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.