questions and doubts about Prudence, which infuriated him.
There was one more place he could try. Nanette Cuthbertson had stayed overnight with friends only a tew hundred yards away. It was possible they might know something, however trivial.
He was received very coolly by the butler; indeed, had he been able to refuse entirely without appearing to deny justice, Monk gathered he would have done so. The master of the house, one Roger Waldemar, was brief to the point of rudeness. His wife, however, was decidedly more civil, and Monk caught a gleam of admiration in her glance.
'My daughter and Miss Cuthbertson have been friends for many years.' She looked at Monk with a smile in her eyes although her face was grave.
They were alone in her sitting room, all rose and gray, opening onto a tiny walled garden, private, ideal for contemplation-or dalliance. Monk quashed his speculations as to what might have taken place there and returned his attention to his task.
'Indeed, you might say they had been from childhood,' Mrs. Waldemar was saying. 'But Miss Cuthbertson was with us at the ball all evening. Quite lovely she looked, and so full of spirits. She had a real fire in her eyes, if you know what I mean, Mr. Monk? Some women have a certain'-she shrugged suggestively-'vividness to them that others have not, regardless of circumstance.'
Monk looked at her with an answering smile. 'Of course I know, Mrs. Waldemar. It is something a man does not overlook, or forget.' He allowed his glance to rest on her a fraction longer than necessary. He liked the taste of power, and one day he would push his own to find its limits, to know exactly how much he could do. He was certain it was far more than this very mild, implied flirtation.
She lowered her eyes, her fingers picking at the fabric of the sofa on which she sat. 'And I believe she went out for a walk very early,' she said clearly. 'She was not at breakfast. However, I would not wish you to read anything unfortunate into that. I am sure she simply took a little exercise, perhaps to clear her head. I daresay she wished to think.' She looked up at him through her lashes. 'I should have in her position. And one must be alone and uninterrupted for such a thing.'
'In her position?' Monk inquired, regarding her steadily.
She looked grave. She had very fine eyes, but she was not the type of woman that appealed to him. She was too willing, too obviously unsatisfied.
'I-I am not sure if this is discreet; it can hardly be relevant____________________'
'If it is not relevant, ma'am, I shall immediately forget it,' he promised, leaning an inch or two closer to her. 'I can keep my own counsel.'
'I am sure,' she said slowly. 'Well-for some time poor Nanette has been most fond of Geoffrey Taunton, whom you must know. And he has had eyes only for that unfortunate girl Prudence Barrymore. Well, lately young Martin Hereford, a most pleasing and totally acceptable young man…' She invested the words with a peculiar emphasis, conveying her boredom with everything so tediously expected. '… has paid considerable attention to Nanette,' she concluded. 'The night of the ball he made his admiration quite apparent. Such a nice young man. Far more suitable really than Geoffrey Taunton.'
'Indeed?' Monk said with exactly the right mixture of skepticism, to entice her to explain, and encouragement, so she would not feel slighted. He kept his eyes on hers.
'Well…' She lifted one shoulder, her eyes bright. 'Geoffrey Taunton can be very charming, and of course he has excellent means and a fine reputation. But there is more to consider than that.'
He watched her intently, waiting for her to elaborate.
'He has a quite appalling temper,' she said confidently. 'He is utterly charming most of the time, of course. But if he is really thwarted, and cannot bear it, he quite simply loses all control. I have only seen him do it once, and over the silliest incident. It was a weekend in the country.' She had Monk's attention and she knew it. She hesitated, savoring the moment.
He was becoming impatient. He could feel the ache in his muscles as he forced himself to sit, to smile at her, when he would like to have exploded in temper for her stupidity, her vacuous, meaningless flirting.
'A long weekend,' she continued. 'Actually, as I recall, it was from Thursday until Tuesday, or something like that. The men had been out shooting, I think, and we ladies had been sewing and gossiping all day, waiting for them to return. It was in the evening.' She took a deep breath and stared around the room as if in an effort to recollect. 'I think it was Sunday evening. We'd all been to church early, before breakfast, so they would have the whole day outside. The weather was glorious. Do you shoot, Mr. Monk?'
'No.'
'You should. It's a very healthy pastime, you know.'
He choked back the answer that came to his lips.
'I shall have to consider it, Mrs. Waldemar.'
'They were playing billiards,' she said, picking up the thread again. 'Geoffrey had lost all evening to Archibald Purbright. He really is such a cad. Perhaps I shouldn't say that?' She looked at him inquiringly, her smile very close to a simper.
He knew what she wanted.
'I'm sure you shouldn't,' he agreed with an effort. 'But I shan't repeat it.'
'Do you know him?'
'I don't think I care to, if he is a cad, as you say.'
She laughed. 'Oh dear. Still, I'm sure you will not repeat what I tell you?'
'Of course not. It shall be a confidence between us.' He despised himself as he was doing it, and despised her the more. 'What happened?'
'Oh, Archie was cheating, as usual, and Geoffrey finally lost his temper and said some perfectly terrible things…'
Monk felt a rage of disappointment. Abuse, however virulent, was hardly akin to murder. Stupid woman! He could have hit her silly, smiling face.
'I see,' he said with distinct chill. It was a relief not to have to pretend anymore.
'Oh no, you don't,' she retorted urgently. 'Geoffrey beat poor Archie over the head and shoulders with the billiard cue. He knocked him to the floor, and might have rendered him senseless had not Bertie and George pulled him off. It was really quite awful.' There was a flush of excitement in her cheeks. 'Archie was in bed for four days, and of course they had to send for the doctor. They told him Archie had fallen off his horse, but I don't think the doctor believed that for an instant. He was too discreet to say so, but I saw the look on his face. Archie said he'd sue, but he'd been cheating, and he knew we knew it, so naturally he didn't. But neither of them were invited again.' She smiled up at him and shrugged her smooth shoulders. 'So I daresay Nanette had a great deal to think about. After all, a temper of that sort gives one cause for consideration, however charming a man may be otherwise, don't you agree?'
'I do indeed, Mrs. Waldemar,' Monk said with sincerity. Suddenly she looked extremely different. She was not stupid; on the contrary, she was very perceptive. She did not prattle on; she recounted valuable and maybe extremely relevant information. He looked back at her with profound appreciation. 'Thank you. Your excellent memory is most admirable and explains a great deal to me that had previously been beyond my understanding. No doubt Miss Cuthbertson was doing exactly as you say. Thank you so much for your time and courtesy.' He rose to his feet, backing away from her.
'Not at all.' She rose also, her skirts billowing around her with a soft sound of taffeta. 'If I can be of any further assistance, please feel able to call upon me.'
'Indeed I shall.' And with such speed as grace allowed, he took his departure out into the darkening streets, the lamplighter passing on his way, one light glowing into life after another along the length of the pavement.
So Geoffrey had a violent temper, even murderous. His step lightened. It was a small thing so far, but definitely a break in the gloom around Sir Herbert Stanhope.
It did not explain Prudence's dreams or their reality, and that still burdened him, but it was a beginning.
And it would be an acute satisfaction to him to take it to Rathbone. It was something he had not found for himself, and Monk could imagine the look of surprise-and obligation-in Rathbone's clever, self-possessed face when he told him.
