two heads turned, sharp with criticism. He ignored them and slid into a back pew, fumbling for a hymnbook.
Nothing sounded familiar; he followed the hymn because the tune was trite, full of musical cliches. He knelt when everyone else knelt, and rose as they rose. He missed the responses.
When the minister stepped into the pulpit to speak, Monk stared at him, searching his face for some nicker of memory. Could he go to this man and confide in him the truth, ask him to tell him everything he knew? The voice droned on in one platitude after another; his intention was benign, but so tied in words as to be almost incomprehensible. Monk sank deeper and deeper into a feeling of helplessness. The man did not seem able to remember his own train of thought from one sentence to the next, let alone the nature and passions of his flock.
When the last amen had been sung, Monk watched the people file out, hoping someone would touch his memory, or better still, actually speak to him.
He was about to give up even that when he saw a young woman in black, slender and of medium height, dark hair drawn softly back from a face almost luminous, dark eyes and fragile skin, mouth too generous and too big for it. It was not a weak face, and yet it was one that could have moved easily to laughter, or tragedy. There was a grace in the way she walked that compelled him to watch her.
As she drew level she became aware of him and turned. Her eyes widened and she hesitated. She drew in her breath as if to speak.
He waited, hope surging up inside him, and a ridiculous excitement, as if some exquisite realization were about to come.
Then the moment vanished; she seemed to regain a mastery of herself, her chin lifted a little, and she picked up her skirt unnecessarily and continued on her way.
He went after her, but she was lost in a group of people, two of whom, also dressed in black, were obviously accompanying her. One was a tall, fair man in his mid-thirties with smooth hair and a long-nosed, serious face; the other was a woman of unusual uprightness of carriage and features of remarkable character. The three of them walked towards the street and waiting vehicles and none of them turned their heads again.
Monk rode home in a rage of confusion, fear, and wild, disturbing hope.
4
But when Monk arrived on Monday morning, breathless and a little late, he was unable to begin investigation on Yeats and his visitor. Runcorn was in his room, pacing the floor and waving a piece of blue notepaper in his hand. He stopped and spun around the moment he heard Monk's feet.
'Ah!' He brandished the paper with a look of bright, shimmering anger, his left eye narrowed almost shut.
The good-moming greeting died on Monk's tongue.
'Letter from upstairs.' Runcorn held up the blue paper. 'The powers that be are after us again. The Dowager Lady Shelburne has written to Sir Willoughby Gentry, and confided to the said member of Parliament'-he gave every vowel its full value in his volume of scorn for that body-'that she is not happy with the utter lack of success the Metropolitan Police Force is having in apprehending the vile maniac who so foully murdered her son in his own house. No excuses are acceptable for our dilatory and lackadaisical attitude, our total lack of culprits to hand.' His face purpled in his offense at the injustice of it, but there was no misery in him, only a feeding rage. 'What the hell are you doing, Monk? You're supposed to be such a damn good detective, you've got your eyes on a superintendency-the commissionership, for all I know! So what do we tell this-this ladyship?'
Monk took a deep breath. He was more stunned by Runcorn's reference to himself, to his ambition, than anything in the letter. Was he an overweeningly ambitious man? There was no time for self-defense now; Runcorn was standing in front of him commanding an answer.
'Lamb's done all the groundwork, sir.' He gave Lamb the praise that was due him. 'He's investigated all he could, questioned all the other residents, street peddlers, locals, anyone who might have seen or known anything.' He could see from Runcorn's face that he was achieving nothing, but he persisted. 'Unfortunately it was a particularly foul night and everyone was in a hurry, heads down and collars up against the rain. Because it was so wet no one hung around, and with the overcast it was dark earlier than usual.'
Runcorn was fidgeting with impatience.
'Lamb spent a lot of time checking out the villains we know,' Monk continued. 'He's written up in his report that he's spoken to every snout and informer in the area. Not a peep. No one knows anything; or if they do, they're not saying. Lamb was of the opinion they were telling the truth. I don't know what else he could have done.' His experience offered nothing, but neither could his intelligence suggest any omission. All his sympathy was with Lamb.
'Constable Harrison found a watch with the initials J.G. on it in a pawnbroker's-but we don't know it was Grey's.''
'No,' Runcorn agreed fiercely, running his finger with distaste along the deckle edge of the notepaper. It was a luxury he could not afford. 'Indeed you don't! So what are you doing, then? Take it to Shelburne Hall-get it identified.'
'Harrison's on his way.'
'Can't you at least find out how the bloody man got in?'
'I think so,' Monk said levelly. 'There was a visitor for one of the other residents, a Mr. Yeats. He came in at nine forty-five and left at roughly ten thirty. He was a biggish man, dark, well muffled. He's the only person unaccounted for; the others were women. I don't want to leap to conclusions too soon, but it looks as if he could be the murderer. Otherwise I don't know any way a stranger could have got in. Grimwade locks up at midnight, or earlier if all the residents are in, and after that even they have to ring the bell and get him up.'
Runcorn put the letter carefully on Monk's desk.
'And what time did he lock up that night?' he asked.
'Eleven,' Monk replied. 'No one was out.'
'What did Lamb say about this man who visited Yeats?' Runcorn screwed up his face.
'Not much. Apparently he only spoke to Yeats once, and then he spent most of the time trying to find out something about Grey. Maybe he didn't realize the importance of the visitor at that time. Grimwade said he took him up to Yeats's door and Yeats met him. Lamb was still looking for a thief off the street then-'
'Then!' Runcorn leapt on the word, sharp, eager. 'So what are you looking for now?'
Monk realized what he had said, and that he meant it. He frowned, and answered as carefully as he could.
'I think I'm looking for someone who knew him, and hated him; someone who intended to kill him.'
'Well for God's sake don't say so to the Dowager Lady Shelburne!' Runcorn said dangerously.
'I'm hardly likely to be speaking to her,' Monk answered with more than a trace of sarcasm.
'Oh yes you are!' There was a ring of triumph in Run-corn's voice and his big race was glowing with color. 'You are going down to Shelburne today to assure Her Ladyship that we are doing everything humanly possible to apprehend the murderer, and that after intensive effort and brilliant work, we at last have a lead to discovering this monster.' His lip curled very faintly. 'You're generally so blunt, damn near rude, in spite of your fancy airs, she won't take you for a liar.' Suddenly his tone altered again and became soft. 'Anyway, why do you think it was someone who knew him? Maniacs can kill with a hell of a mess; madmen strike over and over again, hate for no reason.'
'Possibly.' Monk stared back at him, matching dislike for dislike. 'But they don't scout out the names of other residents, call upon them, and then go and kill someone else. If he was merely a homicidal lunatic, why didn't he kill Yeats? Why go and look for Grey?'
Runcorn's eyes were wide; he resented it, but he took the point.
'Find out everything you can about this Yeats,' he ordered. 'Discreetly, mind! I don't want him scared away!'
'What about Lady Shelburne?' Monk affected innocence.
'Go and see her. Try to be civil, Monk-make an effort! Evan can chase after Yeats, and tell you whatever he finds when you get back. Take the train. You'll be in Shelburne a day or two. Her Ladyship won't be surprised to see you, after the rumpus she's raised. She demanded a report on progress, in person. You can put up at the inn. Well,
