He looked up at the constable.
'Thank you,' he said with a smile. 'It might well be-right initials. What do you know about it?'
The constable blushed scarlet. 'Nufflnk much, Mr. Monk. 'E swears blind as it was one of 'is reg'lars as brought it in. But you can't believe anyfink 'e says 'cause 'e would say that, wouldn't 'e? He don't want ter be mixed up in no murder.'
Monk glanced at the paper again. The pawnbroker's name and address were there and he could follow up on it any time he chose.
'No, he'd doubtless lie,' he agreed. 'But we might learn something all the same, if we can prove this was Grey's watch. Thank you-very observant of you. May I keep it?'
'Yes sir. We don't need it; we 'as lots more agin 'im.' Now his furious pink color was obviously pleasure, and considerable surprise. He still stood rooted to the spot.
'Was there anything else?' Monk raised his eyebrows.
'No sir! No there in't. Thank you, sir.' And the constable turned on his heel and marched out, tripping on the doorsill as he went and rocketing out into the passage.
Almost immediately the door was opened again by a wiry sergeant with a black mustache.
'You o'right, sir?' he asked, seeing Monk's frown.
'Yes. What's the matter with-er.' He waved his hand towards the departing figure of the constable, wishing desperately that he knew the man's name.
' 'Arrison?'
'Yes.'
'Nothin'-just afeared of you, that's all. Which in't 'ardly surprisin', seein' as 'ow you tore 'im off such a strip in front o' the 'ole station, w'en that macer slipped through 'is fingers-which weren't 'ardly 'is fault, seein' as the feller were a downright contortionist. 'Arder to 'old then a greased pig, 'e were. An' if we'd broke 'is neck we'd be the ones for the 'igh jump before breakfast!'
Monk was confused. He did not know what to say. Had he been unjust to the man, or was there cause for whatever he had said? On the face of it, it sounded as if he had been gratuitously cruel, but he was hearing only one side of the story-there was no one to defend him, to explain, to give his reasons and say what he knew and perhaps they did not.
And rack and tear as he might, there was nothing in his mind, not even Harrison's face-let alone some shred about the incident.
He felt a fool sitting staring up at the critical eyes of the sergeant, who plainly disliked him, for what he felt was fair cause.
Monk ached to explain himself! Even more he wanted to know for his own understanding. How many incidents would come up like this, things he had done that seemed ugly from the outside, to someone who did not know his side of the story?
'Mr. Monk, sir?'
Monk recalled his attention quickly. 'Yes, Sergeant?'
'Thought you might like to know as we got the mags-man wot snuffed ol' Billy Marlowe. They'll swing 'im for sure. Right villain.'
'Oh-thank you. Well done.' He had no idea what the sergeant was talking about, but obviously he was expected to. 'Very well done,' he added.
'Thank you, sir.' The sergeant straightened up, then turned and left, closing the door behind him with a sharp snick.
Monk bent to his work again.
An hour later he left the police station and walked slowly along the dark, wet pavements and found the way back to Grafton Street.
Mrs. Worley's rooms were at least becoming familiar. He knew where to find things, and better than that, they offered privacy: no one would disturb him, intrude on his time to think, to try again to find some thread.
After his meal of mutton stew and dumplings, which were hot and filling, if a little heavy, he thanked Mrs. Worley when she collected the tray, saw her down the stairs, and then began once more to go through the desk. The bills were of little use; he could hardly go to his tailor and say 'What kind of man am I? What do I care about? Do you like, or dislike me, and why?' One small comfort he could draw from his accounts was that he appeared to have been prompt in paying them; there were no demand notices, and the receipts were all dated within a few days of presentation. He was learning something, a crumb: he was methodical.
The personal letters from Beth told him much of her: of simplicity, an unforced affection, a life of small detail. She said nothing of hardships or of bitter winters, nothing even of wrecks or the lifeboatmen. Her concern for him was based on her feelings, and seemed to be without knowledge; she simply translated her own affections and interests to his life, and assumed his feelings were the same. He knew without needing deeper evidence that it was because he had told her nothing; perhaps he had not even written regularly. It was an unpleasant thought, and he was harshly ashamed of it. He must write to her soon, compose a letter which would seem rational, and yet perhaps elicit some answer from her which would tell him more.
The following morning he woke late to find Mrs. Wor-ley knocking on the door. He let her in and she put his breakfast on the table with a sigh and a shake of her head. He was obliged to eat it before dressing or it would have grown cold. Afterwards he resumed the search, and again it was fruitless for any sharpening of identity, anything of the man behind the immaculate, rather expensive possessions. They told him nothing except that he had good taste, if a little predictable-perhaps that he liked to be admired? But what was admiration worth if it was for the cost and discretion of one's belongings? A shallow man? Vain? Or a man seeking security he did not feel, making his place in a world that he did not believe accepted him?
The apartment itself was impersonal, with traditional furniture, sentimental pictures. Surely Mrs. Worley's taste rather than his own?
After luncheon he was reduced to the last places to seek: the pockets of his other clothes, jackets hanging in the cupboard. In the best of them, a well-cut, rather formal coat, he found a piece of paper, and on unfolding it carefully, saw that it was a printed sheet for a service of Evensong at a church he did not know.
Perhaps it was close by. He felt a quickening of hope. Maybe he was a member of the congregation. The minister would know him. He might have friends there, a belief, even an office or a calling of some sort. He folded up the paper again carefully and put it in the desk, then went into the bedroom to wash and shave again, and change into his best clothes, and the coat from which the sheet had come. By five o'clock he was ready, and he went downstairs to ask Mrs. Worley where St. Marylebone Church might be.
His disappointment was shattering when she showed complete ignorance, Temper boiled inside him at the frustration. She must know. But her placid, blunt face was expressionless.
He was about to argue, to shout at her that she must know, when he realized how foolish it would be. He would only anger her, drive from himself a friend he sorely needed.
She was staring at him, her face puckered.
'My, you are in a state. Let me ask Mr. Worley for yer; he's a rare fine understanding o' the city. O' course I expect it's on the Marylebone Road, but ezac'ly where I'm sure I wouldn't know. It's a long street, that is.'
'Thank you,' he said carefully, feeling foolish. 'It's rather important.'
'Going to a wedding, are yer?' She looked at his carefully brushed dark coat. 'What you want is a good cabby, what knows 'is way, and'll get you there nice and prompt, like.'
It was an obvious answer, and he wondered why he had not thought of it himself. He thanked her, and when Mr. Worley had been asked, and given his opinion that it might be opposite York Gate, he went out to look for a cab.
Evensong had already begun when he hurried up the steps and into the vestry. He could hear the voices lifted rather thinly in the first hymn. It sounded dutiful rather than joyous. Was he a religious man; or, it would be truer to ask, had he been? He felt no sense of comfort or reverence now, except for the simple beauty of the stonework.
He went in as quickly as he could, walking almost on the sides of his polished boots to make no noise. One or
