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
