Why the church? He had all the peace and silence he needed in his own rooms, and he certainly had no conscious thought of God. He sat down in one of the pews.
Why had he come here? No matter how much he had dedicated himself to his job, his ambition, he must know someone, have a friend, or even an enemy. His life must have impinged on someone else's-beside Runcorn.
He had been sitting in the dark without count of time, struggling to remember anything at all-a face, a name, even a feeling, something of childhood, like the momentary glimpse at Shelburne-when he saw the girl in black again, standing a few feet away.
He was startled. She seemed so vivid, familiar. Or was it only that she seemed to him to be lovely, evocative of something he wanted to feel, wanted to remember?
But she was not beautiful, not really. Her mouth was too big, her eyes too deep. She was looking at him.
Suddenly he was frightened. Ought he to know her? Was he being unbearably rude in not speaking? But he could know any number of people, of any walk of life! She could be a bishop's daughter, or a prostitute!
No, never with that face.
Don't be ridiculous, harlots could have faces with just that warmth, those luminous eyes; at least they could while they were still young, and nature had not yet written itself on the outside.
Without realizing it, he was still looking at her.
"Good evening, Mr. Monk," she said slowly, a faint embarrassment making her blink.
He rose to his feet. "Good evening, ma'am." He had no idea of her name, and now he was terrified, wishing he had never come. What should he say? How well did she know him? He could feel the sweat prickly on his body, his tongue dry, his thoughts in a stultified, wordless mass.
"You have not spoken for such a long time," she went on. "I had begun to fear you had discovered something you did not dare to tell me."
Discovered! Was she connected with some case? It must be old; he had been working on Joscelin Grey since he came back, and before that the accident. He fished for something that would not commit him and yet still make sense.
"No, I'm afraid I haven't discovered anything else." His voice was dry, artificial to his own ears. Please God he did not sound so foolish to her!
"Oh." She looked down. It seemed for a moment as if she could not think of anything else to say, then she lifted her head again and met his eyes very squarely. He could only think how dark they were-not brown, but a multitude of shadows. "You may tell me the truth, Mr. Monk, whatever it is. Even if he killed himself, and for whatever reason, I would rather know.''
"It is the truth," he said simply. "I had an accident about seven weeks ago. I was in a cab that overturned and I broke my arm and ribs and cracked my head. I can't even remember it. I was in hospital for nearly a month, and then went north to my sister's to regain my strength. I'm afraid I haven't done anything about it since then."
"Oh dear." Her face was tight with concern. "I am sorry. Are you all right now? Are you sure you are better?"
She sounded as if it mattered to her. He found himself wanned ridiculously by it. He forced from his mind the idea that she was merely compassionate, or well-mannered.
"Yes, yes thank you; although there are blanks in my memory." Why had he told her that? To explain his behavior-in case it hurt her? He was taking too much upon himself. Why should she care, more than courtesy required? He remembered Sunday now; she had worn black then too, but expensive black, silk and fashionable. The man accompanying her had been dressed as Monk could not afford to be. Her husband? The thought was acutely depressing, even painful. He did not even think of the other woman.
"Oh." Again she was lost for words.
He was fumbling, trying to find a clue, sharply conscious of her presence; even faintly, although she was several feet away, of her perfume. Or was it imagination?
"What was the last thing I told you?" he asked. "I mean-" He did not know what he meant.
But she answered with only the merest hesitation.
"Not a great deal. You said Papa had certainly discovered that the business was fraudulent but you did not know yet whether he had faced the other partners with it or not. You had seen someone, although you did not name him, but a certain Mr. Robinson disappeared every time you went after him." Her face tightened. "You did not know whether Papa could have been murdered by them, to keep his silence, or if he took his own life, for shame. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to discover. It just seemed so dreadful that he should choose that way rather than fight them, show them for what they are. It's no crime to be deceived!" There was a spark of anger in her now, as though she were fighting to keep control of herself. "I wanted to believe he would have stayed alive, and fought them, faced his friends, even those who lost money, rather than-" She stopped, otherwise she would have wept. She stood quite still, swallowing hard.
"I'm sorry," he said very quietly. He wanted to touch her, but he was hurtfully aware of the difference between them. It would be a familiarity and would break the moment's trust, the illusion of closeness.
She waited a moment longer, as if for something which did not come; then she abandoned it.
"Thank you. I am sure you have done everything you could. Perhaps I saw what I wished to see."
There was a movement up the aisle, towards the door of the church, and the vicar came down, looking vague, and behind him the same woman with the highly individual face whom Monk had seen on the first occasion in the church. She also was dressed in dark, plain clothes, and her thick hair with a very slight wave was pulled back in a manner that owed more to expediency than fashion.
"Mrs. Latterly, is that you?" the vicar asked uncertainly, peering forward. "Why my dear, what are you doing here all by yourself? You mustn't brood, you know. Oh!" He saw Monk. "I beg your pardon. I did not realize you had company."
"This is Mr. Monk," she said, explaining him. "From the police. He was kind enough to help us when Papa… died."
The vicar looked at Monk with disapproval.
"Indeed. I do think, my dear child, that it would be wiser for all of us if you were to let the matter rest. Observe mourning, of course, but let your poor father-in-law rest in peace." He crossed the air absently. "Yes-in peace."
Monk stood up. Mrs. Latterly; so she was married-or a widow? He was being absurd.
"If I learn anything more, Mrs. Latterly"-his voice was tight, almost choking-"do you wish me to inform you?" He did not want to lose her, to have her disappear into the past with everything else. He might not discover anything, but he must know where she was, have a reason to see her.
She looked at him for a long moment, undecided, fighting with herself. Then she spoke carefully.
"Yes please, if you will be so kind, but please remember your promise! Good night." She swiveled around, her skirts brushing Monk's feet. "Good night, Vicar. Come, Hester, it is time we returned home; Charles will be expecting us for dinner." And she walked slowly up towards the door. Monk watched her go arm in arm with the other woman as if she had taken the light away with her.
Outside in the sharper evening air Hester Latterly turned to her sister-in-law.
"I think it is past time you explained yourself, Imogen," she said quietly, but with an edge of urgency in her voice. "Just who is that man?"
"He is with the police," Imogen replied, walking briskly towards their carriage, which was waiting at the curbside. The coachman climbed down, opened the door and handed them in, Imogen first, then Hester. Both took his courtesy for granted and Hester arranged her skirts merely sufficiently to be comfortable, Imogen to avoid crushing the fabric.
"What do you mean, 'with'?" Hester demanded as the carriage moved forward. "One does not accompany the police; you make it sound like a social event! 'Miss Smith is with Mr. Jones this evening.' "