Defend and Betray

chapter 7
Monk was finding the Carlyon case, as Rathbone had said, a thankless one. But he had given his word that he would do all he could for as long as it was asked of him. There were over two weeks yet until the trial, and so far he had found nothing that could be of use in helping even to mitigate the case against Alexandra, let alone answer it. It was a matter of pride not to give up now, and his own curiosity was piqued. He did not like to be beaten. He had not been beaten on a serious case since the accident, and he thought seldom before it.

And there was also the perfectly practical fact that Rathbone was still paying him, and he had no other case pending.

In the afternoon Monk went again to see Charles Hargrave. He had been the Carlyon family doctor for many years. If anyone knew the truth, or the elements from which the truth could be deduced, it would be he.

He was received courteously, and as soon as he explained why he believed Hargrave could help, he was led through into the same pleasing room as before. Hargrave instructed the servants he was not to be interrupted except for an emergency, and then offered Monk a seat and made himself available to answer any questions he was free to.

"I cannot tell you any personal facts about Mrs. Carlyon, you understand," he said with an apologetic smile. "She is still my patient, and I have to assume that she is innocent until the law says otherwise, in spite of that being patently ridiculous. But I admit, if I thought there was anything at all that would be of help in your case, I should break that confidence and give you all the information I had." He lifted his shoulders a trifle. "But there is nothing. She has had only the very ordinary ailments that most women have. Her confinements were without incident. Her children were born normally, and thrived. She herself recovered her health as soon and as happily as most women do. There is really nothing to tell."

"Not like Sabella?"

His face shadowed."No - no, I am afraid Sabella was one of those few who suffer profoundly. No one knows why it happens, but occasionally a woman will have a difficult time carrying a child, during confinement, or afterwards. Sabella was quite well right up until the last week. Her confinement was long and extremely painful. At one time I was fearful lest we lose her."

"Her mother would be most distressed."

"Of course. But then death in childbirth is quite common, Mr. Monk. It is a risk all women take, and they are aware of it."

"Was that why Sabella did not wish to marry? "

Hargrave looked surprised. "Not that I know of. I believe she genuinely wished to devote her life to the Church." Again he raised his shoulders very slightly. "It is not unknown among girls of a certain age. Usually they grow out of it. It is a sort of romance, an escape for a young and overheated imagination. Some simply fall in love with an ideal of man, a figure from literature or whatever, some with the most ideal of all - the Son of God. And after all" - he smiled with a gentle amusement touched only fractionally with bitterness - "it is the one love which can never M short of our dreams, never disillusion us, because it lies in illusion anyway." He sighed. "No, forgive me, that is not quite right. I mean it is mystical, its fulfillment does not rest with any real person but in the mind of the lover."

"And after the confinement and the birth of her child?" Monk prompted.

"Oh - yes, I'm afraid she suffered a melancholia that occasionally occurs at such times. She became quite deranged, did not want her child, repelled any comfort or offer of help, any friendship; indeed any company except that of her mother." He spread his hands expressively. "But it passed. These things do. Sometimes they take several years, but usually it is only a matter of a month or two, or at most four or five."

"There was no question of her being incarcerated as insane?"

"No!" Hargrave was startled. "None at all. Her husband was very patient, and they had a wet nurse for the child. Why?"

Monk sighed. "It was a possibility."

"Alexandra? Don't see how. What are you looking for, Mr. Monk? What is it you hope to find? If I knew, perhaps I could save your time, and tell you if it exists at all."

"I don't know myself," Monk confessed. Also he did not wish to confide in Hargrave, or anyone else, because the whole idea involved some other person who was a threat to Alexandra. And who better than her doctor, who must know so many intimate things?

"What about the general?" he said aloud. "He is dead and cannot care who knows about him, and his medical history may contain some answer as to why he was killed."

Hargrave frowned. "I cannot think what. It is very ordinary indeed. Of course I did not attend him for the various injuries he received in action." He smiled. "In fact I think the only time I attended him at all was for a cut he received on his upper leg - a rather foolish accident."

"Oh? It must have been severe for him to send for you."

"Yes, it was a very nasty gash, ragged and quite deep. It was necessary to clean it, stop the bleeding with packs, then to stitch it closed. I went back several times to make quite sure it healed properly, without infection."

"How did it happen?" A wild thought occurred to Monk that it might have been a previous attack by Alexandra, which the general had warded off, sustaining only a thigh injury.

A look of puzzlement crossed Hargrave's face.

"He said he had been cleaning an ornamental weapon, an Indian knife he had brought home as a souvenir, and taken it to give to young Valentine Furnival. It had stuck in its scabbard, and in forcing it out it slipped from his grasp and gashed him on die leg. He was attempting to clean it, or something of the sort."

"Valentine Furnival? Was Valentine visiting him?"

"No - no, it happened at the Furnivals' house. I was sent there."

"Did you see the weapon?" Monk asked.

"No - I didn't bother. He assured me the blade itself was clean, and that since it was such a dangerous thing he had disposed of it. I saw no reason to pursue it, because even in the unlikely event it was not self-inflicted, but a domestic quarrel, it was none of my affair, so long as he did not ask me to interfere. And he never did. In fact he did not mention it again as long as I knew him." He smiled slightly. "If you are thinking it was Alexandra, I must say I think you are mistaken, but even if so, he forgave her for it. And nothing like it ever occurred again."

"Alexandra was at the Furnivals' house?"

"I've no idea. I didn't see her."

"I see. Thank you, Dr. Hargrave."

And although he stayed another forty-five minutes, Monk learned nothing else that was of use to him. In fact he could find no thread to follow that might lead him to the reason why Alexandra had killed her husband, and still less why she should remain silent rather than admit it, even to him.

He left in the late afternoon, disappointed and puzzled.

* * * * *

He must ask Rathbone to arrange for him to see the woman again, but while that was in hand, he would go back to her daughter, Sabella Pole. The answer as to why Alexandra had killed her husband must lie somewhere in her nature, or in her circumstances. The only course that he could see left to him was to learn still more about her.

Accordingly, eleven o'clock in the morning saw him at Fenton Pole's house in Albany Street, again knocking on the door and requesting to see Mrs. Pole, if she would receive him, and handing the maid his card.

He had chosen his time carefully. Fenton Pole was out on business, and as he had hoped, Sabella received him eagerly. As soon as he came into the morning room where she was she rose from the green sofa and came towards him, her eyes wide and hopeful, her hair framing her face with its soft, fair curls. Her skirts were very wide, the crinoline hoops settling themselves straight as she rose and the taffeta rustling against itself with a soft, whispering sound.

Without any warning he felt a stab of memory that erased his present surroundings of conventional green and placed him in a gaslit room with mirrors reflecting a chandelier, and a woman talking. But before he could focus on anything it was gone, leaving nothing behind but confusion, a sense of being in two places at once, and a desperate need to recapture it and grasp the whole of it.

"Mr. Monk," Sabella said hastily. "I am so glad you came again. I was afraid after my husband was so abrupt to you that you would not return. How is Mama? Have you seen her? Can you help? No one will tell me anything, and I am going nearly frantic with fear for her."

The sunlight in the bright room seemed unreal, as if he were detached from it and seeing it in a reflection rather than reality. His mind was struggling after gaslight, dim corners and brilliant splinters of light on crystal.

Sabella stood in front of him, her lovely oval face strained and her eyes full of anxiety. He must pull his wits together and give her his attention. Every decency demanded it. What had she said? Concentrate!

"I have requested permission to see her again as soon as possible, Mrs. Pole," he replied, his words sounding far away. "As to whether I can help, I am afraid I don't know yet. So far I have learned little that seems of any use."

She closed her eyes as if the pain were physical, and stepped back from him.

"I need to know more about her," he went on, memory abandoned for the moment. "Please, Mrs. Pole, if you can help me, do so. She will not tell us anything, except that she killed him. She will not tell us any reason but the one we know is not true. I have searched for any evidence of another cause, and I can find none. It must be in her nature, or in your father's. Or in some event which as yet we know nothing of. Please - tell me about them!"

She opened her eyes and stared at him; slowly a little of the color came back into her lace.

"What sort of thing do you wish to know, Mr. Monk? I will tell you anything I can. Just ask me - instruct me!" She sat down and waved to a seat for him.

He obeyed, sinking into the deep upholstery and finding it more comfortable than he had expected.

"It may be painful," he warned. "If it distresses you please say so. I do not wish to make you ill." He was gentler with her than he had expected to be, or was his habit. Perhaps it was because she was too concerned with her mother to think of being afraid of him for herself. Fear brought out a pursuing instinct in him, a kind of anger because he thought it was unwarranted. He admired courage.

"Mr. Monk, my mother's life is in jeopardy," she replied with a very direct gaze. "I do not think a little distress is beyond my bearing."

He smiled at her for the first time, a quick, generous gesture that came quite spontaneously.

"Thank you. Did you ever hear your parents quarreling, say, in the last two or three years?"

She smiled back at him, only a ghost, and then was gone.

"I have tried to think of that myself," she said seriously. "And I am afraid I have not. Papa was not the sort of man to quarrel. He was a general, you know. Generals don't quarrel." She pulled a little face. "I suppose that is because the only person who would dare to quarrel with a general would be another general, and you so seldom get two in any one place. There is presumably a whole army between one general and the next."

She was watching his face. "Except in the Crimea, so I hear. And then of course they did quarrel - and the results were catastrophic. At least that is what Maxim Furnival says, although everybody else denies it and says our men were fearfully brave and the generals were all very clever. But I believe Maxim..."

"So do I," he agreed. "I believe some were clever, most were brave enough, but far too many were disastrously ignorant and inexcusably stupid!"

"Oh do you think so?" The fleeting smile crossed her face again. "Not many people will dare to say that generals are stupid, especially so close to a war. But my father was a general, and so I know how they can be. They know some things, but others they have no idea of at all, the most ordinary things about people. Half the people in the world are women, you know?" She said it as if the fact surprised even herself.

He found himself liking her."Was your father like that?" he asked, not only because it mattered, but because he was interested.

"Very much." She lifted her head and pushed back a stray strand of hair. The gesture was startlingly familiar to him, bringing back not a sight or a sound, but an emotion of tenderness rare and startling to him, and a longing to protect her as if she were a vulnerable child; and yet he knew beyond question that the urgency he felt was not that which he might have towards any child, but only towards a woman.

But which woman? What had happened between them, and why did he not know her now? Was she dead? Had he failed to protect her, as he had failed with the Walbrooks? Or had they quarreled over something; had he been too precipitate with his feelings? Did she love someone else?

If only he knew more of himself, he might know the answer to that. All he had learned up until now showed him that he was not a gentle man, not used to bridling his tongue to protect other people's feelings, or to stifling his own wants, needs, or opinions. He could be cruel with words. Too many cautious and bruised inferiors had borne witness to that. He recalled with increasing discomfort the wariness with which they had greeted him when he returned from the hospital after the accident. They admired him, certainly, respected his professional ability and judgment, his honesty, skill, dedication and courage. But they were also afraid of him - and not only if they were lax in duty or less than honest, but even if they were in the right. Which meant that a number of times he must have been unjust, his sarcastic wit directed against the weak as well as the strong. It was not a pleasant knowledge to live with.

"Tell me about him." He looked at Sabella. "Tell me about his nature, his interests, what you liked best about him, and what you disliked."

"Liked best about him?" She concentrated hard. "I think Hiked. . ."

He was not listening to her. The woman he had loved -  yes, loved was the word - why had he not married her? Had she refused him? But if he had cared so much, why could he not now even recall her face, her name, anything about her beyond these sharp and confusing flashes?

Or had she been guilty of the crime after all? Was that why he had tried to expunge her from his mind? And she returned now only because he had forgotten the circumstances, the guilt, the dreadful end of the aflair? Could he have been so mistaken in his judgment? Surely not. It was his profession to detect truth from lies - he could not have been such a fool!

"... and I liked the way he always spoke gently," Sabella was saying. "I can't recall that I ever heard him shout, or use language unbecoming for us to hear. He had a lovely voice." She was looking up at the ceiling, her face softer, the anger gone from it, which he had only dimly registered when she must have been speaking of some of the things she disliked in her father."He used to read to us from the Bible -  the Book of Isaiah especially," she went on. "I don't remember what he said, but I loved listening to him because his voice wrapped all 'round us and made it all seem important and good."

"And your greatest dislike?" he prompted, hoping she had not already specified it when he was not listening.

"I think the way he would withdraw into himself and not even seem to notice that I was there - sometimes for days," she replied without hesitation. Then a look of sorrow came into her eyes, and a self-conscious pain. "And he never laughed with me, as if - as if he were not altogether comfortable in my company." Her fair brows puckered as she concentrated on Monk. "Do you know what I mean?"

Then as quickly she looked away. "I'm sorry, that is a foolish question, and embarrassing. I fear I am being no help at all - and I wish I could." This last was said with such intense feeling that Monk ached to be able to reach across the bright space between them and touch her slender wrist, to assure her with some more immediate warmth than words, that he did understand. But to do so would be intrusive, and open to all manner of misconstruction. All he could think of was to continue with questions that might lead to some fragment of useful knowledge. He did not often feel so awkward.

"I believe he had been friends with Mr. and Mrs. Furoival for a long time?"

She looked up, recalling herself to the matter in hand and putting away memory and thought of her own wounds.

"Yes - about sixteen or seventeen years, I think, something like that. They had been much closer over the last seven or eight years. I believe he used to visit them once or twice a week when he was at home." She looked at him with a slight frown. "But he was friends with both of them, you know. It would be easy to believe he was having an affair with Louisa - I mean easy as far as his death is concerned, but I really do not think he was. Maxim was very fond of Mama, you know? Sometimes I used to think - but that is another thing, and of no use to us now.

"Maxim is in the business of dealing in foodstuffs, you know, and Papa put a very great deal of army contracts his way. A cavalry regiment can use a marvelous amount of corn, hay, oats and so on. I think he also was an agent Car saddlery and other things of that sort. I don't know the details, but I know Maxim profited greatly because of it, and has become a very respected power in the trade, among his fellows. I think he must be very good at it."

"Indeed." Monk turned it over in his mind; it was an interesting piece of information, but he could not see how it was of any use to Alexandra Carlyon. It did not sound in any way corrupt; presumably a general might suggest to his quartermaster that he obtain his stores from one merchant rather than another, if the price were feir. But even had it not been, why should that cause Alexandra any anger or distress - still less drive her to murder?

But it was another thread leading back to the Furnivals.

"Do you remember the incident where your father was stabbed with the ornamental knife? It happened at the Furnivals' house. It was quite a deep injury."

"He wasn't stabbed," she said with a tiny smile. "He slipped and did it himself. He was cleaning the knife, or something. I can't imagine why. It wasn't even used."

"But you remember it? "

"Yes of course. Poor Valentine was terribly upset. I think he saw it happen. He was only about eleven or twelve, poor child."

"Was your mother there?"

"At the Furnivals'? Yes, I think so. I really don't remember. Louisa was there. She sent for Dr. Hargrave to come immediately because it was bleeding pretty badly. They had to put a lot of bandages on it, and he could barely get his trousers back on, even with Maxim's valet to help him. When he came down the stairs, assisted by the valet and the footman, I could see the great bulges under the cloth of his trousers. He looked awfully pale and he went straight home in the carriage."

Monk tried to visualize it. A clumsy accident. But was it relevant? Could it conceivably have been an earner attempt to kill him? Surely not - not in the Furnivals' house and so long ago. But why not in the Furnivals' house? She had finally killed him there. But why no attempt between men and now?

Sabella had said she saw the swell of the bandages under his trousers. Not the bloodstained tear where the knife had gone through! Was it possible Alexandra had found him in bed with Louisa and taken the knife to him in a fit of jealous rage? And they had conspired to conceal it - and the scandal? There was no point in asking Sabella. She would naturally deny it, to protect her mother.

He stayed a further half hour, drawing from her memories of her parents, some quite varied, but not showing him anything he had not already learned from his talk with the servants in Alexandra's own home. She and the general had been reasonably content in their relationship. It was cool but not intolerable. He had not abused her in any way, he had been generous, even-tempered, and had no apparent vices; he was simply an unemotional man who preferred his own interests and his own company. Surely that was the position of many married women, and nothing to warrant serious complaint, let alone violence.

He thanked her, promised her again that he would not cease to do all he could for her mother, right to the last possible moment, then took his leave with a deep regret that he could offer her no real comfort.

He was outside on the warm pavement in the sun when the sudden fragrance of lilac in bloom made him stop so abruptly a messenger boy moving along the curb nearly fell over him. The smell, the brightness of the light and the warmth of the paving stones woke in him a feeling of such intense loneliness, as if he had just this moment lost something, or realized it was beyond his reach when he had thought it his, that he found his heart pounding and his breath caught in his throat.

But why? Who? Whose closeness, whose friendship or love had he lost? How? Had they betrayed him - or he them? He had a terrible fear that it was he who had betrayed them!

One answer he knew already, as soon as the question formed in his mind - it was the woman whom he had tried to defend from a charge of killing her husband. The woman with the fair hair and dark amber eyes. That was certain: but only that - no more.

He must find out! If he had investigated the case then there would be police records of it: names, dates, places -  conclusions. He would find out who the woman was and what had happened to her, if possible what they had felt for each other, and why it had ended.

He moved forward with a fresh, determined stride. Now he had purpose. At the end of Albany Street he turned into the Euston Road and within a few minutes had hailed a cab. There was only one course open. He would find Evan and get him to search through the records for the case.

* * * * *

But it was not so easy. He was not able to contact Evan until early in the evening, when he came back tired and dispirited from a fruitless chase after a man who had embezzled a fortune and fled with it across the Channel. Now began the burdensome business of contacting the French police to apprehend him.

When Monk caught up with Evan leaving the police station on his way home, Evan was sufficiently generous of spirit to be pleased to see him, but he was obviously tired and discouraged. For once Monk put his own concern out of his immediate mind, and simply walked in step with Evan for some distance, listening to his affairs, until Evan, knowing him well, eventually asked why he had come.

Monk pulled a face.

"For help," he acknowledged, skirting his way around an old woman haggling with a coster.

"The Carlyon case?" Evan asked, stepping back onto the pavement.

"No - quite different. Have you eaten?"

"No. Given up on the Carlyon case? It must be coming to trial soon."

"Care to have dinner with me? There's a good chophouse 'round the corner.'"

Evan smiled, suddenly illuminating his face. "I'd love to. What is it you want, if it's not the Carlyons?"

"I haven't given up on it, I'm still looking. But this is a case in the past, something I worked on before the accident."

Evan was startled, his eyes widened. "You remember!"

"No - oh, I remember more, certainly. Bits and pieces keep coming back. But I can remember a woman charged with murdering her husband, and I was trying to solve the case, or to be more precise, I was trying to clear her."

They turned the corner into Goodge Street and halfway along came to the chophouse. Inside was warm and busy, crowded with clerks and businessmen, traders and men of the minor professions, all talking together and eating, a clatter of knives, forks, chink of plates and the pleasant steam of hot food.

Monk and Evans were conducted to a table and took then-seats, giving their orders without reference to a menu. For a moment an old comfort settled over Monk. It was like the~ best of the past, and for all the pleasure of being rid of Run-corn, he realized how lonely he was without the comradeship of Evan, and how anxious he was lurching from one private case to another, with never the certainty of anything further, and only a week or two's money in hand.

"What is it?" Evan asked, his young face full of interest and concern. "Do you need to find the case because of Mrs. Carlyon?"

"No." Monk did not even think of being dishonest with him, and yet he was self-conscious about exposing his vulnerability. "I keep getting moments of memory so sharp, I know I cared about it profoundly. It is simply for myself; I need to know who she was, and what happened to her." He watched Evan's face for pity, dreading it.

"Her?" Evan said casually.

"The woman." Monk looked down at the white tablecloth. "She keeps coming back into my mind, obscuring what I am thinking of at the time. It is my past, part of my life I need to reclaim. I must find die case."

"Of course." If Evan felt any curiosity or compassion he hid it, and Monk was profoundly grateful.

Their meals arrived and they began to eat, Monk with indifference, Evan hungrily.

"All right," Evan said after a few moments, when the edge of his appetite had been blunted. "What do you want me to do?"

Monk had already thought of this carefully. He did not want to ask more of Evan than he had to, or to place him in an intolerable position.

"Look through the files of my past cases and see which ones fit the possibilities. Then give me what information you can, and I'll retrace my steps. Find whatever witnesses there still are available, and I'll find her."

Evan put some meat in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. He did not point out that he was not permitted to do this, or what Runcorn would say if he found out, or even that it would be necessary to practice a certain amount of deception to his colleagues in order to obtain such files. They both knew it. Monk was asking a very considerable favor. It would be indelicate to make it obvious, and Evan was not an unkind man, but a small smile did curl the corners of his sensitive mouth, and Monk saw it and understood. His resentment died even as it was born. It was grossly unfair.

Evan swallowed.

"What do you know about her?" he asked, reaching for his glass of cider.

"She was young," Monk began, saw the flash of humor in Evan's face, and went on as if he had not. "Fair hair, brown eyes. She was accused of murdering her husband, and I was investigating the case. That's all. Except I must have spent some time on it, because I knew her quite well - and I cared about her."

Evan's laughter died completely, replaced by a complexity of expression which Monk knew was an attempt to hide his sympathy. It was ridiculous, and sensitive, and admirable. And from anyone else Monk would have loathed it.

"I'll find all the cases that answer these criteria," Evan promised. "I can't bring the files, but I'll write down the-details that matter and tell you the outline."

"When?"

"Monday evening. That will be my first chance. Can't tell you what time. This chop is very good." He grinned. "You can give me dinner here again, and I'll tell you what I know."

"I'm obliged," Monk said with a very feint trace of sarcasm, but he meant it more than it was easy for him to say.

* * * * *

"There's the first," Evan said the following Monday evening, passing a folded piece of paper across the table to Monk. They were sitting in the cheerful hubbub of the chop-house with waiters, diners and steaming food all around them. "Margery Worth, accused of murdering her husband by poison in order to run off with a younger man." Evan pulled a face. "I'm afraid I don't know what the result of the trial was. Our records only show that the evidence you collected was pretty good, but not conclusive. I'm sorry."

"You said the first." Monk took the paper. "There are others?"

"Two more. I only had the time to copy one of them, and that is only the bare outline, you know. Phyllis Dexter. She was accused of killing her husband with a carving knife." He shrugged expressively. "She claimed it was self-defense. From what you have in your notes there is no way of telling whether it was or not, nor what you thought of it. "Vbur feelings are plain enough; you sympathized with her and thought he deserved all he got. But that doesn't mean that she told the truth."

"Any notes on the verdict?" Monk tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. This sounded as if it could be the case about which he cared so much, if only by reading his notes from the file Evan could sense the emotion through it. "What happened to her? How long ago was it?"

"No idea what happened to her," Evan replied with a rueful smile. "Your notes didn't say, and I didn't dare ask anyone in case they realized what I was doing. I had no reason to know."

"Of course. But when did it happen? It must have been dated."

"1853."

"And the other one, Margery Worth?"

"1854." Evan passed over the second piece of paper. "There is everything in there I could copy in the time. All the places and principal people you interviewed."

"Thank you." Monk meant it and did not know how to say it without being clumsy, and embarrassing Evan. "I. . ."

"Good," Evan said quickly with a grin. "So you should. What about getting me another mug of cider?"

* * * * *

The next morning, with an unusual mixture of excitement and fear, Monk set off on the train for Suffolk and the village of Yoxford. It was a brilliant day, sky with white towers of cloud in the sunlight, fields rolling in green waves from the carriage windows, hedges burgeoning with drifts of hawthorn blossoms. He wished he could be out to walk among it and smell the wild, sweet odor of it, instead of in this steaming, belching, clanking monster roaring through the countryside on a late spring morning.

But he was driven by a compulsion, and the only thatched village nestling against the folded downs or half hidden by its trees which held any interest for him was the one which might yield up his past, and the woman who haunted him.

He had read Evan's notes as soon as he got to his rooms the previous evening. He tried this one first simply because it was the closer of the two. The second lay in Shrewsbury, and would be a full day's journey away, and since Shrewsbury was a far larger town, might be harder to trace now it was three years old.

The notes on Margery Worth told a simple story. She was a handsome young woman, married some eight years to a man nearly twice her age. One October morning she had reported to the local doctor that her husband had died in the night, she knew not how. He had made no disturbance and she was a heavy sleeper and had been in the next room since she had taken a chill and did not wish to waken him with her sneezing.

The doctor duly called around with expressions of sympathy, and pronounced that Jack Worth was indeed dead, but he was unsatisfied as to the cause. The body was removed and a second opinion called for. The second opinion, from a doctor in Saxmundham, some four and a half miles away, was of the view that Jack Worth had not died naturally but of some poison. However he could not be certain, he could not name the poison, nor could he state positively when it had been administered, and still less by whom.

The local police had been called in, and confessed themselves confused. Margery was Jack Worth's second wife, and he had two grown sons by the first who stood to inherit the farm, which was of considerable size, and extremely fertile. Margery was to have the house for the duration of her life, or until she remarried, and a small income, barely sufficient to survive.

Scotland Yard was sent for. Monk had arrived on November 1, 1854. He had immediately seen the local police, then had interviewed Margery herself, the first doctor, the second doctor, both the surviving sons, and several other neighbors and shopkeepers. Evan had not been able to make copies of any of his questions, or their answers, only the names, but it would be sufficient to retrace his steps, and the villagers would doubtless remember a great deal about a celebrated murder only three years old., The journey took him rather more than two hours, and he alighted at the small station and walked the road some three quarters of a mile back to the village. There was one main street stretching westward, with shops and a public house, and as far as he could see only one side street off it. It was a little early for luncheon, but not at all inappropriate to go to the public house and have a glass of cider.

He was greeted with silent curiosity and it was ten minutes before the landlord finally spoke to him.

"Momin', Mr. Monk. What be you doin' back 'ere, then? We in't 'ad no more murders you know."

"I'm glad to hear it," Monk said conversationally. "I'm sure one is enough."

"More'n so," the landlord agreed.

Another few minutes passed in silence. Two more men came in, hot and thirsty, bare arms brown from the wind and sun, eyes blinking in the interior darkness after the brilliance outside. No one left.

"So what you 'ere for then?" the landlord said at last.

"Tidying up a few things," Monk replied casually.

The landlord eyed him suspiciously. "Like wot, then? Poor Margery 'anged. Wot else is there to do?"

That was the last question answered first, and brutally. Monk felt a sick chill, as if something had slipped out of his grasp already. And yet the name meant nothing to him. He could vaguely recall this street, but what use was that? There was no question that he had been here; the question was, was Margery Worth the woman he had cared about so intensely? How could he find out? Only her form, her face would tell him, and they were destroyed with her life on the gallows rope.

"A few questions must be asked," he said as noncom-mittally as he could, but his throat was tight and his heart raced, and yet he felt cold. Was that why he could not remember - bitter dreadful failure? Was it pride that had blocked it out, and the woman who had died with it?

"I want to retrace some of my steps and be sure I recall it rightly." His voice was husky and the excuse sounded lame even as he said it.

" 'Oo's asking?" The landlord was wary.

Monk compromised the truth. "Their lordships in London. That's all I can say. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go and see if the doctor's still about."

" 'E's still about. "The landlord shook his head. "Butol' Doc Sillitoe from Saxmundham's dead now. Fell off 'is 'orse and cracked 'is 'ead wide open."

"I to sorry to hear it." Monk went out and turned left along the road, trusting memory and good luck would find the right house for him. Everyone knew where the doctor lived.

He spent that day and the following one in Yoxford. He spoke to the doctor and to both Jack WorthTs sons, now in possession of his farm; the police constable, who greeted him with fear and embarrassment, eager to please him even now;

and to his landlord for the night. He learned much about his first investigation which was not recorded in Ms notes, but none of it struck any chord in memory except a vague femiliarity with a house or a view along a street, a great tree against the sky or the wave of the land. There was nothing sharp, no emotion except a sort of peace at the beauty of the place, the calm skies filled with great clouds sailing across the width of heaven in towers like splashed and ruffled snow, the green of the land, deep huddled oaks and elms, the hedges wide, tangled with wild roses and dappled with cow parsley that some of the locals called ladies' lace. The may blossom was heavy and its rich scent reached out and clung around him. The flowering chestnuts raised myriad candles to the sun, and already the corn was springing green and strong.

But it was utterly impersonal. He felt no lurch of emotion, no tearing inside that loss or drowning loneliness was ahead.

His retraced footsteps taught him that he had been hard on the local constable, critical of the inability to collect evidence and deduce facts from it. He rued his harsh words but it was too late to undo them now. He did not know exactly what he had said; only the man's nervousness and his repeated apologies, his eagerness to please made the past obvious. Why had he been so harsh? He might have been accurate, but it was unnecessary, and had not made the man a better detective, only hurt him. What did he need to be a detective for, here in a tiny village where the worst he would deal with would be a few drunken quarrels, a little poaching, the occasional petty theft? But to apologize now would be absurd, and do no good. The harm was done. He could not ease his conscience with belated patronage.

It was from the loeal doctor, unprepared to see him back, and full of respect, that he learned how unremitting had been his pursuit of the case and how his attention to detail, his observation of mannerisms and subtle, intuitive guesses had finally learned the poison used, the unsuspected lover who had driven Margery to rid herself of her husband, and sent her to her own early death.

"Brilliant," the doctor had said again, shaking his head.

"Brilliant, you were, and no mistake. Never used to 'ave time for Lunnon folk myself, before that. But you surely showed us a thing or two." He eyed Monk with interest untouched by liking. "And bought that picture from Squire Leadbetter for a pretty penny. Spent your money like you 'ad no end of it, you did. Folks still talk about it."

"Bought the picture ...?". Monk frowned, trying to recall. There was no picture of any great beauty among his things. Had he given it to the woman?

"Lord bless me, don't you remember?" The doctor looked amazed, his sandy eyebrows raised in incredulity. "Cost more'n I make in a month, it did, an' no mistake. I suppose you were that pleased with yourself in your case. An' it was a clever piece o' work, I'll give you that. We all knew no one else could 'ave done it, an' p'raps the poor creature got all she deserved, God forgive 'er."

And that was the final seal on his disappointment. If he had gone out and committed some extravagance, of which he now had no trace, to celebrate his success in the case, he could hardly have anguished over Margery Worth's death. This was another ruthlessly brilliant case for Inspector Monk, but it was no clue to the woman who trespassed again and again into his mind these days, who intruded when he thought of Alexandra Carlyon, and who stirred hi him such memories of loneliness, of hope, and of having struggled so hard to help her, and not knowing now whether he had failed or succeeded, or how - or even why.

It was late. He thanked the doctor, stayed one more night, and on the morning of Thursday the eleventh, caught the earliest train back to London. He was tired not by physical effort, but by disappointment and a crowding sense of guilt, because he had less than two weeks left before the trial, and he had wasted over two days pursuing a wild goose of his own. Now he still had no idea why Alexandra had killed the general, or what he could tell Oliver Rathbone to help him.

* * * * *

In the afternoon he used the permission Rathbone had obtained for him and went again to the prison to see Alexandra. Even as he was going in the vast gates and the gray walls towered over him, he had little idea what he could say to her beyond what he or Rathbone had already said, but he had to try at least one more time. It was June 11, and on June 22 the trial was to begin.

Was this history repeating itself - another fruitless attempt with time running out, scrambling for evidence to save a woman from her own acts?

He found her in the same attitude, sitting on the cot, shoulders hunched, staring at the wall but seeing something in her own mind. He wished he knew what it was.

"Mrs. Carlyon . . ."

The door slammed behind him and they were alone.

She looked up, a slight flicker of surprise over her face as she recognized him. If she had expected anyone, it must have been Rathbone. She was thinner than last time, wearing the same blouse, but the fabric of it pulled tighter, showing the bones of her shoulders. Her face was very pale. She did not speak.

"Mrs. Carlyon, we have only a short time left. It is too late to deal in pleasantries and evasions. Only the truth will serve now."

"There is only one truth that matters, Mr. Monk," she said wearily. "And that is that I killed my husband. There are no other truths they will care about. Please don't pretend otherwise. It is absurd - and doesn't help."

He stood still in the middle of the small stone floor, staring down at her.

"They might care why you did it!" he said with a hard edge to his voice, "if you stopped lying about it. You are not mad. There was some reason behind it. Either you had a quarrel there at the top of the stairs, and you lunged at him and pushed him over backwards, and then when he fell you were still so possessed with rage you ran down the stairs after him and as he lay on the floor, tangled in the suit of armor in its pieces, you picked up the halberd and finished him off." He watched her face and saw her eyes widen and her mouth wince, but she did not look away from him. "Or else you planned it beforehand and led him to the stairs deliberately, intending to push him over. Perhaps you hoped he would break his neck in the fell, and you went down after him to make sure he had. Then when you found he was relatively unhurt, you used the halberd to do what the fall had failed to."

"You are wrong," she said flatly. "I didn't think of it until we were standing at the top of the stairs - oh, I wanted to find a way. I meant to kill him some time, I just hadn't thought of the stairs until then. And when he stood there at the top, with his back to the banister and that drop behind him, and I knew he would never..." She stopped and the flicker of light which had been in her blue eyes died. She looked away from him.

"I pushed him," she went on. "And when he went over and hit the armor I thought he was dead. I went down quite slowly. I thought it was the end, all finished. I expected people to come, because of the noise of the armor going over. I was going to say he fell - overbalanced." Her face showed a momentary surprise. "But no one came. Not even any of the servants, so I suppose no one heard after all. When I looked at him, he was senseless, but he was still alive. His breathing was quite normal." She sighed and the muscles of her jaw tightened. "So I picked up the halberd and ended it. I knew I would never have a better chance. But you are wrong if you think I planned it. I didn't - not then or in that way."

He believed her. He had no doubt that what she said was the truth.

"But why?" he said again. "It wasn't over Louisa Furnival, or any other woman, was it?"

She stood up and turned her back to him, staring at the tiny single window, high in the wall and barred against the sky.

"It doesn't matter."

"Have you ever seen anyone hanged, Mrs. Carlyon?" It was brutal, but if he could not reason her into telling him, then there was little left but fear. He hated doing it. He saw her body tighten and the hands by her sides clench. Had he done this before? It brought no memory. Everything in his mind was Alexandra, the present, the death of Thaddeus Carlyon and no one else, no other time or place. "It's an ugly thing. They don't always die immediately. They take you from the cell to the yard where the noose is ..." He swallowed hard. Execution repelled him more than any other act he knew of, because it was sanctioned by law. People would contemplate it, commit it, watch it and feel justified. They would gather together in groups and congratulate each other on its completion and say that they upheld civilization.

She stood without moving, thin and slight, her body painfully rigid.

"They lay the rope 'round your neck, after they have put a hood over your head, so you can't see it - that's what they say it is for. Actually I think it is so they cannot see you. Perhaps if they could look at your face, your eyes, they couldn't do it themselves."

"Stop it!" she said between her teeth. "I know I will hang. Do you have to tell me every step to the gallows rope so I do it more than once in my mind?"

He wanted to shake her, to reach out and take her by the arms, force her to turn around and face him, look at him. But it would only be an assault, pointless and stupid, perhaps closing the last door through which he might yet find something to help her.

"Did you try to stab him once before?" he asked suddenly.

She looked startled. "No! Whatever makes you think that?"

"The knife wound in his thigh."

"Oh that. No - he did that himself, showing off for Valentine Furnival."

"I see."

She said nothing.

"Is it blackmail?" he said quietly." Is there someone who holds some threat over you?"

"No."

"Tell me! Perhaps we can stop them. At least let me try."

"There is no one. What more could anyone do to me than the law will already do?"

"Nothing to you - but to someone you love? Sabella?"

"No." There was a lift in her voice, almost like a bitter laugh, had she the strength left for it.

He did not believe her. Was this it at last? She was prepared to die to protect Sabella, in some way they had not yet imagined.

He looked at her stiff back and knew she would not tell him. He would still have to find out, if he could. There were twelve days left before the trial.

"I won't stop trying," he said gently. "You'll not hang if I can prevent it - whether you wish me to or not. Good day, Mrs. Carlyon."

"Good-bye, Mr. Monk."

* * * * *

That evening Monk dined with Evan again and told him of his abortive trip to Suffolk, and Evan gave him notes of one more case which might have been the woman he had tried so hard to save. But tonight his mind was still on Alexandra, and the incomprehensible puzzle she presented.

The following day he went to Vere Street and told Oliver Rathbone of his interview in the prison, and his new thoughts. Rathbone was surprised, and then after a moment's hesitation, more hopeful than he had been for some time. It was at least an idea which made some sense.

* * * * *

That evening he opened the second set of notes Evan had given him and looked at them. This was the case about Phyllis Dexter, of Shrewsbury, who had knifed her husband to death. The Shrewsbury police had had no trouble establishing the facts. Adam Dexter was a large man, a heavy drinker and known to get into the occasional brawl, but no one had heard that he had beaten his wife, or in any other way treated her more roughly than most men. Indeed, he seemed in his own way quite fond of her.

On his death the local police had been puzzled as to how they might prove, one way or the other, whether Phyllis was speaking the truth. All their efforts, expended over the first week, had left them no wiser man at the beginning. They had sent for Scotland Yard, and Runcorn had dispatched Monk.

The notes were plain that Monk had interviewed Phyllis herself, immediate neighbors who might have heard a quarrel or threat, the doctor who had examined the body, and of course the local police.

Apparently he had remained in Shrewsbury for three weeks, going relentlessly over and over the same ground until he found a weakness here, a change of emphasis there, the possibility of a different interpretation or a shred of new evidence. Runcorn had sent for him to come back; everything they had indicated guilt, and justice should be allowed to take its course, but Monk had defied him and remained.

Eventually he had pieced together a story, with the most delicate of proof, that Phyllis Dexter had had three miscarriages and two stillbirths, and had eventually refused her husband's attentions because she could no longer bear the pain it caused her. In a drunken fury at her rejection, as if it were of him, not of her pain, he had attempted to force her. On this occasion his sense of outrage had driven him to assault her with the broken end of a bottle, and she had defended herself with the carving knife. In his clumsiness he had got the worst of the brief battle, and within moments of his first charge, he lay dead on the floor, the knife in his chest and the broken bottle shattered - a scatter of shards over the floor.

There was no note as to the outcome of the case. Whether the Shrewsbury police had accepted Monk's deduction or not was not noted. Nor was there airy record as to a trial.

There was nothing for Monk to do but purchase a ticket and take the train to Shrewsbury. The people there at least would remember such a case, even if few others did.

On the late afternoon of the thirteenth, in golden sunlight, Monk alighted at Shrewsbury station and made his way through the ancient town with its narrow streets and magnificent Elizabethan half-timbered houses to the police station.

The desk sergeant's look of polite enquiry turned to one of wary self-defense, and Monk knew he had been recognized, and not with pleasure. He felt himself harden inside, but he could not justify himself because he had no memory of what he had done. It was a stranger with his face who had been here four years before.

"Well, Mr. Monk, I'm sure I don't know," the desk sergeant said to his enquiry. "That case is all over and done with. We thought as she was guilty, but you proved as she weren't! It's not for us to say, but it don't do for a woman to go murderin"er 'usband because she takes it into 'er 'ead as to refuse 'im what's 'is by right. Puts ideas of all sorts in women's 'eads. We'll have them murderin' their 'usbands all over the place!"

"You're quite right," Monk said tartly.

The desk sergeant looked surprised, and pleased.

"It's not for you to say," Monk finished.

The sergeant's face tightened and his skin flushed red.

"Well I don't know what you'll be wanting from us. If you'd be so good as to tell me, I'll mebbe see what I can do for you."

"Do you know where Phyllis Dexter is now?" Monk asked.

The sergeant's eyes lit with satisfaction.

"Yes I do. She left these parts right after the trial. Acquitted, she was; walked out o' the courtroom and packed 'er things that night."

"Do you know where she went?" Monk kept his temper with difficulty. He would like to wipe the smug smile off the man's face.

The man's satisfaction wavered. He met Monk's eyes and his courage drained away.

"Yes sir. I heard as it were somewhere in France. I don't rightly know where, but there's them in the town as can tell you, I expect. At least where she went to from 'ere. As to where she is now, I expect being the detective you are, you'll be able to learn that when you get there."

There was nothing more to be learned here, so Monk duly thanked him and took his leave.

He spent the evening at the Bull Inn and in the morning went to find the doctor who had been concerned in the case. He went with some trepidation. Apparently he had made himself unpopular here; the desk sergeant's aggression had been born of those weeks of fear and probably some humiliation as well. Monk knew his own behavior at his station in London under Runcorn, his sarcastic tongue, his impatience with men of less ability than himself. He was not proud of it.

He walked down the street where the doctor's house was and found with a sharp sense of satisfaction that he knew it. The particular pattern of beams and plastering was familiar. There was no need to look for the name or a number; he could'remember being here before.

With excitement catching in his throat he knocked on the door. It seemed an age before it was answered by an aged man with a game leg. Monk could hear it dragging on the floor. His white hair was thinly plastered across his skull and his teeth were broken, but his face lit with pleasure as soon as his eyes focused on Monk.

"My, if it in't Mr. Monk back again!" he said in a cracked falsetto voice. "Well bless my soul! What brings you back to these parts? We in't 'ad no more murders! Least, not that I knows of. 'Ave we?"

"No Mr. Wraggs, I don't think so." Monk was elated to an absurd degree that the old man was so pleased to see him, and that he in turn could recall his name. "I'm here on a private matter, to see the doctor, if I may?"

"Ah no, sir." Wraggs's face fell. "You're never poorly, are you, sir? Come in and set yourself down, then. I'll get you a drop o' summink!"

"No, no, Mr. Wraggs, I'm very well, thank you," Monk said hastily. "I just want to see him as a friend, not professionally."

"Ah, well." The old man breathed a sigh of relief. "That's all right then! Still, come on in just the same. Doctor's out on a call right now, but 'e'll be back by an' by. Now what can I get you, Mr. Monk? You just name it, and if we got it, it's yours."

It would have been churlish to refuse so generous an offer.

"Well, I'll have a glass of cider, and a slice of bread and cheese, if you've got it," he accepted.

" 'Course we got it!" Wraggs said delightedly, and led the way in, hobbling lopsidedly ahead of Monk into the parlor.

Monk wondered with a silent blessing what kindness he had shown this old man that he was so welcome here, but he could not ask. He hoped profoundly it was not simply the old man's nature that was so blithely giving, and he was glad he could not put it to the test. Instead he accepted the hospitality and sat talking with him for well over an hour until the doctor returned. Actually in that space he learned from him almost all he wished to know. Phyllis Dexter had been a very pretty woman with soft honey-brown hair and golden brown eyes, a gentle manner and a nice wit. Opinion in the town had been violently divided about her innocence or guilt. The police had felt her guilty, as had the mayor and many of the gentry. The doctor and the parson had taken her side, so had the innkeeper, who had had more than enough of Adam Dexter's temper and sullen complaints. Wraggs was emphatic that Monk himself had pursued his enquiries night and day, bullying, exhorting, pleading with witnesses, driving himself to exhaustion, sitting up into the small hours of the morning poring over the statements and the evidence till his eyes were red.

"She owes 'er life to you, Mr. Monk, and no mistake," Wraggs said with wide eyes. "A rare fighter you were. No woman, nor man neither, ever had a better champion in their cause, I'll swear to that on my Bible oath, I will."

"Where did she go to, Mr. Wraggs, when she left here?"

"Ah, that she didn't tell no one, poor soul!" Wraggs shook his head. "An' who can blame 'er, I ask you, after what some folk said."

Monk's heart sank. After the hope, the warmth of Wraggs's welcome and the sudden sight of some better part of himself, it had all slipped away again.

"You've no idea?" He was horrified to hear a catch in his voice.

"No sir, none at all." Wraggs peered at him with anxiety and sorrow in his old eyes. "Thanked you with tears, she did, an' then just packed 'er things and went. Funny, you know, but I thought as you knew where she'd gone, 'cause I 'ad a feeling as you 'elped her go! But there, I suppose I must a' bin wrong."

"France - the desk sergeant in the police station said he thought it was France."

"Well I shouldn't wonder." Wraggs nodded his head. "Poor lady would want to be out o' England, now wouldn't she, after all what folks said about 'er!"

"If she went south, who would know where she was?" Monk said reasonably. "She would take a new name and be lost in the crowd."

"Ah no sir, not hardly. Not with the pictures of her in the newspapers! An"andsome as she was, people'd soon see the likeness. No, better she go abroad. And I for one hopes she's found a place for 'erself."

"Pictures?"

"Yes sir - all in the illustrated news they was. Here, don't you remember? I'll get it for you. We kept them all." And without waiting for Monk he scrambled to his feet and went over to the desk in the corner. He rummaged around for several minutes, then came back proudly holding a piece of paper which he put in front of Monk.

It was a clear picture of a remarkably pretty woman of perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, with wide eyes and a long, delicate face. Seeing it he remembered her quite clearly. Emotion came back: pity, some admiration, anger at the pain she had endured and at people's ignorance and refusal to understand it, determination that he would see her acquitted, intense relief when he had succeeded, and a quiet happiness. But nothing more; no love, no despair - no haunting, persistent memory.