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

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

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

“They didn't share a room?”

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

“Or mine,” Monk agreed. “Was she happy?”

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

“Did she change lately in any way?”

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

“Did he ever hurt her physically, Ginny?”

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

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

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

Chapter 6

With Major Tiplady's enthusiastic permission, Hester accepted an invitation to dine with Oliver Rathbone in the very proper circumstances of taking a hansom to the home in Primrose Hill of Rathbone's father, who proved to be an elderly gentleman of charm and distinction.

Hester, determined not to be late, actually arrived before Rathbone himself, who had been held up by a jury taking far longer to return than foreseen. She alighted at the address given her, and when she was admitted by the manservant, found herself in a small sitting room. It opened onto a garden in which late daffodils were blowing in the shade under the trees and a massive honeysuckle vine all but drowned the gate in the wall leading into a very small, overgrown orchard whose apples, in full blossom, she could just see over the top.

The room itself was crowded with books of various shapes and sizes, obviously positioned according to subject matter and not to please the eye. On the walls were several paintings in watercolors, one which she noticed immediately because it held a place of honor above the mantel. It was of a youth in costume of leather doublet and apron, sitting on the base of a pillar. The whole work was in soft earth colors, ochers and sepia, except for the dark red of his cap, and it was unfinished; the lower half of his body, and a small dog he reached out to stroke, were still in sketch form.

“You like it?” Henry Rathbone asked her. He was taller than his son, and very lean, shoulders stooped as from many years of intensive study. His face was aquiline, all nose and jaw, and yet there was a serenity in it, a mildness that set her at ease the moment she saw him. His gray hair was very sparse, and he looked at her with shortsighted blue eyes.

“Yes I do, very much,” she answered honestly. “The more I look at it, the more it pleases me.”

“It is my favorite,” he agreed. “Perhaps because it is unfinished. Completed it might have been harder, more final. This leaves room for the imagination, almost a sense of collaboration with the artist.”

She knew precisely what he meant, and found herself smiling at him.

They moved on to discuss other things, and she questioned him shamelessly because she was so interested, and because she was so comfortable with him. He had traveled in many foreign places, and indeed spoke the German language fluently. He seemed not to have been enraptured with scenery, totally unlike herself, but he had met and Mien into conversations with all manner of unlikely people in little old shops which he loved rummaging through. No one was too outwardly ordinary to excite his interest, or for him to have discovered some aspect of their lives which was unique.

She barely noticed that Rathbone was an hour late, and when he came in in a flurry of apologies, she was amused to see the consternation in his face that no one had missed him, except the cook, whose preparations were discommoded.

“Never mind,” Henry Rathbone said easily, rising to his feet. “It is not worth being upset about. It cannot be helped. Miss Latterly, please come into the dining room; we shall do the best we can with what there is.”

“You should have started without me,” Oliver said with a flash of irritation across his face. “Then you would have had it at its best.”

“There is no need to feel guilty,” his father replied. He indicated where Hester was to sit, and the manservant held her chair for her. “We know you were detained unavoidably. And I believe we were enjoying ourselves.”

“Indeed I was,” Hester said sincerely, and took her place.

The meal was served. The soup was excellent, and Ram-bone made no comment; to do so now would be so obviously ungracious. When the fish was brought, a little dry from having had to wait, he bit into it and met Hester's eye, but refrained from comment.

“I spoke with Monk yesterday,” he said at length. “I am afraid we have made almost no progress.”

Hester was disappointed, yet die mere fact that he had kept from mentioning the subject for so long had forewarned her that the news would be poor.

“That only means that we have not yet discovered the reason,” she said doggedly.”We shall have to look harder.”

“Or persuade her to tell us,” Oliver added, placing his knife and fork together and indicating to the manservant that he might remove the plates.

The vegetables were a trifle overdone by any standard, but the cold saddle of mutton was perfect, and the array of pickles and chutneys with it rich and full of variety and interest.

“Are you acquainted with the case, Mr. Rathbone?” Hester turned to Henry enquiringly, not wishing him to be excluded from the conversation.

“Oliver has mentioned it,” he replied, helping himself liberally to a dark chutney. “What is it you hope to find?”

“The true reason why she killed him. Unfortunately it is beyond question that she did.”

“What reason has she given you?”

“Jealousy of her hostess of that evening, but we know that is not true. She said she believed her husband was having an affair with this woman, Louisa Furnival, but we know that he was not, and that she knew that.”

“But she will not tell you the truth?”

“No.”

He frowned, cutting off a piece of meat and spreading it liberally with the chutney and mashed potato.