If she had any failings they were a carefulness with money, an extreme regard for it, and a rather unreliable sense of humor. She had been known to laugh more often than was entirely suitable, and on quite inappropriate occasions.

Titus Niven was a friend of the family, at least as much of Angus's as hers. And no, no one knew any occasion when he had called at the house when Angus was not also present.

If there had been any secret relationship then it was hidden superbly well.

Titus Niven had cause to be envious of Angus Stonefield, both professionally and personally, perhaps even to hate him, but there was no evidence that indeed he did so.

In the early afternoon Monk went back to the East End, to Limehouse and the makeshift typhoid hospital to see Callandra Daviot. He wanted to see her for several reasons, but paramount in his mind was the matter of funds. It was obvious to Monk that if Lord Ravensbrook withdrew his funds Genevieve could not afford to employ him and the hope of being able to find proof was slight. Yet he was determined to follow the case to the bitter end. Also he needed help, and the fever hospital was a good place to begin seeking more detailed local knowledge. He cursed his own inadequacy. If he had his memory he would probably know all kinds of people he could call upon.

He trudged along Gill Street, collar up against the wind, the stink of soot and middens thick in his nose. The massive outline of the old warehouse was ahead of him, gray against a gray sky. He increased his pace just as it began to rain, and was inside the entrance before he got wet.

The smell of illness caught in his nostrils and his throat immediately, different from the usual sour, rank smell outside, which he was now accustomed to. This was harsher and more intimate, and in spite of all the will he could exercise, it frightened him. This was not the business of life; it was pain, death and the closeness of death. It closed around him like a fog, and he had to grit his teeth and master his body not to turn and run back out of the door into the air again. He was ashamed of it and despised himself.

He saw the woman Mary coming towards him, a covered pail in her hand. He knew what would be in it and his stomach knotted.

“Is Lady Callandra here?” he asked her. His voice sounded brittle.

“Yeah.” Her hair was plastered to her head with rain and sweat and her skin was pasty with exhaustion. She had no strength left for politeness, or even for awe of authority. “In there.” She jerked her head sideways, indicating the vast space of the warehouse floor, then continued on her way.

“Thank you.” Monk went reluctantly into the cavern of the room. It looked exactly the same, dimly lit by candles, floor covered with straw and canvas, the humps of bodies visible under blankets. At either end the black, potbellied stoves gave off heat and the odor of coal and steam from cauldrons. There was also a sharp catch in his throat from the burning tobacco leaves. He remembered Hester saying something about using it in the army for fumigation.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he saw Callandra standing close to one of the hunched figures on the straw. Kristian Beck was opposite her, and they were absorbed in conversation.

He was aware of movement to his left, and turned to see Hester coming towards him. She seemed even thinner in the candlelight and the severe gray dress, her hair screwed back unflatteringly. Her eyes looked larger than he had remembered, her mouth softer and more capable of passion, or pain. He wished intensely that he had not come. He did not want to see her, especially here. Enid Ravensbrook had caught typhoid here and nearly died.

That thought crushed his mind, closing out almost everything else. “Has something happened in your case?” she asked as soon as she was close enough to him to speak without being overheard.

“Nothing conclusive,” he replied. “I've found Caleb, but not Angus.”

“What happened?” Her expression was sharp with interest.

He did not want to tell her, because he did not want to stand here in this fearful place, talking to her. If he had had any luck, she would have been at Ravensbrook House.

“Why aren't you with Lady Ravensbrook?” he said curtly. “She can't be fully recovered yet.”

“It's Genevieve's turn,” she said with surprise. “Callandra needs help here. I would have thought you might see that for yourself. I assume from your temper that your conversation with Caleb Stone was unsatisfactory? I don't know what else you expected. He was hardly going to confess and lead you to the body.”

“On the contrary,” he said impatiently. “He did confess!”

She raised her eyebrows. “And led you to the body?”

“No…”

“Then confession wasn't much use, was it? Did he tell you how he killed him, or where?”

“No.”

“Or even why?”

He was thoroughly annoyed. It would not be so infuriating if she were always so obstructive and unintelligent, but memories kept coming to his mind of other times, when she had been so different, full of perception and courage. He should make some allowance. She must be very tired. Perhaps it was only natural that she should be a little slowwitted in the circumstances. But then he wished intensely that she was not here anyway.

He hated having to admire her for it. It was like gall in his mouth, and the hotter taste of fear. In fact, perhaps that was what it was-fear. And that was natural. It was hard to lose a friend, even one you only partially liked. No decent man could view it with equanimity.

“Did he tell you why?” she demanded, cutting across his thoughts. “It might be some help.”

The dim hump of the body nearest them groaned and moved restlessly in the straw.

“No,” Monk said abruptly. “No, he didn't.”

“I suppose it doesn't matter, except insofar as it might have been a clue to-” She stopped. “I don't know what.”

“Of course it matters,” he contradicted her instantly. “He might not have acted alone. Maybe Genevieve put him up to it.”

She was startled. “Genevieve! That's ridiculous! Why would she? She has everything to lose and nothing to gain from Angus's death.”

“She has a tidy inheritance to gain,” he pointed out. “And the freedom, after a decent period, to marry again.”

“Whatever makes you think she wants to?” she demanded hotly. It was apparent the idea was new to her, and repugnant. “There is every evidence she loved her husband deeply. What makes you think otherwise?” That was a challenge. It was quick in her eyes and her voice.

He responded with a similar sharpness. “Her close friendship with Titus Niven, which is quite remarkable for a woman hardly on the brink of widowhood. Her husband is not even pronounced dead yet, never mind in his grave.”

“You have a vicious mind.” She looked at him witheringly. “Mr. Niven is a family friend. For most people it is very natural to comfort a friend in time of bereavement. I'm surprised you haven't observed it in others, even if you wouldn't have thought it yourself.”

“If I had just lost my wife, I wouldn't turn to the most attractive woman I could find,” he retorted. “I would turn to another man.”

Her contempt only increased. “Don't be naive. If you were a woman, you would turn to a man rather than a woman, for the practical matters. Not that they are any better at it, simply that they are taken seriously by others. People always assume women are incompetent, whether they are or not. And of course they have no legal standing anyway.”

Before he could make exactly the right crushing remark, Callandra came over to them. She too looked tired and untidy, her clothes soiled, but there was a look of pleasure in her face at seeing him.

“Hello, William. How is your case progressing? I assume that is why you are here?” She brushed her hair out of her eyes absently, at the same time smearing her face with soot from the stove, but there was a lift in her voice and a calmness in her eyes as of some inner radiance. She met his glance absolutely squarely. “Is there something with which we can help you?