But she could not have known that before. Miriam Gardiner could not know that. She turned around to face him.
"We don’t know what her first marriage was like, not truly," she said, meeting his eyes. "Not when the doors were closed and they were alone together. Perhaps there were things in that which made her suddenly afraid of committing herself irrevocably again."
His gray eyes searched hers. She saw the question in them, the flicker of uncertainty.
"You cannot know beforehand how well or ill it will be," she said very quietly. "One can be hurt." She did not say "Or be repulsed, exhausted, feel used or soiled," but she knew he understood it. "Perhaps they knew each other very little in that regard," she said aloud. Then, in case he should imagine she had the slightest doubt or fear herself, she put her arms around his neck and, brushing her fingers gently over his ears and into his hair, kissed his mouth.
His response spoiled the dinner and sealed his determination to begin looking for a woman to take over domestic duties from now on.
3
MONK LEFT HOME early the following morning. It was long before he felt like leaving, but if he were to have any success in helping Lucius Stourbridge, he must find out what had happened to James Treadwell and the carriage. Then he would have a far better chance of tracing some clue or indication where Miriam had gone, perhaps even why. He surprised himself when he realized how much he dreaded the answer.
It was now four days since her disappearance, and getting more difficult to follow her path with each hour that passed. He took a hansom to Bayswater and began by seeking the local tradesmen who would have been around at the hour of the afternoon when Miriam fled.
He was lucky to find almost immediately a gardener who had seen the carriage and knew both the livery and the horses, a distinctive bay and a brown, ill-matched for color but perfect for height and pace.
"Aye," he said, nodding vigorously, a trowel in his hand. "Aye, it passed me going at a fair lick. Din’t see who were in it, mind. Wondered at the time. Knew as they ’ad a party on. See’d all the carriages comin’. Thought as someone were took ill, mebbe. That wot ’appened?"
"We don’t know," Monk replied. He would not tell anyone the Stourbridge tragedy, but it would be public knowledge soon enough, unless he managed not only to find Miriam but to persuade her to return as well, and he held no real hope of that. "Did you see which way they went?"
The gardener looked puzzled.
"The coachman seems to have stolen the coach and horses," Monk explained.
The gardener’s eyes widened. "Arrr." He sighed, shaking his head. "Never heard that. What a thing. What’s the world coming to?" He lifted his hand, trowel extended. "Went ’round that corner there. I never saw’d ’im after that. Road goes north. If ’e’d wanted to go to town, ’e’d ’a gone t’other way. Less traffic. Weren’t nobody after ’im. Got clean away, I s’pose."
Monk agreed, thanked him, and followed the way he had indicated, walking smartly to see if he could find the next sighting.
He had to cast around several times, and walked miles in the dusty heat, but eventually, footsore and exhausted, he got as far as Hampstead Heath, and then the trail petered out. By this time it was dusk and he was more than ready to find a hansom and go home. The idea held more charm than it had a month or two ago, when it would have been merely a matter of taking his boots off his aching feet and waiting for his landlady to bring his supper. Now the hansom could not move rapidly enough for him, and he sat upright watching the streets and traffic pass.
The next morning, Monk went early to the Hampstead police station. When he had been a policeman himself he could have demanded assistance as a matter of course. Now he had to ask for favors. It was a hard difference to stomach. Perhaps he had not always used authority well. That was a conclusion he had been forced to reach when his loss of memory had shown him snatches of his life through the eyes of others. It was unpleasant, and unexpectedly wounding, to discover how many people had been afraid of him, partly because of his superior skills, but far too often due to his cutting tongue. Anything he was given today would be a courtesy. He was a member of the public, no more.
Except, of course, if he had had occasion to come here in the past and they remembered him with unkindness. That thought made him hesitate in his step as he turned the corner of the street for the last hundred yards to the station doors. He had no idea whether they would know him or not. He felt the same stab of anxiety, guilt and anticipation that he had had ever since the accident and his realization of the kind of man he had been, and still was very often. Something in him had softened, but the hard tongue was still there, the sharp wit, the anger at stupidity, laziness, cowardice—above all, at hypocrisy.
He took a deep breath and went up the steps and in through the door.
The duty sergeant looked up, pleased to see someone to break his morning. He hated writing ledgers, though it was better than idleness—just.
" ’Mornin’, sir. Lovely day, in’t it? Wot can I do for you?"
"Good morning, Sergeant," Monk replied, searching the man’s pleasant face for recognition and feeling a tentative hope when it was not there. He had already decided how he was going to approach the subject. "I am looking into a matter for a friend who is young, and at the present too distressed to take it up himself."
"I’m sorry, sir. What matter would that be? Robbery, is it?" the sergeant enquired helpfully, leaning forward a little over the counter.
"Yes," Monk agreed with a rueful smile and a slight shrug. "But not what you might expect. Rather more to it than that— something of a mystery." He lowered his voice. "And I fear a possible tragedy as well, although I am hoping that it is not so."
The sergeant was intrigued. This promised to occupy his whole day, maybe longer.
"Oh, yes sir. What, exactly, was stolen?"
"A coach and horses," Monk answered. "Good pair to drive, a bay and a brown, very well matched for height and pace. And the coach was excellent, too."
The sergeant looked puzzled. "You sure as it’s stole, sir? Not mebbe a member o’ the family got a bit irresponsible, like, and took it out? Young men will race, sir, bad as it is— an’ dangerous, too."
"Quite sure." Monk nodded. "I am afraid it was five days ago now and it is still missing. Not only that, but the driver who took it has not come back, and neither has the young lady who was betrothed to my friend. Naturally, we fear some harm has befallen her, or she would have contacted a member of the family."
The sergeant’s face was full of foreboding. "Oh, dear. That don’t sound good, sir, I must say."
Monk wondered if he was thinking that Miriam had run off with Treadwell. It was not impossible. Monk would have formed a better judgment on that if he had seen either of them, but from the description he had of Treadwell from the other Stourbridge servants, the coachman did not seem a man likely to have attracted a charming and gentle widow who had the prospect of marrying into an excellent family and becoming the wife of a man with whom, by all accounts, she was deeply in love. Certainly, Lucius Stourbridge loved her.
"No, it doesn’t," Monk said aloud. "I have traced the carriage as far as the edge of Hampstead Heath, but then I lost it. If it has been seen anywhere around this area, it would help me greatly to know it."
" ’Course," the sergeant agreed, nodding. "We got a good ’ospital ’ere. Mebbe she was took ill sudden, like. They’d ’a taken ’er in. Very charitable, they are. Or mebbe she ’ad a sudden breakdown in ’er mind, like young women can ’ave, sometimes?"