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.
