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Monk took a deep breath and controlled himself with an effort. Mrs. Latterly at St. Marylebone had said "Charles," and he had feared it might have been her husband.
"I was working on a Latterly case some time ago," he said, struggling to keep his voice level. "It's probably coincidence. I was looking for the file on Latterly yesterday and I couldn't find it."
"Was he someone who could have been connected with Grey, some scandal to hush up, or—"
"No!" He spoke more harshly than he had intended to, betraying his feelings. He moderated his tone. "No, not at all. Poor man is dead anyway. Died before Grey did."
"Oh." Evan turned back to the desk. "That's about all, I'm afraid. Still, we should be able to find a lot of people who knew him from these, and they'll lead us to more."
"Yes, yes quite. I'll take Latterly's address, all the same."
"Oh, right." Evan fished among the letters and passed him one.
Monk read it. It was very cool, as Evan had said, but not impolite, and there was nothing in it to suggest positive dislike, only a relationship which was not now to be continued. Monk read it three times, but could see nothing further in it. He copied down the address, and returned the letter to Evan.
They finished searching the apartment, and then with careful notes went outside again, passing Grimwade in the hall.
"Lunch," Monk said briskly, wanting to be among people, hear laughter and speech and see men who knew nothing about murder and violent, obscene secrets, men engrossed in the trivial pleasures and irritations of daily life.
"Right." Evan fell in step beside him. "There's a good public house about half a mile from here where they serve the most excellent dumplings. That is—" he stopped suddenly. "It's very ordinary—don't know if you—"
"Fine," Monk agreed. "Sounds just what we need. I'm frozen after being in that place. I don't know why, but it seems cold, even inside."
Evan hunched his shoulders and smiled a little sheepishly. "It might be imagination, but it always chills me. I'm not used to murder yet. I suppose you're above that kind of emotionalism, but I haven't got that far—"
"Don't!" Monk spoke more violently than he had meant to. "Don't get used to it!" He was betraying his own rawness, his sudden sensitivity, but he did not care. "I mean," he said more softly, aware that he had startled Evan by his vehemence, "keep your brain clear, by all means, but don't let it cease to shock you. Don't be a
detective before you're a man." Now that he had said it it sounded sententious and extremely trite. He was embarrassed.
Evan did not seem to notice.
"I've a long way to go before I'm efficient enough to do that, sir. I confess, even that room up there makes me feel a little sick. This is the first murder like this I've been on." He sounded self-conscious and very young. "Of course I've seen bodies before, but usually accidents, or paupers who died in the street. There are quite a few of them in the winter. That's why I'm so pleased to be on this case with you. I couldn't learn from anyone better."
Monk felt himself color with pleasure—and shame, because he did not deserve it. He could not think of anything at all to say, and he strode ahead through the thickening rain searching for words, and not finding them. Evan walked beside him, apparently not needing an answer.
* * * * *
The following Monday Monk and Evan got off the train at Shelburne and set out towards Shelbume Hall. It was one of the summer days when the wind is fresh from the east, sharp as a slap in the face, and the sky is clear and cloudless. The trees were huge green billows resting on the bosom of the earth, gently, incessantly moving, whispering. There had been rain overnight, and under the shadows the smell of damp earth was sweet where their feet disturbed it.
They walked in silence, each enjoying it in his own way. Monk was not aware of any particular thoughts, except perhaps a sense of pleasure in the sheer distance of the sky, the width across the fields. Suddenly memory flooded back vividly, and he saw Northumberland again: broad, bleak hills, north wind shivering in the grass. The milky sky was mackerel shredded out to sea, and white gulls floated on the currents, screaming.
He could remember his mother, dark like Beth, standing in the kitchen, and the smell of yeast and flour. She had been proud of him, proud that he could read and write.
He must have been very young then. He remembered a room with sun in it, the vicar's wife teaching him letters, Beth in a smock staring at him in awe. She could not read. He could almost feel himself teaching her, years after, slowly, outline by outline. Her writing still carried echoes of those hours, careful, conscious of the skill and its long learning. She had loved him so much, admired him without question. Then the memory disappeared and it was as if someone had drenched him in cold water, leaving him startled and shivering. It was the most acute and powerful memory he had recaptured and its sharpness left him stunned. He did not notice Evan's eyes on him, or the quick glance away as he strove to avoid what he realized would be intrusion.
Shelburne Hall was in sight across the smooth earth, less than a thousand yards away, framed in trees.
"Do you want me to say anything, or just listen?" Evan asked. "It might be better if I listened."
Monk realized with a start that Evan was nervous. Perhaps he had never spoken to a woman of title before, much less questioned her on personal and painful matters. He might not even have seen such a place, except from the distance. He wondered where his own assurance came from, and why he had not ever thought of it before. Run-corn was right, he was ambitious, even arrogant—and insensitive.
"Perhaps if you try the servants," he replied. "Servants notice a lot of things. Sometimes they see a side of their masters that their lordships manage to hide from their equals."
"I'll try the valet," Evan suggested. "I should imagine you are peculiarly vulnerable in the bath, or in your underwear." He grinned suddenly at the thought, and perhaps in some amusement at the physical helplessness of his social superiors to need assistance in such common matters. It offset his own fear of proving inadequate to the situation.
Lady Fabia Shelburne was somewhat surprised to see
Monk again, and kept him waiting nearly half an hour, this time in the butler's pantry with the silver polish, a locked desk for the wine book and the cellar keys, and a comfortable armchair by a small grate. Apparently the housekeeper's sitting room was already in use. He was annoyed at the casual insolence of it, and yet part of him was obliged to admire her self-control. She had no idea why he had come. He might even have been able to tell her who had murdered her son, and why.
