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"Damn you!" Charles's face was suffused with blood.
"Their names, please sir?"
Charles strode over to one of the small tables and took out a sheet of paper and a pencil. He wrote for several moments before folding it and handing it to Monk.
Monk took it without looking and put it in his pocket.
"Thank you, sir."
"Is that all?"
"No, I'm afraid I would still like to ask you anything further you might know about Major Grey's other friends, • anyone with whom he stayed, and could have known well
enough to be aware, even accidentally, of some secret damaging to them."
"Such as what, for God's sake?" Charles looked at him with extreme distaste.
Monk did not wish to be drawn into speaking of the sort of things his imagination feared, especially in Imogen's hearing. In spite of the irrevocable position he was now in, every vestige of good opinion she might keep of him mattered, like fragments of a broken treasure.
“I don't know, sir; and without strong evidence it would be unseemly to suggest anything."
"Unseemly," Charles said sarcastically, his voice grating with the intensity of his emotion. "You mean that matters to you? I'm surprised you know what the word means."
Imogen turned away in embarrassment, and Hester's face froze. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then realized she would be wiser to keep silent.
Charles colored faintly in the silence that followed, but he was incapable of apology.
"He spoke of some people named Dawlish," he said irritably. "And I believe he stayed with Gerry Fortescue once or twice."
Monk took down such details as they could remember of the Dawlishes, the Fortesc
ues and others, but it sounded useless, and he was aware of Charles's heavy disbelief, as if he were humoring an uncaged animal it might be dangerous to annoy. He stayed only to justify himself, because he had said to them that it was his reason for having come.
When he left he imagined he could hear the sigh of relief behind him, and his mind conjured up their quick looks at each other, then the understanding in their eyes, needing no words, that an intruder had gone at last, an extreme unpleasantness was over. All the way along the street his thoughts were in the bright room behind him -and on Imogen. He considered what she was doing, what she thought of him, if she saw him as a man at all, or only the inhabiter of an office that had become suddenly more than usually offensive to her.
And yet she had looked so directly at him. That seemed a timeless moment, recurring again and again—or was it simply that he dwelt in it? What had she asked of him originally? What had they said to one another?
What a powerful and ridiculous thing the imagination was—had he not known it so foolish, he could have believed there must have been deep memories between them.
* * * * *
When Monk had gone, Hester, Imogen and Charles were left standing in the withdrawing room, the sun streaming in from the French windows into the small garden, bright through the leaves in the silence.
Charles drew in his breath as if to speak, looked first at his wife, then at Hester, and let out a sigh. He said nothing. His face was tight and unhappy as he walked to the door, excused himself perfunctorily, and went out.
A torrent of thoughts crowded Hester's mind. She disliked Monk, and he angered her, yet the longer she watched him the less did she think he was as incompetent as he had first seemed. His questions were erratic, and he appeared to be no nearer finding Joscelin Grey's killer than he had been when he began; and yet she was keenly aware both of an intelligence and a tenacity in him. He cared about it, more than simply for vanity or ambition. For justice sake he wanted to know and to do something about it.
She would have smiled, did it not wound so deep, but she had also seen in him a startling softness towards Imogen, an admiration and a desire to protect—something which he certainly did not feel for Hester. She had seen that look on several men's faces; Imogen had woken precisely the same emotions in Charles when they first met, and in many men since. Hester never knew if Imogen herself was aware of it or not.
Had she stirred Joscelin Grey as well? Had he fallen in
love with her, the gentleness, those luminous eyes, the quality of innocence which touched everything she did?
Charles was still in love with her. He was quiet, admittedly a trifle pompous, and he had been anxious and shorter tempered than customarily since his father's death; but he was honorable, at times generous, and sometimes fun—at least he had been. Lately he had become more sober, as though a heavy weight could never be totally forgotten.
Was it conceivable that Imogen had found the witty, charming, gallant Joscelin Grey more interesting, even if only briefly? If that had been so, then Charles, for all his seeming self-possession, would have cared deeply, and the hurt might have been something he could not control.
Imogen was keeping a secret. Hester knew her well enough, and liked her, to be aware of the small tensions, the silences where before she would have confided, the placing of a certain guard on her tongue when they were together. It was not Charles she was afraid might notice and suspect; he was not perceptive enough, he did not expect to understand any woman—it was Hester. She was still as affectionate, as generous with small trinkets, the loan of a kerchief or a silk shawl, a word of praise, gratitude for a courtesy—but she was careful, she hesitated before she spoke, she told the exact truth and the impetuosity was gone.
