful of his stew at last. "Did you know his father committed suicide just a few weeks before Grey was killed? Dawlish is a business affair in the future, but Latterly could have been one from the past. Don't you think so, sir?" He was ignoring the taste and texture of the food, almost swallowing it whole in his preoccupation. "Perhaps there was something not quite right there, and the elder Mr. Latterly took his life when he was implicated, and young Mr. Charles Latterly, the one who sent the letter, was the one who killed Grey in revenge?"

Monk took a deep breath. He must have just a little more time.

"That letter sounded too controlled for a man passionate enough to kill in revenge," he said carefully, beginning to eat his own stew. "But I will look into it. You try Dawlish, and you might try the Fortescues as well. We don't know very much about their connection either." He could not let Evan pursue Charles for his, Monk's, crime; also the truth was too close for Charles to deny it easily. He had no liking for him, but there was something of honor left to cling to-and he was Hester's brother. "Yes," he added, "try the Fortescues as well."

***

In the afternoon when Evan set off full of enthusiasm after Dawlish and Fortescue, Monk went back to the police station and again sought out the man who had given him Marner's address. The man's face lit up as soon as Monk came in.

"Ah, Monk, I owe you something. Good old Zebedee at last." He waved a book in the air triumphantly. "Went down to his place on the strength of the ledger you brought, and searched the whole building. The rackets he was running." He positively chortled with delight and hiccupped very slightly. "Swindling left and right, taking a rake-off from half the crime and vice in Limehouse-and the Isle of Dogs. God knows how many thousands of pounds must have gone through his hands, the old blackguard."

Monk was pleased; it was one career other than his own he had helped.

"Good," he said sincerely. "I always like to imagine that particular kind of bloodsucker running his belly off in the treadmills for a few years."

The other man grinned.

"Me too, and that one especially. By the way, the tobacco importing company was a sham. Did you know that?" He hiccupped again and excused himself. "There was a company, but there was never any practical chance it could have done any trading, let alone make a profit. Your fellow Grey took his money out at precisely the right moment. If he wasn't dead I should be wishing I could charge him as well."

Charge Grey? Monk froze. The room vanished except for a little whirling light in front of him, and the man's face.

"Wishing? Why only wishing?" He hardly dared ask. Hope hurt like a physical thing.

"Because there's no proof," the man replied, oblivious of Monk's ecstasy. "He did nothing actually illegal. But I'm as sure as I am that Hell's hot, he was part of it; just too damned clever to step over the law. But he set it up- and brought in the money."

"But he was taken in the fraud," Monk protested, afraid to believe. He wanted to grab the man and shake him; he resisted only with difficulty. "You're sure beyond doubt?"

"Of course I am." The other raised his eyebrows. "I may not be as brilliant a detective as you are, Monk, but I know my job. And I certainly know a fraud when I see one. Your friend Grey was one of the best, and very tidy about it." He hitched himself more comfortably in his seat. "Not much money, not enough to cause suspicion, just a small profit, and no guilt attached to him. If he made a habit of it he must have done quite nicely. Although how he got all those people to trust him with their money I don't know. You should see the names of some of those who invested."

"Yes," Monk said slowly. "I also should like to know how he persuaded them. I think I want to know that almost as much as I want to know anything." His brain was racing, casting for clues, threads anywhere. "Any other names in that ledger, any partners of Marner's?"

"Employees-just the clerk in the outer office."

"No partners; were there no partners? Anyone else who might know the business about Grey? Who got most of the money, if Grey didn't?"

The man hiccupped gently and sighed. "A rather nebulous 'Mr. Robinson,' and a lot of money went on keeping it secret, and tidy, covering tracks. No proof so far that this Robinson actually knew exactly what was going on. We've got a watch on him, but nothing good enough to arrest him yet."

"Where is he?" He had to find out if he had seen this

Robinson before, the first time he had investigated Grey. If Marner did not know him, then perhaps Robinson did?

The man wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to him.

Monk took it: it was just above the Elephant Stairs in Rotherhithe, across the river. He folded it and put it in his pocket.

"I won't spoil your case," he promised. "I only want to ask him one question, and it's to do with Grey, not the tobacco fraud."

"It's all right," the other man said, sighing happily. "Murder is always more important than fraud, at least it is when it's a lord's son that's been killed." He sighed and hiccupped together. "Of course if he'd been some poor shopkeeper or chambermaid it would be different. Depends who's been robbed, or who's been killed, doesn't it?"

Monk gave a hard little grimace for the injustice of it, ' then thanked him and left.

Robinson was not at the Elephant Stairs, and it took Monk all afternoon to find him, eventually running him down in a gin mill in Seven Dials, but he learned everything he wanted to know almost before Robinson spoke. The man's face tightened as soon as Monk came in and a cautious look came into his eyes.

"Good day, Mr. Monk; I didn't expect to see you again. What is it this time?"

Monk felt the excitement shiver through him. He swallowed hard.

"Still the same thing-"

Robinson's voice was low and sibilant, and there was a timber in it that struck Monk with an almost electric familiarity. The sweat tingled on his skin. It was real memory, actual sight and feelings coming back at last. He stared hard at the man.

Robinson's narrow, wedge-shaped face was stiff.

"IVe already told you everything I know, Mr. Monk. Anyway, what does it matter now Joscelin Grey is dead?"

"And you told me everything you knew before? You swear it?"

Robinson snorted with a faint contempt.

"Yes I swear it," he said wearily. "Now will you please go away? You're known around 'ere. It don't do me no good to 'ave the police nosing around and asking questions. People think I 'ave something to 'ide."

Monk did not bother to argue with him. The fraud detective would catch up with him soon enough.

"Good," he said simply. "Then I don't need to trouble you again." He went out into the hot, gray street milling with peddlers and waifs, his feet hardly feeling the pavement beneath. So he had known about Grey before he had been to see him, before he had killed him.

But why was it he had hated Grey so much? Marner was the principal, the brains behind the fraud, and the greatest beneficiary. And it seemed he had made no move against Marner.

He needed to think about it, sort out his ideas, decide where at least to look for the last missing piece.

It was hot and close, the air heavy with the humidity coming up from the river, and his mind was tired, staggering, spinning with the burden of what he had learned. He needed food and something to drink away this terrible thirst, to wash the stench of the rookeries from his mouth.

Without realizing it he had walked to the door of an eating house. He pushed it open and the fresh smell of sawdust and apple cider engulfed him. Automatically he made his way to the counter. He did not want ale, but fresh bread and sharp, homemade pickle. He could smell them, pungent and a little sweet.

The potman smiled at him and fetched the crusty bread, crumbling Wensleydale cheese, and juicy onions. He passed over the plate.

" 'Aven't seen yer for a w'ile, sir," he said cheerfully. "I s'pose you was too late to find that fellow you was looking for?"

Monk took the plate in stiff hands, awkwardly. He could not draw his eyes from the man's face. Memory was coming back; he knew he knew him.

"Fellow?" he said huskily.

"Yes." The potman smiled. "Major Grey; you was looking for 'im last time you was 'ere. It was the same night 'e was murdered, so I don't s'pose you ever found •im."

Something was just beyond Monk's memory, the last piece, tantalizing, the shape of it almost recognizable at last.

"You knew him?" he said slowly, still holding the plate in his hands.

"Bless you, 'course I knew 'im, sir. I told you that." He frowned. " 'Ere, don't you remember?"

"No." Monk shook his head. It was too late now to lie. "I had an accident that night. I don't remember what you said. I'm sorry. Can you tell me again?"

The man shook his head and continued wiping a glass. "Too late now, sir. Major Grey was murdered that night. You'll not see 'im now. Don't you read the newspapers?"

"But you knew him," Monk repeated. "Where? In the army? You called him 'Major'!"

"That's right. Served in the army with 'im, I did, till I got invalided out.''

"Tell me about him! Tell me everything you told me that night!"

"I'm busy right now, sir. I got to serve or I'll not make me livin'," the man protested. "Come back later, eh?"

Monk fished in his pocket and brought out all the money he had, every last coin. He put it on the counter.

"No, I need it now."

The man looked at the money, shining in the light. He met Monk's eyes, saw the urgency in them, understood something of importance. He slid his hand over the money and put it rapidly in the pocket under his apron before picking up the cloth again.

"You asked me what I knew of Major Grey, sir. I told you when I first met 'im and where-in the army in the

Crimea. 12 were a major, and I were just a private o' course. But I served under 'im for a long time. 'E were a good enough officer, not specially good nor specially bad; just like most. 'E were brave enough, as fair as most to 'is men. Good to 'is 'orses, but then most well-bred gents is."

The man blinked. "You didn't seem terribly interested in that," he went on, still absently working on the glass. "You listened, but it didn't seem to weigh much with you. Then you asked me about the Battle o' the Alma, where some Lieutenant Latterly 'ad died; an' I told you as we wasn't at the Battle o' the Alma, so I couldn't tell you about this Lieutenant Latterly-"

"But Major Grey spent the last night before the battle with Lieutenant Latterly." Monk grabbed at his arm. "He lent him his watch. Latterly was afraid; it was a lucky piece, a talisman. It had belonged to his grandfather at Waterloo."

"No sir, I can't say about any Lieutenant Latterly, but Major Grey weren't nowhere near the Battle o' the Alma, and 'e never 'ad no special watch."

"Are you sure?" Monk was gripping the man's wrist, unaware of hurting him.

"O' course I'm sure, sir." The man eased his hand. "I was there. An' 'is watch were an ordinary gold plate one, and as new as 'is uniform. It weren't no more at Waterloo than 'e were."

"And an officer called Dawlish?"

The potman frowned, rubbing his wrist. "Dawlish? I don't remember you asking me about 'im."

"I probably didn't. But do you remember him?"

"No sir, I don't recall an officer o' that name."

"But you are sure of the Battle of the Alma?"

"Yes sir, I'd swear before God positive. If you'd been in the Crimea, sir, you'd not forget what battle you was at, and what you wasn't. I reckon that's about the worst war there's ever been, for cold and muck and men dyin'."

"Thank you."

"Don't you want your bread an' cheese, sir? That pickle's 'omemade special. You should eat it. You look right peaked, you do."

Monk took it, thanked him automatically, and sat down at one of the tables. He ate without tasting and then walked out into the first spots of rain. He could remember doing this before, remember the slow building anger. It had all been a lie, a brutal and carefully calculated lie to earn first acceptance from the Latterlys, then their friendship, and finally to deceive them into a sufficient sense of obligation, over the lost watch, to repay him by supporting his business scheme. Grey had used his skill to play like an instrument first their grief, then their debt. Perhaps he had even done the same with the Dawlishes.

The rage was gathering up inside him again. It was coming back exactly as it had before. He was walking faster and faster, the rain beating in his face now. He "was unaware of it. He splashed through the swimming gutters into the street to hail a cab. He gave the address in Mecklenburg Square, as he knew he had done before.

When he got out he went into the building. Grimwade handed him the key this time; the first time there had been no one there.

He went upstairs. It seemed new, strange, as if he were reliving the first time when it was unknown to him. He got to the top and hesitated at the door. Then he had knocked. Now he slipped the key into the lock. It swung open quite easily and he went in. Before Joscelin Grey had come to the door, dressed in pale dove, his fair face handsome, smiling, just a little surprised. He could see it now as if it had been only a few minutes ago.

Grey had asked him in, quite casually, unperturbed. He had put his stick in the hall stand, his mahogany stick with the brass chain embossed in the handle. It was still there. Then he had followed Grey into the main room. Grey had been very composed, a slight smile on his face. Monk had told him what he had come for: about the tobacco business, the failure, Latterly's death, the fact that Grey had lied, that he had never known George Latterly, and there had been no watch.

He could see Grey now as he had turned from the sideboard, holding out a drink for Monk, taking one himself. He had smiled again, more widely.

"My dear fellow, a harmless little lie." His voice had been light, very easy, very calm. "I told them what an excellent fellow poor George was, how brave, how charming, how well loved. It was what they wanted to hear. What does it matter whether it was true or not?"

"It was a lie," Monk had shouted back. "You didn't even know George Latterly. You did it purely for money."

Grey had grinned.

"So I did, and what's more, I shall do it again, and again. I have an endless stream of gold watches, or whatever; and there's not a thing you can do about it, policeman. I shall go on as long as anyone is left who remembers the Crimea-which will be a hell of a long time-and shall damned well never run out of the dead!''

Monk had stared at him, helpless, anger raging inside him till he could have wept like an impotent child.

"I didn't know Latterly," Grey had gone on. "I got his name from the casualty lists. They're absolutely full of names, you've no idea. Although actually I got some of the better ones from the poor devils themselves-saw them die in Scutari, riddled with disease, bleeding and spewing all over the place. I wrote their last letters for them. Poor George might have been a raving coward, for all I know. But what good does it do to tell his family that? IVe no idea what he was like, but it doesn't take much wit to work out what they wanted to hear! Poor little Imogen adored him, and who can blame her? Charles is a hell of a bore; reminds me a bit of my eldest brother, another pompous fool." His fair face had become momentarily ugly with envy. A look of malice and pleasure had slid into it. He looked at Monk up and down knowingly.

"And who wouldn't have told the lovely Imogen whatever she would listen to? I told her all about that extraordinary creature, Florence Nightingale. I painted up the heroism a bit, certainly, gave her all the glory of 'angels of mercy' holding lamps by the dying through the night. You should have seen her face." He had laughed; then seeing something in Monk, a vulnerability, perhaps a memory or a dream, and understanding its depth in a flash: "Ah yes, Imogen." He sighed. "Got to know her very well." His smile was half a leer. "Love the way she walks, all eager, full of promise, and hope." He had looked at Monk and the slow smile spread to his eyes till the light in them was as old as appetite and knowledge itself. He had tittered slightly. "I do believe you're taken with Imogen yourself.

"You clod, she'd no more touch you than carry out her own refuse.

"She's in love with Florence Nightingale and the glory of the Crimea!" His eyes met Monk's, glittering bright. "I could have had her any time, all eager and quivering." His lip curled and he had almost laughed as he looked at Monk. "I'm a soldier; IVe seen reality, blood and passion, fought for Queen and country. I've seen the Charge of the Light Brigade, lain in hospital at Scutari among the dying. What do you imagine she thinks of grubby little London policemen who spend their time sniffing about in human filth after the beggars and the degenerate? You're a scavenger, a cleaner up of other people's dirt-one of life's necessities, like the drains." He took a long gulp of his brandy and looked at Monk over the top of the glass.

"Perhaps when they've got over that old idiot getting hysterical and shooting himself, I shall go back and do just that. Can't remember when I've fancied a woman more."

It had been then, with that leer on his mouth, that Monk had taken his own glass and thrown the brandy across Grey's face. He could remember the blinding anger as if it were a dream he had only just woken from. He could still taste die heat and the gall of it on his tongue.

The liquid had hit Grey in his open eyes and bumed him, seared his pride beyond bearing. He was a gentleman, one already robbed by birth of fortune, and now this oaf of a policeman, jumped above himself, had insulted him in his own house. His features had altered into a snarl of fury and he had picked up his own heavy stick and struck Monk across the shoulders with it. He had aimed at his head, but Monk had almost felt it before it came, and moved.

They had closed in a struggle. It should have been self-defense, but it was far more than that. Monk had been glad of it-he had wanted to smash that leering face, beat it in, undo all that he had said, wipe from him the thoughts he had had of Imogen, expunge some of the wrong to her family. But above all towering in his head and burning in his soul, he wanted to beat him so hard he would never feed on the gullible and the bereaved again, telling them lies of invented debt and robbing the dead of the only heritage they had left, the truth of memory in those who had loved them.

Grey had fought back; for a man invalided out of the army he had been surprisingly strong. They had been locked together struggling for the stick, crashing into furniture, upsetting chairs. The very violence of it was a catharsis, and all the pent-up fear, the nightmare of rage and the agonizing pity poured forth and he barely felt the pain of blows, even the breaking of his ribs when Grey caught him a tremendous crack on the chest with his stick.

But Monk's weight and strength told, and perhaps his rage was even stronger than Grey's fear and all his held-in anger of years of being slighted and passed over.

Monk could remember quite clearly now the moment when he had wrested the heavy stick out of Grey's hands and struck at him with it, trying to destroy the hideous-ness, the blasphemy he saw, the obscenity the law was helpless to curb.

Then he had stopped, breathless and terrified by his own violence and the storm of his hatred. Grey was splayed out on the floor, swearing like a trooper.

Monk had turned and gone out, leaving the door swinging behind him, blundering down the stairs, turning his coat collar up and pulling his scarf up to hide the abrasion on his face where Grey had hit him. He had passed Grim-wade in the hall. He remembered a bell ringing and Grim-wade leaving his position and starting upstairs.

Outside the weather was fearful. As soon as he had opened the door the wind had blown it against him so hard it had knocked him backwards. He had put his head down and plunged out, the rain engulfing him, beating in his face cold and hard. He had his back to the light, going into the darkness between one lamp and the next.

There was a man coming towards him, towards the light and the door still open in the wind-for a moment he saw his face before he turned and went in. It was Menard Grey.

Now it all made obvious and tragic sense-it was not George Latterly's death, or the abuse of it, which had spurred Joscelin Grey's murder, it was Edward Daw-lish's-and Joscelin's own betrayal of every ideal his brother believed.

And then the joy vanished just as suddenly as it had come, the relief evaporated, leaving him shivering cold. How could he prove it? It was his word against Menard's. Grimwade had been up the stairs answering the bell, and seen nothing. Menard had gone in the door Monk had left open in the gale. There was nothing material, no evidence-only Monk's memory of Menard's face for a moment in the gaslight.

They would hang him. He could imagine the trial now, himself standing in the dock, the ridiculousness of trying to explain what manner of man Joscelin Grey had been, and that it was not Monk, but Joscelin's own brother Menard who had killed him. He could see the disbelief in their faces, and the contempt for a man who would try to escape justice by making such a charge.

Despair closed around him like the blackness of the night, eating away strength, crushing with the sheer weight of it. And he began to be afraid. There would be the few short weeks in the stone cell, the stolid warders, at once pitying and contemptuous, then the last meal, the priest, and the short walk to the scaffold, the smell of rope, the pain, the fighting for breath-and oblivion.

He was still drowned and paralyzed by it when he heard the sound on the stairs. The latch turned and Evan stood in the doorway. It was the Worst moment of all. There was no point in lying, Evan's face was full of knowledge, and pain. And anyway, he did not want to.

"How did you know?" Monk said quietly.

Evan came in and closed the door. "You sent me after Dawlish. I found an officer who'd served with Edward Dawlish. He didn't gamble, and Joscelin Grey never paid any debts for him. Everything he knew about him he learned from Menard. He took a hell of a chance lying to the family like that-but it worked. They'd have backed him financially, if he hadn't died. They blamed Menard for Edward's fall from honor, and forbade him in the house. A nice touch on Joscelin's part."

Monk stared at him. It made perfect sense. And yet it would never even raise a reasonable doubt in a juror's mind.

"I think that is where Grey's money came from-cheating the families of the dead," Evan continued. "You were so concerned about the Latterly case, it wasn't a great leap of the imagination to assume he cheated them too-and that is why Charles Latterly's father shot himself." His eyes were soft and intense with distress. "Did you come this far the first time too-before the accident?"

So he knew about the memory also. Perhaps it was all far more obvious than he believed; the fumbling for words, the unfamiliarity with streets, public houses, old haunts-even Runcorn's hatred of him. It did not matter anymore.

"Yes." Monk spoke very slowly, as if letting the words fall one by one would make them believable. "But I did not kill Joscelin Grey. I fought with him, I probably hurt him-he certainly hurt me-but he was alive and swearing at me when I left." He searched Evan's countenance feature by feature. "I saw Menard Grey go in as I turned in the street. He was facing the light and I was going away from it. The outer door was still open in the wind."

A desperate, painful relief flooded Evan's face, and he looked bony and young, and very tired. "So it was Menard who killed him." It was a statement.

"Yes." A blossom of gratitude opened wide inside Monk, filling him with sweetness. Even without hope, it was to be treasured immeasurably. "But there is no proof."

"But-" Evan began to argue, then the words died on his lips as he realized the truth of it. In all their searches they had found nothing. Menard had motive, but so had Charles Latterly, or Mr. Dawlish, or any other family Jos-celin had cheated, any friend he had dishonored-or Lovel Grey, whom he might have betrayed in the crudest way of all-or Monk himself. And Monk had been there. Now that they knew it, they also knew how easily provable it was, simply find the shop where he had bought that highly distinctive stick-such a piece of vanity. Mrs. Worley would remember it, and its subsequent absence. Lamb would recall seeing it in Grey's flat the moming after the murder. Imogen Latterly would have to admit Monk had been working on the case of her father's death.

The darkness was growing closer, tighter around them, the light guttering.

"We'll have to get Menard to confess," Evan said at last.

Monk laughed harshly. "And how do you propose we should do that? There's no evidence, and he knows it. No one would take my word against his that I saw him, and kept silent about it till now. It will look like a rather shabby and very stupid attempt to shift the blame from myself."

That was true, and Evan racked his mind in vain for a rebuttal. Monk was still sitting in the big chair, limp and exhausted with emotions from terror through joy and back to fear and despair again.

"Go home," Evan said gently. "You can't stay here.

There may be-" Then the idea came to him with a flutter of hope, growing and rising. There was one person who might help. It was a chance, but there was nothing left to lose. "Yes," he repeated. "Go home-I'll be there soon. I've just got an errand. Someone to see-" And he swung on his heel and went out of the door, leaving it ajar behind him.

He ran down the stairs two at a time-he never knew afterwards how he did not break his neck-shot past Grim-wade, and plunged out into the rain. He ran all the way along the pavement of Mecklenburg Square along Doughty Street and accosted a hansom as it passed him, driver's coat collar up around his neck and stovepipe hat jammed forward over his brow.

"I ain't on duty, guv!" the driver said crossly. "Finished, I am. Goin' 'ome terme supper."

Evan ignored him and climbed in, shouting the Latter-lys' address in Thanet Street at him.

"I told you, I ain't goin' nowhere!" the cabby repeated, louder this time. " 'Ceptin 'ome fer me supper. You'll 'ave ter get someone else!"

"You're taking me to Thanet Street!" Evan shouted back at him. "Police! Now get on with it, or I'll have your badge!"

"Bleedin' rozzers," the cabby muttered sullenly, but he realized he had a madman in the back, and it would be quicker in the long run to do what he said. He lifted the reins and slapped them on the horse's soaking back, and they set off at a brisk trot.

At Thanet Street Evan scrambled out and commanded the cabby to wait, on pain of his livelihood.

Hester was at home when Evan was shown in by a startled maid. He was streaming water everywhere and his extraordinary, ugly, beautiful face was white. His hair was plastered crazily across his brow and he stared at her with anguished eyes.

She had seen hope and despair too often not to recognize both.

"Can you come with me!" he said urgently. "Please? I'll explain as we go. Miss Latterly-I-"

"Yes." She did not need time to decide. To refuse was an impossibility. And she must leave before Charles or Imogen came from the withdrawing room, impelled by curiosity, and discovered the drenched and frantic policeman in the hall. She could not even go back for her cloak-what use would it be in this downpour anyway? "Yes-I'll come now." She walked past him and out of the front door. The wall of rain hit her in the face and she ignored it, continuing across the pavement, over the bubbling gutter and up into the hansom before either Evan or the driver had time to hand her up.

Evan scrambled behind her and slammed the door, shouting his instructions to drive to Grafton Street. Since the cabby had not yet been paid, he had little alternative.

"What has happened, Mr. Evan?'' Hester asked as soon as they were moving. "I can see that it is something very terrible. Have you discovered who murdered Joscelin Grey?"

There was no point in hesitating now; the die was cast.

"Yes, Miss Latterly. Mr. Monk retraced all the steps of his first investigation-with your help," He took a deep breath. He was cold now that the moment came; he was wet to the skin and shaking. "Joscelin Grey made his living by finding the families of men killed in the Crimea, pretending he had known the dead soldier and befriended him-either lending him money, paying the debts he left, or giving him some precious personal belonging, like the watch hcqlaimed to have lent your brother, then when the family could not give it back to him-which they never could, since it did not exist-they felt in his debt, which he used to obtain invitations, influence, financial or social backing. Usually it was only a few hundred guineas, or to be a guest at their expense. In your father's case it was to his ruin and death. Either way Grey did not give a damn what happened to his victims, and he had every intention of continuing."

"What a vile crime," she said quietly. "He was totally despicable. I am glad that he is dead-and perhaps sorry for whoever killed him. You have not said who it was?" Suddenly she was cold also. "Mr. Evan-?"

"Yes ma'am-Mr. Monk went to his flat in Mecklenburg Square and faced him with it. They fought-Mr. Monk beat him, but he was definitely alive and not mortally hurt when Mr. Monk left. But as Monk reached the street he saw someone else arrive, and go towards the door which was still swinging open in the wind."

He saw Hester's face pale in the glare of the streetlamps through the carriage window.

"Who?"

"Menard Grey," he replied, waiting in the dark again to judge from her voice, or her silence, if she believed it. "Probably because Joscelin dishonored the memory of his friend Edward Dawlish, and deceived Edward's father into giving him hospitality, as he did your father-and the money would have followed."

She said nothing for several minutes. They swayed and rattled through the intermittent darkness, the rain battering on the roof and streaming past in torrents, yellow where the gaslight caught it.

"How very sad,'' she said at last, and her voice was tight with emotion as though the pity caused a physical pain in her throat."Poor Menard. I suppose you are going to arrest him? Why have you brought me? I can do nothing."

"We can't arrest him," he answered quietly. "There is no proof."

"There-" She swiveled around in her seat; he felt her rather than saw her. "Then what are you going to do? They'll think it was Monk. They'll charge him-they'll-" She swallowed. "They'll hang him."

"I know. We must make Menard confess. I thought you might know how we could do that? You know the Greys far better than we could, from the outside. And Joscelin was responsible for your father's death-and your mother's, indirectly."

Again she sat silent for so long he was afraid he had offended her, or reminded her of grief so deep she was unable to do anything but nurse its pain inside her. They were drawing close to Grafton Street, and soon they must leave the cab and face Monk with some resolution-or admit failure. Then he would be faced with the task he dreaded so much the thought of it made him sick. He must either tell Runcorn the truth, that Monk fought with Jos-celin Grey the night of his death-or else deliberately conceal the fact and lay himself open to certain dismissal from the police force-and the possible charge of accessory to murder.

They were in the Tottenham Court Road, lamps gleaming on the wet pavements, gutters awash. There was no time left.

"Miss Latterly."

"Yes. Yes," she said firmly. "I will come with you to Shelburne Hall. I have thought about it, and the only way I can see success is if you tell Lady Fabia the truth about Joscelin. I will corroborate it. My family were his victims as well, and she will have to believe me, because I have no interest in lying. It does not absolve my father's suicide in the eyes of the church." She hesitated only an instant. "Then if you proceed to tell her about Edward Dawlish as well, I think Menard may be persuaded to confess. He may see no other avenue open to him, once his mother realizes that he killed Joscelin-which she will. It will devastate her-it may destroy her." Her voice was very low. "And they may hang Menard. But we cannot permit the law to hang Mr. Monk instead, merely because the truth is a tragedy that will wound perhaps beyond bearing. Joscelin Grey was a man who did much evil. We cannot protect his mother either from her part in it, or from the pain of knowing."

"You'll come to Shelburne tomorrow?" He had to hear her say it again. "You are prepared to tell her your own family's suffering at Joscelin's hands?"

"Yes. And how Joscelin obtained the names of the dying in Scutari, as I now realize, so he could use them to cheat their families. At what time will you depart?"

Again relief swept over him, and an awe for her that she could so commit herself without equivocation. But then to go out to the Crimea to nurse she must be a woman of courage beyond the ordinary imagination, and to remain there, of a strength of purpose that neither danger nor pain could bend.

"I don't know," he said a trifle foolishly. "There was little purpose in going at all unless you were prepared to come. Lady Shelburne would hardly believe us without further substantiation from beyond police testimony. Shall we say the first train after eight o'clock in the morning?" Then he remembered he was asking a lady of some gentility. "Is that too early?"

"Certainly not." Had he been able to see her face there might have been the faintest of smiles on it.

"Thank you. Then do you wish to take this hansom back home again, and I shall alight here and go and tell Mr. Monk?"

"That would be the most practical thing," she agreed. "I shall see you at the railway station in the morning."

He wanted to say something more, but all that came to his mind was either repetitious or vaguely condescending. He simply thanked her again and climbed out into the cold and teeming rain. It was only when the cab had disappeared into the darkness and he was halfway up the stairs to Monk's rooms that he realized with acute embarrassment that he had left her to pay the cabby.

***

The journey to Shelburne was made at first with heated conversation and then in silence, apart from the small politenesses of travel. Monk was furious that Hester was present. He refrained from ordering her home again only because the train was already moving when she entered the carriage from the corridor, bidding them good-morning and seating herself opposite.

"I asked Miss Latterly to come," Evan explained without a blush, "because her additional testimony will carry great weight with Lady Fabia, who may well not believe us, since we have an obvious interest in claiming Joscelin was a cad. Miss Latterly's experience, and that of her family, is something she cannot so easily deny." He did not make the mistake of claiming that Hester had any moral right to be there because of her own loss, or her part in the solution. Monk wished he had, so he could lose his temper and accuse him of irrelevance. The argument he had presented was extremely reasonable-in fact he was right. Hester's corroboration would be very likely to tip the balance of decision, which otherwise the Greys together might rebut.

"I trust you will speak only when asked?" Monk said to her coldly. "This is a police operation, and a very delicate one." That she of all people should be the one whose assistance he needed at this point was galling in the extreme, and yet it was undeniable. She was in many ways everything he loathed in a woman, the antithesis of the gentleness that still lingered with such sweetness in his memory; and yet she had rare courage, and a force of character which would equal Fabia Grey's any day.

"Certainly, Mr. Monk," she replied with her chin high and her eyes unflinching, and he knew in that instant that she had expected precisely this reception, and come to the carriage late intentionally to circumvent the possibility of being ordered home. Although of course it was highly debatable as to whether she would have gone. And Evan would never countenance leaving her on the station platform at Shelburne. And Monk did care what Evan felt.

He sat and stared across at Hester, wishing he could think of something else crushing to say.

She smiled at him, clear-eyed and agreeable. It was not so much friendliness as triumph.

They continued the rest of the journey with civility, and gradually each became consumed in private thoughts, and a dread of the task ahead.

When they arrived at Shelburne they alighted onto the platform. The weather was heavy and dark with the presage of winter. It had stopped raining, but a cold wind stirred in gusts and chilled the skin even through heavy coats.

They were obliged to wait some fifteen minutes before a trap arrived, which they hired to take them to the hall. This journey, too, they made huddled together and without speaking. They were all oppressed by what was to come, and the trivialities of conversation would have been grotesque.

They were admitted reluctantly by the footman, but no persuasion would cause him to show them into the withdrawing room. Instead they were left together in the morning room, neither cheered nor warmed by the fire smoldering in the grate, and required to wait until Her Ladyship should decide whether she would receive them or not.

After twenty-five minutes the footman returned and conducted them to the boudoir, where Fabia was seated on her favorite settee, looking pale and somewhat strained, but perfectly composed.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk. Constable." She nodded at Evan. Her eyebrows rose and her eyes became icier. "Good morning, Miss Latterly. I assume you can explain your presence here in such curious company?''

Hester took the bull by the horns before Monk had time to form a reply.

"Yes, Lady Fabia. I have come to inform you of the truth about my family's tragedy-and yours."

"You have my condolences, Miss Latterly." Fabia looked at her with pity and distaste. "But I have no desire to know the details of your loss, nor do I wish to discuss my bereavement with you. It is a private matter. I imagine your intention is good, but it is entirely misplaced. Good day to you. The footman will see you to the door."

Monk felt the first flicker of anger stir, in spite of the consuming disillusion he knew this woman was shortly going to feel. Her willful blindness was monumental, her ability to disregard other people total.

Hester's face set hard with resolve, as granite hard as Fabia's own.

"It is the same tragedy, Lady Fabia. And I do not discuss it out of good intentions, but because it is a truth we are all obliged to face. It gives me no pleasure at all, but neither do I plan to run away from it-"

Fabia's chin came up and the thin muscles tightened in her neck, suddenly looking scraggy, as if age had descended on her in the brief moments since they entered the room.

"I have never run from a truth in my life, Miss Latterly, and I do not care for your impertinence in suggesting I might. You forget yourself."

"I would prefer to forget everything and go home." A ghost of a smile crossed Hester's face and vanished. "But I cannot. I think it would be better if Lord Shelburne and Mr. Menard Grey were to be present, rather than repeat the story for them later. There may be questions they wish to ask-Major Grey was their brother and they have some rights in knowing how and why he died."

Fabia sat motionless, her face rigid, her hands poised halfway towards the bell pull. She had not invited any of them to be seated, in fact she was on the point of asking again that they leave. Now, with the mention of Joscelin's murderer, everything was changed. There was not the slightest sound in the room except the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

"You know who killed Joscelin?" She looked at Monk, ignoring Hester.

"Yes ma'am, we do." He found his mouth dry and the pulse beating violently in his head. Was it fear, or pity- or both?

Fabia stared at him, demanding he explain everything for her, then slowly the challenge died. She saw something in his face which she could not overcome, a knowledge and a finality which touched her with the first breath of a chill, nameless fear. She pulled the bell, and when the maid came, told her to send both Menard and Lovel to her immediately. No mention was made of Rosamond.

She was not a Grey by blood, and apparently Fabia did not consider she had any place in this revelation.

They waited in silence, each in their separate worlds of misery and apprehension. Lovel came first, looking irritably from Fabia to Monk, and with surprise at Hester. He had obviously been interrupted while doing something he considered of far greater urgency.

"What is it?" he said, frowning at his mother. "Has something further been discovered?"

"Mr. Monk says he knows at last who killed Joscelin," she answered with masklike calm.

"Who?"

"He has not told me. He is waiting for Menard."

Lovel turned to Hester, his face puckered with confusion. "Miss Latterly?"

"The truth involves the death of my father also, Lord Shelburne," she explained gravely. "There are parts of it which I can tell you, so you understand it all."

The first shadow of anxiety touched him, but before he could press her further Menard came in, glanced from one to another of them, and paled.

"Monk finally knows who killed Joscelin," Lovel explained. "Now for heaven's sake, get on with it. I presume you have arrested him?"

"It is in hand, sir." Monk found himself more polite to them all than previously. It was a form of distancing himself, almost a sort of verbal defense.

"Then what is it you want of us?" Lovel demanded.

It was like plunging into a deep well of ice.

"Major Grey made his living out of his experience in the Crimean War-" Monk began. Why was he so mealy-mouthed? He was dressing it in sickening euphemisms.

"My son did not 'make his living' as you put it!" Fabia snapped. "He was a gentleman-there was no necessity. He had an allowance from the family estates."

"Which didn't begin to cover the expenses of the way he liked to live," Menard said savagely. "If you'd ever looked at him closely, even once, you would have known that."

"I did know it." Lovel glared at his brother. "I assumed he was successful at cards."

"He was-sometimes. At other times he'd lose-heavily- more than he had. He'd go on playing, hoping to get it back, ignoring the debts-until I paid them, to save the family honor."

"Liar," Fabia said with withering disgust. "You were always jealous of him, even as a child. He was braver, kinder and infinitely more charming than you." For a moment a brief glow of memory superseded the present and softened all the lines of anger in her fece-then the rage returned deeper man before. "And you couldn't forgive him for it."

Dull color burned up Menard's face and he winced as if he had been struck. But he did not retaliate. There was still in his eyes, in the turn of his lips, a pity for her which concealed the bitter truth.

Monk hated it. Futilely he tried again to think of any way he could to avoid exposing Menard even now.

The door opened and Callandra Daviot came in, meeting Hester's eyes, seeing the intense relief in them, then the contempt in Fabia's eyes and the anguish in Menard's.

"This is a family concern," Fabia said, dismissing her. "You need not trouble yourself with it."

Callandra walked past Hester and sat down.

"In case you have forgotten, Fabia, I was born a Grey. Something which you were not. I see the police are here. Presumably they have learned more about Joscelin's death-possibly even who was responsible. What are you doing here, Hester?"

Again Hester took the initiative. Her face was bleak and she stood with her shoulders stiff as if she were bracing herself against a blow.

"I came because I know a great deal about Joscelin's death, which you may not believe from anyone else."

"Then why have you concealed it until now," Fabia said with heavy disbelief. "I think you are indulging in a most vulgar intrusion, Miss Latterly, which I can only presume is a result of that same willful nature which drove you to go traipsing off to the Crimea. No wonder you are unmarried.''

Hester had been called worse things than vulgar, and by people for whose opinion she cared a great deal more than she did for Fabia Grey's.

"Because I did not know it had any relevance before," she said levelly. "Now I do. Joscelin came to visit my parents after my brother was lost in the Crimea. He told them he had lent George a gold watch the night before his death. He asked for its return, assuming it was found among George's effects." Her voice dropped a fraction and her back became even stiffer. "There was no watch in George's effects, and my father was so embarrassed he did what he could to make amends to Joscelin-with hospitality, money to invest in Joscelin's business enterprise, not only his own but his friends' also. The business failed and my father's money, and all that of his friends, was lost. He could not bear the shame of it, and he took his own life. My mother died of grief a short while later."

"I am truly sorry for your parents' death," Lovel interrupted, looking first at Fabia, then at Hester again. "But how can all this have anything to do with Joscelin's murder? It seems an ordinary enough matter-an honorable man making a simple compensation to clear his dead son's debt to a brother officer.''

Hester's voice shook and at last her control seemed in danger of breaking.

"There was no watch. Joscelin never knew George- any more than he knew a dozen others whose names he picked from the casualty lists, or whom he watched die in Scutari-I saw him do it-only then I didn't know why."

Fabia was white-lipped. "That is a most scandalous lie-and beneath contempt. If you were a man I should have you horsewhipped."

"Mother!" Lovel protested, but she ignored him.

"Joscelin was a beautiful man-brave and talented and full of charm and wit," she plunged on, her voice thick with emotion, the joy of the past, and the anguish. "Everyone loved him-except those few who were eaten with envy." Her eyes darted at Menard with something close to hatred. "Little men who couldn't bear to see anyone succeed beyond their own petty efforts." Her mouth trembled. "Lovel, because Rosamond loved Joscelin; he could make her laugh- and dream." Her voice hardened. "And Menard, who couldn't live with the fact that I loved Joscelin more than I loved anyone else in the world, and I always did."

She shuddered and her body seemed to shrink into itself as if withdrawing from something vile. "Now this woman has come here with her warped and fabricated story, and you stand there and listen to it. If you were men worthy of the name, you would throw her out and damn it for the slander it is. But it seems I must do it myself. No one has any sense of the family honor but me." She put her hands on the arm of her chair as if to rise to her feet.

"You'll have no one thrown out until I say so," Lovel said with a tight, calm voice, suddenly cutting like steel across her emotion. "It is not you who have defended the family honor; all you've defended is Joscelin-whether he deserved it or not. It was Menard who paid his debts and cleaned up the trail of cheating and welching he left behind-"

"Nonsense. Whose word do you have for that? Men-ard's?" She spat the name. "He is calling Joscelin a cheat, no one else. And he wouldn't dare, if Joscelin were alive. He only has the courage to do it now because he thinks you will back him, and there is no one here to call him the pathetic, treacherous liar he is."

Menard stood motionless, the final blow visible in the agony of his face. She had hurt him, and he had defended Joscelin for her sake for the last time.

Callandra stood up.

"You are wrong, Fabia, as you have been wrong all the time. Miss Latterly here, for one, will testify that Joscelin was a cheat who made money deceiving the bereaved who were too hurt and bewildered to see him for what he was. Menard was always a better man, but you were too fond of flattery to see it. Perhaps you were the one Joscelin deceived most of all-first, last and always.'' She did not flinch now, even from Fabia's stricken face as she caught sight at last of a fearful truth. "But you wanted to be deceived. He told you what you wished to hear; he told you you were beautiful, charming, gay-all the things a man loves in a woman. He learned his art in your gullibility, your willingness to be entertained, to laugh and to be the center of all the life and love in Shelburne. He said all that not because he thought for a moment it was true, but because he knew you would love him for saying it- and you did, blindly and indiscriminately, to the exclusion of everyone else. That is your tragedy, as well as his."

Fabia seemed to wither as they watched her.

"You never liked Joscelin," she said in a last, frantic attempt to defend her world, her dreams, all the past that was golden and lovely to her, everything that gave her meaning as it crumbled in front of her-not only what Joscelin had been, but what she herself had been. "You are a wicked woman."

"No, Fabia," Callandra replied. "I am a very sad one." She turned to Hester. "I assume it is not your brother who killed Joscelin, or you would not have come here to tell us this way. We would have believed the police, and the details would not have been necessary.'' With immeasurable sorrow she looked across at Menard. "You paid his debts. What else did you do?"

There was an aching silence in the room.

Monk could feel his heart beating as if it had the force to shake his whole body. They were poised on the edge of truth, and yet it was still so far away. It could be lost again by a single slip; they could plunge away into an abyss of fear, whispered doubts, always seeing suspicions, double meanings, hearing the footstep behind and the hand on the shoulder.

Against his will, he looked across at Hester, and saw that she was looking at him, the same thoughts plain in her eyes. He turned his head quickly back to Menard, who was ashen-faced.

"What else did you do?" Callandra repeated. "You knew what Joscelin was-"

"I paid his debts." Menard's voice was no more than a whisper.

"Gambling debts," she agreed. "What about his debts of honor, Menard? What about his terrible debts to men like Hester's father and brother-did you pay them as well?"

"I-I didn't know about the Latterlys," Menard stammered.

Callandra's face was tight with grief.

"Don't equivocate, Menard. You may not have known the Latterlys by name, but you knew what Joscelin was doing. You knew he got money from somewhere, because you knew how much he had to gamble with. Don't tell us you didn't learn where it came from. I know you better than that. You would not have rested in that ignorance- you knew what a fraud and a cheat Joscelin was, and you knew there was no honest way for him to come by so much. Menard-" Her face was gentle, full of pity. "You have behaved with such honor so far-don't soil it now by lying. There is no point, and no escape."

He winced as if she had struck him, and for a second Monk thought he was going to collapse. Then he straightened up and faced her, as though she had been a long-awaited execution squad-and death was not now the worst fear.

"Was it Edward Dawlish?" Now her voice also was barely above a whisper. "I remember how you cared for each other as boys, and your grief when he was killed. Why did his father quarrel with you?"

Menard did not evade the truth, but he spoke not to Callandra but to his mother, his voice low and hard, a lifetime of seeking and being rejected naked in it finally.

"Because Joscelin told him I had led Edward into gambling beyond his means, and that in the Crimea he had got in over his head with his brother officers, and would have died in debt-except that Joscelin settled it all for him."

There was a rich irony in that, and it was lost on no one. Even Fabia flinched in a death's-head acknowledgment of its cruel absurdity.

"For his family's sake," Menard continued, his voice husky, his eyes on Callandra. "Since I was the one who had led him to ruin."

He gulped. "Of course there was no debt. Joscelin never even served in the same area as Edward-I found that out afterwards. It was all another of his lies-to get money." He looked at Hester. "It was not as bad as your loss. At least Dawlish didn't kill himself. I am truly sorry about your family."

"He didn't lose any money." Monk spoke at last. "He didn't have time. You killed Joscelin before he could take it. But he had asked."

There was utter silence. Callandra put both her hands to her face. Lovel was stunned, unable to comprehend. Fabia was a broken woman. She no longer cared. What happened to Menard was immaterial. Joscelin, her beloved Joscelin, had been murdered in front of her in a new and infinitely more dreadful way. They had robbed her not only of the present and the future, but all the warm, sweet, precious past. It had all gone; there was nothing left but a handful of bitter ash.

They all waited, each in a separate world in the moments between hope and the finality of despair. Only Fabia had already been dealt the ultimate blow.

Monk found the nails of his hands cutting his palms, so tightly were his fists clenched. It could all still slip away from him. Menard could deny it, and there would be no proof sufficient. Runcorn would have only the bare facts, and come after Monk, and what was there to protect him?

The silence was like a slow pain, growing with each second.

Menard looked at his mother and she saw the movement of his head, and turned her face away, slowly and deliberately.

"Yes," Menard said at last. "Yes I did. He was despicable. It wasn't only what he had done to Edward Dawlish, or me, but what he was going to go on doing. He had to be stopped-before it became public, and the name of Grey was a byword for a man who cheats the families of his dead comrades-in-arms, a more subtle and painful version of those who crawl over the battlefield the morning after and rob the corpses of the fallen."

Callandra walked over to him and put her hand on his arm.

"We will get the best legal defense available," she said very quietly. "You had a great deal of provocation. I think they will not find murder."

"We will not." Fabia's voice was a mere crackle, almost a sob, and she looked at Menard with terrible hatred.

"I will," Callandra corrected. "I have quite sufficient means." She turned back to Menard again. "I will not leave you alone, my dear. I imagine you will have to go with Mr. Monk now-but I will do all that is necessary, I promise you."

Menard held her hand for a moment; something crossed his lips that was almost a smile. Then he turned to Monk.

"I am ready."

Evan was standing by the door with the manacles in his pocket. Monk shook his head, and Menard walked out slowly between them. The last thing Monk heard was Hester's voice as she stood next to Callandra.

"I will testify for him. When the jury hears what Joscelin did to my family, they may understand-"

Monk caught Evan's eye and felt a lift of hope. If Hester Latterly fought for Menard, the battle could not easily be lost. His hand held Menard's arm-but gently.