exactly what he had said; only the man's nervousness and his repeated apologies, his eagerness to please made the past obvious. Why had he been so harsh? He might have been accurate, but it was unnecessary, and had not made the man a better detective, only hurt him. What did he need to be a detective for, here in a tiny village where the worst he would deal with would be a few drunken quarrels, a little poaching, the occasional petty theft? But to apologize now would be absurd, and do no good. The harm was done. He could not ease his conscience with belated patronage.
It was from the loeal doctor, unprepared to see him back, and full of respect, that he learned how unremitting had been his pursuit of the case and how his attention to detail, his observation of mannerisms and subtle, intuitive guesses had finally learned the poison used, the unsuspected lover who had driven Margery to rid herself of her husband, and sent her to her own early death.
“Brilliant,” the doctor had said again, shaking his head.
“Brilliant, you were, and no mistake. Never used to 'ave time for Lunnon folk myself, before that. But you surely showed us a thing or two.” He eyed Monk with interest untouched by liking. “And bought that picture from Squire Leadbetter for a pretty penny. Spent your money like you 'ad no end of it, you did. Folks still talk about it.”
“Bought the picture…?”. Monk frowned, trying to recall. There was no picture of any great beauty among his things. Had he given it to the woman?
“Lord bless me, don't you remember?” The doctor looked amazed, his sandy eyebrows raised in incredulity. “Cost more'n I make in a month, it did, an' no mistake. I suppose you were that pleased with yourself in your case. An' it was a clever piece o' work, I'll give you that. We all knew no one else could 'ave done it, an' p'raps the poor creature got all she deserved, God forgive 'er.”
And that was the final seal on his disappointment. If he had gone out and committed some extravagance, of which he now had no trace, to celebrate his success in the case, he could hardly have anguished over Margery Worth's death. This was another ruthlessly brilliant case for Inspector Monk, but it was no clue to the woman who trespassed again and again into his mind these days, who intruded when he thought of Alexandra Carlyon, and who stirred hi him such memories of loneliness, of hope, and of having struggled so hard to help her, and not knowing now whether he had failed or succeeded, or how-or even why.
It was late. He thanked the doctor, stayed one more night, and on the morning of Thursday the eleventh, caught the earliest train back to London. He was tired not by physical effort, but by disappointment and a crowding sense of guilt, because he had less than two weeks left before the trial, and he had wasted over two days pursuing a wild goose of his own. Now he still had no idea why Alexandra had killed the general, or what he could tell Oliver Rathbone to help him.
In the afternoon he used the permission Rathbone had obtained for him and went again to the prison to see Alexandra. Even as he was going in the vast gates and the gray walls towered over him, he had little idea what he could say to her beyond what he or Rathbone had already said, but he had to try at least one more time. It was June 11, and on June 22 the trial was to begin.
Was this history repeating itself-another fruitless attempt with time running out, scrambling for evidence to save a woman from her own acts?
He found her in the same attitude, sitting on the cot, shoulders hunched, staring at the wall but seeing something in her own mind. He wished he knew what it was.
“Mrs. Carlyon…”
The door slammed behind him and they were alone.
She looked up, a slight flicker of surprise over her face as she recognized him. If she had expected anyone, it must have been Rathbone. She was thinner than last time, wearing the same blouse, but the fabric of it pulled tighter, showing the bones of her shoulders. Her face was very pale. She did not speak.
“Mrs. Carlyon, we have only a short time left. It is too late to deal in pleasantries and evasions. Only the truth will serve now.”
“There is only one truth that matters, Mr. Monk,” she said wearily. “And that is that I killed my husband. There are no other truths they will care about. Please don't pretend otherwise. It is absurd-and doesn't help.”
He stood still in the middle of the small stone floor, staring down at her.
“They might care why you did it!” he said with a hard edge to his voice, “if you stopped lying about it. You are not mad. There was some reason behind it. Either you had a quarrel there at the top of the stairs, and you lunged at him and pushed him over backwards, and then when he fell you were still so possessed with rage you ran down the stairs after him and as he lay on the floor, tangled in the suit of armor in its pieces, you picked up the halberd and finished him off.” He watched her face and saw her eyes widen and her mouth wince, but she did not look away from him. “Or else you planned it beforehand and led him to the stairs deliberately, intending to push him over. Perhaps you hoped he would break his neck in the fell, and you went down after him to make sure he had. Then when you found he was relatively unhurt, you used the halberd to do what the fall had failed to.”
“You are wrong,” she said flatly. “I didn't think of it until we were standing at the top of the stairs-oh, I wanted to find a way. I meant to kill him some time, I just hadn't thought of the stairs until then. And when he stood there at the top, with his back to the banister and that drop behind him, and I knew he would never…” She stopped and the flicker of light which had been in her blue eyes died. She looked away from him.
“I pushed him,” she went on. “And when he went over and hit the armor I thought he was dead. I went down quite slowly. I thought it was the end, all finished. I expected people to come, because of the noise of the armor going over. I was going to say he fell-overbalanced.” Her face showed a momentary surprise. “But no one came. Not even any of the servants, so I suppose no one heard after all. When I looked at him, he was senseless, but he was still alive. His breathing was quite normal.” She sighed and the muscles of her jaw tightened. “So I picked up the halberd and ended it. I knew I would never have a better chance. But you are wrong if you think I planned it. I didn't-not then or in that way.”
He believed her. He had no doubt that what she said was the truth.
“But why?” he said again. “It wasn't over Louisa Furnival, or any other woman, was it?”
She stood up and turned her back to him, staring at the tiny single window, high in the wall and barred against the sky.
“It doesn't matter.”
“Have you ever seen anyone hanged, Mrs. Carlyon?” It was brutal, but if he could not reason her into telling him, then there was little left but fear. He hated doing it. He saw her body tighten and the hands by her sides clench. Had he done this before? It brought no memory. Everything in his mind was Alexandra, the present, the death of Thaddeus Carlyon and no one else, no other time or place.
She stood without moving, thin and slight, her body painfully rigid.
“They lay the rope 'round your neck, after they have put a hood over your head, so you can't see it-that's what they say it is for. Actually I think it is so they cannot see you. Perhaps if they could look at your face, your eyes, they couldn't do it themselves.”
“Stop it!” she said between her teeth. “I know I will hang. Do you have to tell me every step to the gallows rope so I do it more than once in my mind?”
He wanted to shake her, to reach out and take her by the arms, force her to turn around and face him, look at him. But it would only be an assault, pointless and stupid, perhaps closing the last door through which he might yet find something to help her.
“Did you try to stab him once before?” he asked suddenly.
She looked startled. “No! Whatever makes you think that?”
“The knife wound in his thigh.”
“Oh that. No-he did that himself, showing off for Valentine Furnival.”
“I see.”
She said nothing.
