"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 misery 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."