area and was looking forward to moving there and being mistress of her own household.'
So fear of losing a certain freedom was not what had driven Miriam Gardiner away. Monk tried again. 'Was there anything different about this visit, Major Stourbridge?'
'Not that I am aware, except that it was a trifle more celebratory.' His face pinched with sadness and his voice dropped. 'They were to be married in four weeks. They desired a quiet wedding, a family affair. Miriam did not wish large crowds or great expense. She thought it both unseemly and unnecessary. She loved Lucius very deeply, of that I have no doubt whatever.' He looked bemused. 'I don’t know what has happened, Mr. Monk, but she did not leave because she ceased to love him or to know how profoundly he loves her.'
It was pointless to argue. The belief in Stourbridge’s voice was complete. It was going to be uniquely painful if facts proved him to be mistaken and Monk were to find himself in the position of having to tell him so. He should never have accepted this case. He could not imagine any happy solution.
'Tell me something of your coachman, James Treadwell,' he asked instead.
Stourbridge’s fair brows rose. 'Treadwell? Yes, I see what you mean. A perfectly adequate coachman. Good driver, knows horses, but I admit he is not a man for whom I have any natural liking.' He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. 'I knew men like him in the army. They can sit a horse like a centaur, wield a sword, ride over any terrain, but one cannot rely on them. Always put themselves first, not the regiment. Don’t stand their ground when the battle’s against them.'
'But you kept him on?'
Stourbridge shrugged slightly. 'You don’t put a man out because you think you know his type. Could be wrong. I wouldn’t have had him as a valet, but a coachman is a very different thing. Besides, he’s a nephew of my cook, and she’s a good woman. She’s been with the family nearly thirty years. Started as a scullery maid when my own mother was still alive.'
Monk understood. Like everything else, it was so easily appreciated, so very normal. It left him little more to ask, except for an account of the day itself on which Miriam Gardiner had fled.
'I can give you a guest list, if you wish,' Stourbridge offered. 'But it included no one Miriam had not met before— indeed, no one who was not a friend. Believe me, Mr. Monk, we have all searched our minds trying to think of anything that could have happened to cause her such distress, and we can think of nothing whatever. No one is aware of any quarrel, even any unfortunate or tactless remark.' Instinctively, he glanced out of the window, then back at Monk again. 'Miriam was standing alone. The rest of us were either playing croquet or watching, when quite suddenly she gasped, went as white as paper, stood frozen for a moment, then turned and stumbled away, almost falling, and ran towards the house.' His voice cracked. 'None of us has seen her since!'
Monk leaned forward. 'You saw this?'
'No, not personally. I would have gone after her if I had.' Stourbridge looked wretched, as if he blamed himself. 'But it was described to me by several others, and always in those terms. Miriam was standing alone. No one spoke to her or in any other way approached her.' He frowned, his eyes puzzled. 'I have considered every possibility that common sense suggests, Mr. Monk. We have called you because we can think of nothing further.'
Monk rose to his feet. 'I shall do all I can, sir,' he said with misgiving. When Lucius Stourbridge had first explained his case Monk had thought it an impossible one; now he was even more convinced. Whatever had happened to Miriam Gardiner, it arose from her own emotions, and they would probably never know what it was that had so suddenly precipitated her into flight. But even if they were to learn, it would bring no happiness to them. Monk began to feel an anger against this young woman who had gone so thoughtlessly far along the path which a little consideration would have told her she could not complete. She had hurt deeply at least two decent and honorable people, probably more.
Stourbridge stood also. 'Whom would you like to speak with next, Mr. Monk?'
'Mrs. Stourbridge, if you please,' Monk replied without hesitation. He knew from working with Hester that women observed each other in a way a man did not; they read expressions, understood what was left unsaid.
'Of course.' Stourbridge led the way out into the hall. 'She will be in her sitting room at this hour.'
Monk followed him up the wide, curving staircase and this time had an opportunity to look more closely at the magnificently plastered ceiling and the carving on the newel post at the top of the banister.
Stourbridge crossed the landing. A long window looked over the smooth lawn, and Monk caught a glimpse of croquet hoops still set up. It looked peaceful in the sun, a place of quiet happiness, family games, and afternoon tea in the summer. Trees sheltered hydrangeas beyond, their last flowers dropping in a blaze of color onto the dark earth beneath.
Stourbridge knocked on the third door along, and at a murmur from inside, opened it, ushering Monk in.
'My dear, this is Mr. Monk,' he introduced them. 'He has promised to assist us in finding Miriam.'
Mrs. Stourbridge was sitting on a large chintz-covered chair, a scrapbook of poetry and photographs spread open on the cherry-wood table beside her where she had apparently laid it when interrupted. Her resemblance to her son was clear even at a glance. She had the same dark eyes and slender line of cheek and throat. Her hair grew from her brow in the same broad sweep. If Lucius had indeed come to see her, as his father had suggested, he had not remained long. She looked at Monk with concern. 'How do you do,' she said gravely. 'Please come in. Tell me how I can help my son.'
Monk accepted and sat in the chair opposite her. It was more comfortable than its straight back would have suggested, and the bright, warm room would, in any other circumstances, have been restful. Now he was searching his mind for questions to ask this woman which could help him to understand what had driven Miriam Gardiner to such extraordinary flight.
Stourbridge excused himself and left them.
Verona Stourbridge looked at Monk steadily, waiting.
There was no time for skirting around the edges of meaning.
'Would you please describe Mrs. Gardiner for me?' he asked. He wanted a picture in his mind, not only to allow him to imagine her himself but to know how Mrs. Stourbridge saw her.
She looked surprised. 'Where will you look, Mr. Monk? We have no idea where she could have gone. Obviously, we have already tried her home, and she has not returned there. Her housemaid had not heard from her since she left to come here.'
