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"My dear Hester, you don't know what you are speaking of." Charles's face was sharp and he put his hand out towards her, but she avoided it. "What unpleasant things may be involved, quite beyond your experience!"
"Balderdash!" she said instantly. "My experience has included a multitude of things you wouldn't have in your nightmares. I've seen men hacked to death by sabers, shot by cannon, frozen, starved, wasted by disease—"
"Hester!" Charles exploded. "For the love of heaven!"
"So don't tell me I cannot survive the drawing room discussion of one wretched murder," she finished.
Charles's face was very pink and he ignored Monk. "Has it not crossed your very unfeminine mind that Imogen has feelings, and has led a considerably more decorous life than you have chosen for yourself?" he demanded. "Really, sometimes you are beyond enduring!''
"Imogen is not nearly as helpless as you seem to imagine," Hester retorted, but there was a faint blush to her cheeks. "Nor, I think, does she wish to conceal truth because it may be unpleasant to discuss. You do her courage little credit."
Monk looked at Charles and was perfectly sure that had they been alone he would have disciplined his sister in whatever manner was open to him—which was probably
not a great deal. Personally Monk was very glad it was not his problem.
Imogen took the matter into her own hands. She turned towards Monk.
"You were saying that you were driven to an inevitable conclusion, Mr. Monk. Pray tell us what it is." She stared at him and her eyes were angry, almost defensive. She seemed more inwardly alive and sensitive to hurt than anyone else he had ever seen. For seconds he could not think of words to answer her. The moments hung in the air. Her chin came a little higher, but she did not look away.
"I—" he began, and failed. He tried again. "That— that it was someone he knew who killed him." Then his voice came mechanically. "Someone well known to him, of his own position and social circle."
"Nonsense!" Charles interrupted him sharply, coming into the center of the room as if to confront him physically. "People of Joscelin Grey's circle do not go around murdering people. If that's the best you can do, then you had better give up the case and hand it over to someone more skilled."
"You are being unnecessarily rude, Charles." Imogen's eyes were bright and there was a touch of color in her face. "We have no reason to suppose that Mr. Monk is not skilled at his job, and quite certainly no call to suggest it."
Charles's whole body tightened; the impertinence was intolerable.
"Imogen," he began icily; then remembering the feminine frailty he had asserted, altered his tone. "The matter is naturally upsetting to you; I understand that. Perhaps it would be better if you were to leave us. Retire to your room and rest for a little while. Return when you have composed yourself. Perhaps a tisane?"
"I am not tired, and I do not wish for a tisane. I am perfectly composed, and the police wish to question me." She swung around. "Don't you, Mr. Monk?"
He wished he could remember what he knew of them,
but although he strained till his brain ached, he could recall nothing. All his memories were blurred and colored by the overwhelming emotion she aroused in him, the hunger for something always just out of reach, like a great music that haunts the senses but cannot quite be caught, disturbingly and unforgettably sweet, evocative of a whole life on the brink of remembrance.
But he was behaving like a fool. Her gentleness, something in her face had woken in him the memory of a time when he had loved, of the softer side of himself which he had lost when the carriage had crashed and obliterated the past. There was more in him than the detective, brilliant, ambitious, sharp tongued, solitary. There had been those who loved him, as well as the rivals who hated, the subordinates who feared or admired, the villains who knew his skill, the poor who looked for justice—or vengeance. Imogen reminded him that he had a humanity as well, and it was too precious for him to drown in reason. He had lost his balance, and if he were to survive this nightmare— Runcorn, the murder, his career—he must regain it.
"Since you knew Major Grey," he tried again, "it is possible he may have confided in you any anxieties he may have had for his safety—anyone who disliked him or was harassing him for any reason." He was not being as articulate as he wished, and he cursed himself for it.
“Did he mention any envies or rivalries to you?''
"None at all. Why would anyone he knew kill him?" she asked. "He was very charming; I never knew of him picking a quarrel more serious than a few sharp words. Perhaps his humor was a little unkind, but hardly enough to provoke more than a passing irritation."
"My dear Imogen, they wouldn't!" Charles snapped. "It was robbery; it must have been."
Imogen breathed in and out deeply and ignored her husband, still regarding Monk with solemn eyes, waiting for his reply.
"I believe blackmail," Monk replied. "Or perhaps jealousy over a woman."
"Blackmail!" Charles was horrified and his voice was thick with disbelief. "Y
ou mean Grey was blackmailing someone? Over what, may I ask?"
"If we knew that, sir, we should almost certainly know who it was," Monk answered. "And it would solve the case."
"Then you know nothing." There was derision back again in Charles's voice.
"On the contrary, we know a great deal. We have a suspect, but before we charge him we must have eliminated all the other possibilities." That was overstating the case dangerously, but Charles's smug face, his patronizing manner roused Monk's temper beyond the point where he had complete control. He wanted to shake him, to force him but of his complacency and his infuriating superiority.
