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"And you?"
Evan was transparently surprised. "No, not me," he said simply. He made no protestations, and Monk believed him.
"Good." He drew a deep breath. "Well, we'll go and see Mr. Yeats tomorrow."
"Yes sir." Evan was smiling, the shadow gone. "I'll be here at eight."
Monk winced inwardly at the time, but he had to agree. He said good-night and turned to go home.
But out in the street he started walking the other way, not consciously thinking until he realized he was moving
in the general direction of St. Marylebone Church. It was over two miles away, and he was tired. He had already walked a long way in Shelburne, and his legs were aching, his feet sore. He hailed a cab and when the driver asked him, he gave the address of the church.
It was very quiet inside with only die dimmest of light through the fast-graying windows. Candelabra shed little yellow arcs.
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?
