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.
“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.
But he was driven by a compulsion, and the only thatched village nestling against the folded downs or half hidden by its trees which held any interest for him was the one which might yield up his past, and the woman who haunted him.
He had read Evan's notes as soon as he got to his rooms the previous evening. He tried this one first simply because it was the closer of the two. The second lay in Shrewsbury, and would be a full day's journey away, and since Shrewsbury was a far larger town, might be harder to trace now it was three years old.
The notes on Margery Worth told a simple story. She was a handsome young woman, married some eight years to a man nearly twice her age. One October morning she had reported to the local doctor that her husband had died in the night, she knew not how. He had made no disturbance and she was a heavy sleeper and had been in the next room since she had taken a chill and did not wish to waken him with her sneezing.
The doctor duly called around with expressions of sympathy, and pronounced that Jack Worth was indeed dead, but he was unsatisfied as to the cause. The body was removed and a second opinion called for. The second opinion, from a doctor in Saxmundham, some four and a half miles away, was of the view that Jack Worth had not died naturally but of some poison. However he could not be certain, he could not name the poison, nor could he state positively when it had been administered, and still less by whom.
The local police had been called in, and confessed themselves confused. Margery was Jack Worth's second wife, and he had two grown sons by the first who stood to inherit the farm, which was of considerable size, and extremely fertile. Margery was to have the house for the duration of her life, or until she remarried, and a small income, barely sufficient to survive.
Scotland Yard was sent for. Monk had arrived on November 1, 1854. He had immediately seen the local police, then had interviewed Margery herself, the first doctor, the second doctor, both the surviving sons, and several other neighbors and shopkeepers. Evan had not been able to make copies of any of his questions, or their answers, only the names, but it would be sufficient to retrace his steps, and the villagers would doubtless remember a great deal about a celebrated murder only three years old., The journey took him rather more than two hours, and he alighted at the small station and walked the road some three quarters of a mile back to the village. There was one main street stretching westward, with shops and a public house, and as far as he could see only one side street off it. It was a little early for luncheon, but not at all inappropriate to go to the public house and have a glass of cider.
He was greeted with silent curiosity and it was ten minutes before the landlord finally spoke to him.
“Momin', Mr. Monk. What be you doin' back 'ere, then? We in't 'ad no more murders you know.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” Monk said conversationally. “I'm sure one is enough.”
“More'n so,” the landlord agreed.
Another few minutes passed in silence. Two more men came in, hot and thirsty, bare arms brown from the wind and sun, eyes blinking in the interior darkness after the brilliance outside. No one left.
“So what you 'ere for then?” the landlord said at last.
“Tidying up a few things,” Monk replied casually.
The landlord eyed him suspiciously. “Like wot, then? Poor Margery 'anged. Wot else is there to do?”
That was the last question answered first, and brutally. Monk felt a sick chill, as if something had slipped out of his grasp already. And yet the name meant nothing to him. He could vaguely recall this street, but what use was that? There was no question that he had been here; the question was, was Margery Worth the woman he had cared about so intensely? How could he find out? Only her form, her face would tell him, and they were destroyed with her life on the gallows rope.
“A few questions must be asked,” he said as noncom-mittally as he could, but his throat was tight and his heart raced, and yet he felt cold. Was that why he could not remember-bitter dreadful failure? Was it pride that had blocked it out, and the woman who had died with it?
“I want to retrace some of my steps and be sure I recall it rightly.” His voice was husky and the excuse sounded lame even as he said it.
“ 'Oo's asking?” The landlord was wary.
Monk compromised the truth. “Their lordships in London. That's all I can say. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go and see if the doctor's still about.”
“ 'E's still about. “The landlord shook his head. “Butol' Doc Sillitoe from Saxmundham's dead now. Fell off 'is 'orse and cracked 'is 'ead wide open.”
“I to sorry to hear it.” Monk went out and turned left along the road, trusting memory and good luck would find the right house for him. Everyone knew where the doctor lived.
He spent that day and the following one in Yoxford. He spoke to the doctor and to both Jack WorthTs sons, now in possession of his farm; the police constable, who greeted him with fear and embarrassment, eager to please him even now;
and to his landlord for the night. He learned much about his first investigation which was not recorded in Ms notes, but none of it struck any chord in memory except a vague femiliarity with a house or a view along a street, a great tree against the sky or the wave of the land. There was nothing sharp, no emotion except a sort of peace at the beauty of the place, the calm skies filled with great clouds sailing across the width of heaven in towers like splashed and ruffled snow, the green of the land, deep huddled oaks and elms, the hedges wide, tangled with wild roses and dappled with cow parsley that some of the locals called ladies' lace. The may blossom was heavy and its rich scent reached out and clung around him. The flowering chestnuts raised myriad candles to the sun, and already the corn was springing green and strong.
But it was utterly impersonal. He felt no lurch of emotion, no tearing inside that loss or drowning loneliness was ahead.
His retraced footsteps taught him that he had been hard on the local constable, critical of the inability to collect evidence and deduce facts from it. He rued his harsh words but it was too late to undo them now. He did not know
