by Anne Perry
“Of course I hear you.” Monk deliberately kept calm. “Although it was unnecessary for you to say so, your actions have long made it obvious; unless of course you wish to inform the rest of the building? Your voice was certainly loud enough. As for me, I knew your intentions long ago. And now …” He stood up and walked past him to the door. “If you have nothing else to say, sir; I have several witnesses to question.”
“I’ll give you till the end of the week,” Runcorn bellowed behind him, his face purple, but Monk was outside and going down the stairs for his hat and coat. The only advantage of disaster was that all lesser ills are swallowed up in it.
By the time he had reached the Latterlys’ house and been shown in by the parlor maid, he had made up his mind to do the only thing that might lead him to the truth. Runcorn had given him a week. And Evan would be back long before that. Time was desperately short.
He asked to see Imogen, alone. The maid hesitated, but it was morning and Charles was quite naturally out; and anyway, as a servant she had not the authority to refuse.
He paced backwards and forwards nervously, counting seconds until he heard light, decisive footsteps outside and the door opened. He swung around. It was not Imogen but Hester Latterly who came in.
He felt an immediate rush of disappointment, then something almost resembling relief. The moment was put off; Hester had not been here at the time. Unless Imogen had confided in her she could not help. He would have to return. He needed the truth, and yet it terrified him.
“Good morning, Mr. Monk,” she said curiously. “What may we do for you this time?”
“I am afraid you cannot help me,” he replied. He did not like her, but it would be pointless and stupid to be rude. “It is Mrs. Latterly I would like to see, since she was here at the time of Major Grey’s death. I believe you were still abroad?”
“Yes I was. But I am sorry, Imogen is out all day and I do not expect her return until late this evening.” She frowned very slightly and he was uncomfortably aware of her acute perception, the sensitivity with which she was regarding him. Imogen was kinder, immeasurably less abrasive, but there was an intelligence in Hester which might meet his present need more readily.
“I can see that something very serious troubles you,” she said gravely. “Please sit down. If it is to do with Imogen, I would greatly appreciate it if you would confide in me, and I may help the matter to be dealt with with as little pain as possible. She has already suffered a great deal, as has my brother. What have you discovered, Mr. Monk?”
He looked at her levelly, searching the wide, very clear eyes. She was a remarkable woman and her courage must be immense to have defied her family and traveled virtually alone to one of the most dreadful battlefields in the world, and to have risked her own life and health to care for the wounded. She must have very few illusions, and that thought was comforting now. There was an infinity of experience between himself and Imogen: horror, violence, hatred and pain outside her grasp to think of, and which from now on would be his shadow, even his skin. Hester must have seen men in the very extremity of life and death, the nakedness of soul that comes when fear strips everything away and the honesty that loosens the tongue when pretense is futile.
Perhaps after all it was right he should speak to her.
“I have a most profound problem, Miss Latterly,” he began. It was easier to talk to her than he had expected. “I have not told you, or anyone else, the entire truth about my investigation of Major Grey’s death.”
She waited without interruption; surprisingly, she did know when to keep silent.
“I have not lied,” he went on. “But I have omitted one of the most important facts.”
She was very pale. “About Imogen?”
“No! No. I do not know anything about her, beyond what she told me herself—that she knew and liked Joscelin Grey, and that he called here, as a friend of your brother George. What I did not tell you is about myself.”
He saw the flash of concern in her face, but he did not know the reason for it. Was it her nurse’s professional training, or some fear for Imogen, something she knew and he did not? But again she did not interrupt.
“The accident I suffered before beginning the Joscelin Grey case is a severe complication which I did not mention.” Then for a hideous moment he thought she might imagine he was seeking some kind of sympathy, and he felt the blood burn up his skin. “I lost my memory.” He rushed to dispel the idea. “Completely. When I came to my senses in the hospital I could not even think of my own name.” How far away that minimal nightmare seemed now! “When I was recovered enough to go back to my rooms they were strange to me, like the rooms of a man I had never met. I knew no one, I could not even think how old I was, or what I looked like. When I saw myself in the mirror I did not recognize myself even then.”
There was pity in her face, gentle and quite pure, without a shadow of condescension or setting herself apart. It was far sweeter than anything he had expected.
“I’m deeply sorry,” she said quietly. “Now I understand why some of your questions seemed so very odd. You must have had to learn everything over again.”
“Miss Latterly—I believe your sister-in-law came to me before, asked me something, confided—perhaps to do with Joscelin Grey—but I cannot remember. If she could tell me everything she knows of me, anything I may have said—”
“How could that help you with Joscelin Grey?” Then suddenly she looked down at the hand in her lap. “You mean you think Imogen may have something to do with his death?” Her head came up sharply, her eyes candid and full of fear. “Do you think Charles may have killed him, Mr. Monk?”
“No—no, I am quite sure he did not.” He must lie; the truth was impossible, but he needed her help. “I found old notes of mine, made before the accident, which indicate I knew something important then, but I can’t remember it. Please, Miss Latterly—ask her to help me.”
Her face was a little bleak, as if she too feared the outcome.
“Of course, Mr. Monk. When she returns I will explain the necessity to her, and when I have something to tell you I shall come and do so. Where may I find you that we can talk discreetly?”
He was right: she was afraid. She did not wish her family to overhear—perhaps especially Charles. He stared at her, smiling with a bitter humor, and saw it answered in her eyes. They were in an absurd conspiracy, she to protect her family as far as was possible, he to discover the truth about himself, before Evan or Runcorn made it impossible. He must know why he had killed Joscelin Grey.
“Send me a message, and I shall meet you in Hyde Park, at the Piccadilly end of the Serpentine. No one will remark two people walking together.”
“Very well, Mr. Monk. I shall do what I can.”
“Thank you.” He rose and took his leave, and she watched his straight, very individual figure as he walked down the steps and out into the street. She would have recognized his stride anywhere; there was an ease in it not unlike a soldier’s who was used to the self-discipline of long marches, and yet it was not military.
When he was out of sight she sat down, cold, unhappy, but knowing it was unavoidable she should do exactly as he had asked. Better she should learn the truth first than that it should be dragged out longer, and found by others.
She spent a solitary and miserable evening, dining alone in her room. Until she knew the truth from Imogen she could not bear to risk a long time with Charles, such as at a meal table. It was too likely her thoughts would betray her and end in hurting them both. As a child she had imagined herself to be marvelously subtle and capable of all sorts of deviousness. At about twenty she had mentioned it quite seriously at the dinner table. It was the only occasion she could recall of every member of her family laughing at once. George had begun, his face crinkling into uncontrollable delight and his voice ringing out with hilarity. The very idea was funny. She had the most transparent emotions any of them had seen. Her happiness swept the house in a whirlwind; her miser
y wrapped it in a purple gloom.
It would be futile, and painful, to try to deceive Charles now.
It was the following afternoon before she had the opportunity to speak alone with Imogen for any length of time. Imogen had been out all morning and came in in a swirl of agitation, swinging her skirts around as she swept into the hallway and deposited a basket full of linen on the settle at the bottom of the stairs and took off her hat.
“Really, I don’t know what the vicar’s wife is thinking of,” she said furiously. “Sometimes I swear that woman believes all the world’s ills can be cured with an embroidered homily on good behavior, a clean undershirt and a jar of homemade broth. And Miss Wentworth is the last person on earth to help a young mother with too many children and no maidservant.”
“Mrs. Addison?” Hester said immediately.
“Poor creature doesn’t know whether she is coming or going,” Imogen argued. “Seven children, and she’s as thin as a slat and exhausted. I don’t think she eats enough to keep a bird alive—giving it all to those hungry little mouths forever asking for more. And what use is Miss Wentworth? She has fits of the vapors every few minutes! I spend half my time picking her up off the floor.”
“I’d have fits of the vapors myself if my stays were as tight as hers,” Hester said wryly. “Her maid must lace them with one foot on the bedpost. Poor soul. And of course her mother’s trying to marry her off to Sydney Abernathy—he has plenty of money and a fancy for wraith-like fragility—it makes him feel masterful.”
“I shall have to see if I can find a suitable homily for her on vanity.” Imogen ignored the basket and led the way through to the withdrawing room and threw herself into one of the large chairs. “I am hot and tired. Do have Martha bring us some lemonade. Can you reach the bell?”
It was an idle question, since Hester was still standing. Absently she pulled the end. “It isn’t vanity,” she said, still referring to Miss Wentworth. “It’s survival. What is the poor creature to do if she doesn’t marry? Her mother and sisters have convinced her the only alternative is shame, poverty and a lonely and pitiful old age.”
“That reminds me,” Imogen said, pushing her boots off. “Have you heard from Lady Callandra’s hospital yet? I mean the one you want to administer.”
“I don’t aim quite so high; I merely want to assist,” Hester corrected.
“Rubbish!” Imogen stretched her feet luxuriously and sank a little further into the chair. “You want to order around the entire staff.”
The maid came in and stood waiting respectfully.
“Lemonade, please, Martha,” Imogen ordered. “I’m so hot I could expire. This climate really is ridiculous. One day it rains enough to float an ark, the next we are all suffocated with heat.”
“Yes ma’am. Would you like some cucumber sandwiches as well, ma’am?”
“Oh yes. Yes I would—thank you.”
“Yes ma’am.” And with a whisk of skirts she was gone.
Hester filled the few minutes while the maid was absent with trivial conversation. She had always found it easy to talk to Imogen and their friendship was more like that of sisters than of two women related only by marriage, whose patterns of life were so different. When Martha had brought the sandwiches and lemonade and they were alone, she turned at last to the matter which was pressing so urgently on her mind.
“Imogen, that policeman, Monk, was here again yesterday—”
Imogen’s hand stopped in the air, the sandwich ignored, but there was curiosity in her face and a shadow of amusement. There was nothing that looked like fear. But then Imogen, unlike Hester, could conceal her feelings perfectly if she chose.
“Monk? What did he want this time?”
“Why are you smiling?”
“At you, my dear. He annoys you so much, and yet I think part of you quite likes him. You are not dissimilar in some ways, full of impatience at stupidity and anger at injustice, and perfectly prepared to be as rude as you can.”
“I am nothing like him whatever,” Hester said impatiently. “And this is not a laughing matter.” She could feel an irritating warmth creep up in her cheeks. Just once in a while she would like to take more naturally to feminine arts, as Imogen did as easily as breathing. Men did not rush to protect her as they did Imogen; they always assumed she was perfectly competent to take care of herself, and it was a compliment she was growing tired of.
Imogen ate her sandwich, a tiny thing about two inches square.
“Are you going to tell me what he came for, or not?”
“Certainly I am.” Hester took a sandwich herself and bit into it; it was lacily thin and the cucumber was crisp and cool. “A few weeks ago he had a very serious accident, about the time Joscelin Grey was killed.”
“Oh—I’m sorry. Is he ill now? He seemed perfectly recovered.”
“I think his body is quite mended,” Hester answered, and seeing the sudden gravity and concern in Imogen’s face felt a gentleness herself. “But he was struck very severely on the head, and he cannot remember anything before regaining his senses in a London hospital.”
“Not anything.” A flicker of amazement crossed Imogen’s face. “You mean he didn’t remember me—I mean us?”
“He didn’t remember himself,” Hester said starkly. “He did not know his name or his occupation. He did not recognize his own face when he saw it in the glass.”
“How extraordinary—and terrible. I do not always like myself completely—but to lose yourself! I cannot imagine having nothing at all left of all your past—all your experiences, and the reason why you love or hate things.”
“Why did you go to him, Imogen?”
“What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”
“You heard what I said. When we first saw Monk in St. Marylebone Church you went over to speak to him. You knew him. I assumed at the time that he knew you, but he did not. He did not know anyone.”
Imogen looked away, and very carefully took another sandwich.
“I presume it is something Charles does not know about,” Hester went on.
“Are you threatening me?” Imogen asked, her enormous eyes quite frank.
“No I am not!” Hester was annoyed, with herself for being clumsy as well as Imogen for thinking such a thing. “I didn’t know there was anything to threaten you with. I was going to say that unless it is unavoidable, I shall not tell him. Was it something to do with Joscelin Grey?”
Imogen choked on her sandwich and had to sit forward sharply to avoid suffocating herself altogether.
“No,” she said when at last she caught her breath. “No it was not. I can see that perhaps it was foolish, on reflection. But at the time I really hoped—”
“Hoped what? For goodness sake, explain yourself.”
Slowly, with a good deal of help, criticism and consolation from Hester, Imogen recounted detail by detail exactly what she had done, what she had told Monk, and why.
Four hours later, in the golden sunlight of early evening, Hester stood in the park by the Serpentine watching the light dimple on the water. A small boy in a blue smock carrying a toy boat under his arm passed by with his nursemaid. She was dressed in a plain stuff dress, had a starched lace cap on her head and walked as uprightly as any soldier on parade. An off-duty bandsman watched her with admiration.
Beyond the grass and trees two ladies of fashion rode along Rotten Row, their horses gleaming, harnesses jingling and hooves falling with a soft thud on the earth. Carriages rattling along Knightsbridge towards Piccadilly seemed in another world, like toys in the distance.
She heard Monk’s step before she saw him. She turned when he was almost upon her. He stopped a yard away; their eyes met. Lengthy politeness would be ridiculous between them. There was no outward sign of fear in him—his gaze was level and unflinching—but she knew the void and the imagination that was there.
She was the first to speak.
“Imogen came to you after my father’s death, in the rather fragile hope that
you might discover some evidence that it was not suicide. The family was devastated. First George had been killed in the war, then Papa had been shot in what the police were kind enough to say might have been an accident, but appeared to everyone to be suicide. He had lost a great deal of money. Imogen was trying to salvage something out of the chaos—for Charles’s sake, and for my mother’s.” She stopped for a moment, trying to keep her composure, but the pain of it was still very deep.
Monk stood perfectly still, not intruding, for which she was grateful. It seemed he understood she must tell it all without interruption in order to be able to tell it at all.
She let out her breath slowly, and resumed.
“It was too late for Mama. Her whole world had collapsed. Her youngest son dead, financial disgrace, and then her husband’s suicide—not only his loss but the shame of the manner of it. She died ten days later—she was simply broken—” Again she was obliged to stop for several minutes. Monk said nothing, but stretched out his hand and held hers, hard, firmly, and the pressure of his fingers was like a lifeline to the shore.
In the distance a dog scampered through the grass, and a small boy chased a penny hoop.
“She came to you without Charles’s knowing—he would not have approved. That is why she never mentioned it to you again—and of course she did not know you had forgotten. She says you questioned her about everything that had happened prior to Papa’s death, and on successive meetings you asked her about Joscelin Grey. I shall tell you what she told me—”
A couple in immaculate riding habits cantered down the Row. Monk still held her hand.
“My family first met Joscelin Grey in March. They had none of them heard of him before and he called on them quite unexpectedly. He came one evening. You never met him, but he was very charming—even I can remember that from his brief stay in the hospital where I was in Scutari. He went out of his way to befriend other wounded men, and often wrote letters for those too ill to do it for themselves. He often smiled, even laughed and made small jokes. It did a great deal for morale. Of course his wound was not as serious as many, nor did he have cholera or dysentery.”
