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"I am being perfectly serious," she replied, turning away from Monk. “If it was one of Joscelin's friends who killed him, then there is no reason why we should not be
suspected. Surely, Charles, it would be better to clear ourselves by the simple fact of having been elsewhere at the time than it would be to have Mr. Monk satisfy himself we had no reason to, by investigating our affairs?"
Charles paled visibly and looked at Imogen as if she were some venomous creature that had come out of the carpeting and bitten him. Monk felt the tightness in his stomach grip harder.
"I was at dinner with friends," Charles said thinly.
Considering he had just supplied what seemed to be an alibi, he looked peculiarly wretched. Monk could not avoid it; he had to press. He stared at Charles's pale face.
"Where was that, sir?"
"Doughty Street."
Imogen looked at Monk blandly, innocently, but Hester had turned away.
"What number, sir?"
"Can that matter, Mr. Monk?" Imogen asked innocently.
Hester's head came up, waiting.
Monk found himself explaining to her, guilt surprising him.
"Doughty Street leads into Mecklenburg Square, Mrs. Latterly. It is no more than a two- or three-minute walk from one to the other."
"Oh." Her voice was small and flat. She turned slowly to her husband.
"Twenty-two," he said, teeth clenched. "But I was there all evening, and I had no idea Grey lived anywhere near."
Again Monk spoke before he permitted himself to think, or he would have hesitated.
"I find that hard to believe, sir, since you wrote to him at that address. We found your letter among his effects."
"God damn it—I—" Charles stopped, frozen.
Monk waited. The silence was so intense he imagined he could hear horses' hooves in the next street. He did not look at either of the women.
"I mean—" Charles began, and again stopped.
Monk found himself unable to avoid it any longer. He was embarrassed for them, and desperately sorry. He looked at Imogen, wanting her to know that, even if it meant nothing to her at all.
She was standing very still. Her eyes were so dark he could see nothing in mem, but there did not seem to be the hate he feared. For a wild moment he felt that if only he could have talked to her alone he could have explained, made her understand the necessity for all this, the compulsion.
"My friends will swear I was there all evening." Charles's words cut across them. "I'll give you their names. This is ridiculous; I liked Joscelin, and our misfortunes were as much his. There was no reason whatever to wish him harm, and you will find none!"
"If I could have their names, Mr. Latterly?"
Charles's head came up sharply.
"You're not going to go 'round asking them to account for me at the time of a murder, for God's sake! I'll only give you their names—"
"I shall be discreet, sir."
Charles snorted with derision at the idea of so delicate a virtue as discretion in a policeman.
Monk looked at him patiently.
"It will be easier if you give me their names, sir, than if I have to discover them for myself.''
