Runcorn frowned. 'Then it was the laundrymaid? Can't you arrest her?'
'For what?'
Runcorn glared at him. 'All right, who are your other suspects? You said four or five. So far you have only mentioned two.'
'Myles Kellard, the other daughter's husband-'
“What for?'' Runcorn was worried now.”You haven't made any accusations, have you?'' The blood was pink in his narrow cheeks. 'This is a very delicate situation. We can't go around charging people like Sir Basil Moidore and his family. For God's sake, where's your judgment?'
Monk looked at him with contempt.
'That is exactly why I am not charging anyone, sir,' he said coldly. 'Myles Kellard apparently was strongly attracted by his sister-in-law, which his wife knew about-'
'That's no reason for him to kill her,' Runcorn protested. 'If he'd killed his wife, maybe. For heaven's sake, think clearly, Monk!'
Monk refrained from telling him about Martha Rivett until he should find the girl, if he could, and hear her side of the story and make some judgment himself as to whom he could believe.
'If he forced his attentions on her,' Monk said with continued patience, 'and she defended herself, then there may have been a struggle, in which she was knifed-'
'With a carving knife?' Runcorn's eyebrows went up. 'Which she just conveniently chanced to have in her bedroom?'
'I don't imagine it was chance,' Monk bit back savagely. 'If she had reason to think he was coming she probably took it there on purpose.'
Runcorn grunted.
'Or it may have been Mrs. Kellard,' Monk continued. 'She would have good reason to hate her sister.'
'Something of an immoral woman, this Mrs. Haslett.' Runcorn's lips curled in distaste. 'First the footman, now her sister's husband.'
'There is no proof she encouraged the footman,' Monk said crossly. 'And she certainly did not encourage Kellard. Unless you think it's immoral to be beautiful, I don't see how you can find fault with her for either case.''
'You always did have some strange ideas of right.' Runcorn was disgusted-and confused. The ugly headlines in the newspapers threatened public opinion. The letters from the Home Office lay stiff and white on his desk, polite but cold, warning that it would be little appreciated if he did not find a way to end this case soon, and satisfactorily.
'Well don't stand there,' he said to Monk. 'Get about finding out which of your suspects is guilty. For heaven's sake, you Ve only got five; you know it has to be one of them. It's a matter of exclusion. You can stop thinking about Mrs. Kellard, to begin with. She might have a quarrel, but I doubt she'd
knife her sister in the night. That's cold-blooded. She couldn't expect to get away with it.'
'She couldn't know about Chinese Paddy in the street,' Monk pointed out.
'What? Oh-well, neither could the footman. I'd look for a man in this-or the laundrymaid, I suppose. Either way, get on with it. Don't stand here in front of my fire talking.'
'You sent for me.''
'Yes-well now I'm sending you out again. Close the door as you go-it's cold in the passage.'
Monk spent the next two and a half days searching the workhouses, riding in endless cabs through narrow streets, pavements gleaming in the lamplight and the rain, amid the rattle of carts and the noise of street cries, carriage wheels, and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles. He began to the east of Queen Anne Street with the Clerkenwell Workhouse in Farringdon Road, then Holborn Workhouse on the Grey's Inn Road. The second day he moved westward and tried the St. George's Workhouse on Mount Street, then the St. Marylebone Workhouse on Northumberland Street. On the third morning he came to the Westminster Workhouse on Poland Street, and he was beginning to get discouraged. The atmosphere depressed him more than any other place he knew. There was some deeply ingrained fear that touched him at the very name, and when he saw the flat, drab sides of the building rearing up he felt its misery enter into him, and a coldness that had nothing to do with the sharp November wind that whined along the street and rattled an old newspaper in the gutter.
He knocked at the door, and when it was opened by a thin man with lank dark hair and a lugubrious expression, he stated immediately who he was and his profession, so there should be no mistaking his purpose in being here. He would not allow them even for an instant to suppose he was seeking shelter, or the poor relief such places were built and maintained to give.
'You'd better come in. I'll ask if the master'll see yer,' the man said without interest. “But if yer want 'elp, yer'd best not lie,'' he added as an afterthought.
Monk was about to snap at him that he did not, when he caught sight of one of the “outdoor poor'' who did, who were reduced by circumstance to seeking charity to survive from
one of these grim institutions which robbed them of decision, dignity, individuality, even of dress or personal appearance; which fed them bread and potatoes, separated families, men from women, children from parents, housed them in dormitories, clothed them in uniforms and worked them from dawn until dusk. A man had to be reduced to despair before he begged to be admitted to such a place. But who would willingly let his wife or his children perish?
Monk found the hot denial sticking in his throat. It would humiliate the man further, to no purpose. He contented himself with thanking the doorkeeper and following him obediently.
The workhouse master took nearly a quarter of an hour to come to the small room overlooking the labor yard where rows of men sat on the ground with hammers, chisels and piles of rocks.
He was a pallid man, his gray hair clipped close to his head, his eyes startlingly dark and ringed around with hollow circles as if he never slept.
'What's wrong, Inspector?' he said wearily. 'Surely you don't think we harbor criminals here? He'd have to be desperate indeed to seek this asylum-and a very unsuccessful scoundrel.'
'I'm looking for a woman who may have been the victim of rape,' Monk replied, a dark, savage edge to his voice. 'I want to hear her side of the story.''
'You new to the job?' the workhouse master said doubtfully, looking him up and down, seeing the maturity in his face, the smooth lines and powerful nose, the confidence and the anger. 'No.' He answered his own question. 'Then what good do you imagine that will do? You're not going to try and prosecute on the word of a pauper, are you?'
“No-it's just corroborative evidence.''
'What?'
'Just to confirm what we already know-or suspect.'
'What's her name?'
'Martha Rivett. Probably came about two years ago-with child. I daresay the child would be born about seven months later, if she didn't lose it.'
'Martha Rivett-Martha Rivett. Would she be a tall girl with fairish hair, about nineteen or twenty?'
'Seventeen-and I'm afraid I don't know what she looked like-except she was a parlormaid, so I expect she was handsome, and possibly tall.'
'We've got a Martha about that age, with a baby. Can't remember her other name, but I'll send for her. You can ask her,'' the master offered.
'Couldn't you take me to her?' Monk suggested. 'Don't want to make her feel-'' He stopped, uncertain what word to choose.
The workhouse master smiled wryly. 'More likely she'll feel like talking away from the other women. But whatever you like.'
Monk was happy to concede. He had no desire to see more of the workhouse than he had to. Already the smell of the place-overboiled cabbage, dust and blocked drains-was clinging in his nose, and the misery choked him.
'Yes-thank you. I don't doubt you're right.'
