She was watching him closely, her eyes anxious. Unexpectedly, she did not prompt him.
He was surprised. "I considered a mistress with the means to give him expensive gifts," he continued. "But in going around the places where he spent his time off, he seems to have had money and purchased the things himself. He enjoyed spending money. He wasn’t especially discreet about it."
"So you think it was come by honestly?" Her eyes widened.
"No ... I think he was not afraid of anyone discovering the dishonesty in it," he corrected. "It wasn’t stolen. There are other dishonest means—"
"Available to a coachman? What?"
The answer was obvious. Why was she deliberately not saying it? He looked back at her, trying to fathom the emotion behind her eyes. He thought he saw reluctance and fear, but it was closed in. She was not going to share it with him.
He felt excluded. It was startlingly unpleasant, a sense of loneliness he had not experienced since the extraordinary night she had accepted his proposal of marriage. He was uncertain how to deal with it. Candor was too instinctive to him; the words were the only ones to his tongue.
"Blackmail," he replied.
"Oh." She looked at him so steadily he was now doubly sure she was concealing her thoughts, and that they were relevant to what they were discussing. Yet how could she know anything about Treadwell? She had been working at the hospital in Hampstead—hadn’t she?
"It seems the obvious possibility," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "That or theft, which he had little time for. He lived in at the Stourbridges’, and they have nothing missing. He liked to live well on his time off, eat expensively, drink as much as he pleased, go out to music halls and pick up any woman that took his fancy."
She did not look surprised, only sad and, if anything, more distressed.
"I see."
"Do you?"
"No ... I meant that I follow your reasoning. It does look as if he might have been blackmailing someone."
He could not bear the barrier. He broke it abruptly, aware that he might be hurt by the answer. "What is wrong, Hester?"
Her back stiffened a little and her chin came up. "I don’t know who he was blackmailing, or even that he was, but I fear I might guess. It is something I have learned in the course of caring for the sick, therefore I cannot tell you. I’m sorry." It was very plain in her face that indeed she was sorry, and equally plain that she would not change her position.
He hurt for her. He ached to be able to help. Being shut out was almost like a physical coldness. He must protect her from being damaged by it herself. That was a greater danger than she might understand.
"Hester—are you aware of any crime committed?"
"Not morally," she answered instantly. "Nothing has been done that would offend the sensibilities of any Christian person."
"Except a policeman," he concluded without hesitation.
Her eyes widened. "Are you a policeman?"
"No..."
"That’s what I thought. Not that it makes any difference. It would be dishonorable to tell you, even if you were. I can’t."
He said nothing. It was infuriating. She might hold the missing piece which would make sense of the confusion. She knew it also, and yet she would not tell him. She set her belief in trust, in her own concept of honor, before even her love for him. It was a hard thing, and beautiful, like clean light. It did not really hurt. He was quite sure he wanted it to be so. He was almost tempted to press her, to be absolutely certain she would not yield. But that would embarrass her. She might not understand his reason, or be quite sure he was not disappointed or, worse, childishly selfish.
"William?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know something anyway?"
"No. Why?"
"You are smiling."
"Oh!" He was surprised. "Am I? No, I don’t know anything. I suppose I am just ... happy ..." He leaned forward and much to her surprise, kissed her long and slowly, with increasing passion.
The following day was the eleventh since Monk had first been approached by Lucius Stourbridge to find his fiancée. Now she was in prison charged with murder, and Monk had very little further idea what had happened the day of her flight. He had still less idea what had occasioned it, unless it was some threat of disclosure of a portion of her past which she believed would ruin either her or someone she loved. And it seemed she would tell no one. Even trial and execution appeared preferable.
What secret could be so fearful?
He could not imagine any, even though as he took a hansom to the Hampstead police station, his mind would not leave it alone.
He arrived still short of nine o’clock to be told that Sergeant Robb had been working until dark the previous evening and was not yet in. Monk thanked the desk sergeant and left, walking briskly in the sun towards Robb’s home. He had no time to waste, even though he feared his discoveries, if he made them, would all be those he preferred not to know. Perhaps that was why he hurried. Good news could be savored, bad should be bolted like evil-tasting medicine. The anticipation at least could be cut short, and hope was painful.
There was little he wanted to tell Robb, only his discoveries about Treadwell’s extravagant spending habits. He had debated whether to mention the subject or not. It gave Miriam a powerful motive, if she were being blackmailed. But a man who would blackmail one person might blackmail others, therefore there would be other suspects. Perhaps one of them had lain in wait for him, and Miriam had fled the scene not because she was guilty but because she could not prove her innocence.
It was a slender hope, and he did not believe it himself. What if there was an illegitimate child somewhere, Miriam’s and Treadwell’s? Or simply that he knew of one? That would be enough to ruin her marriage to Lucius Stourbridge.
But was any blackmail worth the rope?
Or had she simply panicked, and now believed all was lost? That was only too credible.
He could not alone pursue all the other possible victims Treadwell might have had. That required the numbers of the police, and their authority.
He reached Robb’s home and knocked on the door. It was opened after several minutes by Robb himself, looking tired and harassed. He greeted Monk civilly but with a further tightening of the tension inside him.
"What is it? Be as brief as you may, please. I am late and I have not yet given my grandfather his breakfast."
Monk would like to have helped, but he had no skills that were of use. He felt the lack of them sharply.
"I have learned rather more about James Treadwell, and I thought I should share it with you. Let me tell you while you get breakfast," Monk offered.
Robb accepted reluctantly.
Monk excused himself to the old man, then, sitting down, recounted what he had discovered over the previous two days. As he did so, and Michael prepared bread and tea and assisted his grandfather, Monk’s eyes wandered around the room. He noticed the cupboard door open and the small stack of medicines, still well replenished, and that there were eggs in a bowl on the table by the sink and a bottle of sherry on the floor. Michael did very well by his grandfather. It must cost him every halfpenny of his sergeant’s wages. Monk knew what they were and how far they went. It was little enough for two, especially when one of them needed constant care and expensive medicines.
Michael cleared away the plate and cup and washed them in the pan by the sink, his back to the room.
The old man looked at Monk. "Good woman, your wife," he said gently. "Never makes it seem like a trouble. Comes here and listens to my tales with her eyes like stars. Seen the tears running down her cheeks when I told her about the death o’ the admiral an’ how we came home to England with the flags lowered after Trafalgar."
"She loved hearing it," Monk said sincerely. He could imagine Hester sitting in this chair, the vision so clear in her mind that the terror and the sorrow of it moved her to tears. "She must have been here some considerable time to hear such a long account."