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"How could that help you with Joscelin Grey?" Then suddenly she looked down at the hand in her lap. "You mean you think Imogen may have something to do with his death?" Her head came up sharply, her eyes candid and full of fear. "Do you think Charles may have killed him, Mr. Monk?"
"No—no, I am quite sure he did not." He must lie; the truth was impossible, but he needed her help. "I found old notes of mine, made before the accident, which indicate I knew something important then, but I can't remember it. Please, Miss Latterly—ask her to help me.''
Her face was a little bleak, as if she too feared the outcome.
"Of course, Mr. Monk. When she returns I will explain
the necessity to her, and when I have something to tell you I shall come and do so. Where may I find you that we can talk discreetly?"
He was right: she was afraid. She did not wish her family to overhear—perhaps especially Charles. He stared at her, smiling with a bitter humor, and saw it answered in her eyes. They were in an absurd conspiracy, she to protect her family as far as was possible, he to discover the truth about himself, before Evan or Runcorn made it impossible. He must know why he had killed Joscelin Grey.
"Send me a message, and I shall meet you in Hyde Park, at the Piccadilly end of the Serpentine. No one will remark two people walking together."
"Very well, Mr. Monk. I shall do what I can."
"Thank you." He rose and took his leave, and she watched his straight, very individual figure as he walked down the steps and out into the street. She would have recognized his stride anywhere; there was an ease in it not unlike a soldier's who was used to the self-discipline of long marches, and yet it was not military.
When he was out of sight she sat down, cold, unhappy, but knowing it was unavoidable she should do exactly as he had asked. Better she should learn the truth first than that it should be dragged out longer, and found by others.
She spent a solitary and miserable evening, dining alone in her room. Until she knew the truth from Imogen she could not bear to risk a long time with Charles, such as at a meal table. It was too likely her thoughts would betray her and end in hurting them both. As a child she had imagined herself to be marvelously subtle and capable of all sorts of deviousness. At about twenty she had mentioned it quite seriously at the dinner table. It was the only occasion she could recall of every member of her family laughing at once. George had begun, his face crinkling into uncontrollable delight and his voice ringing out with hilarity. The very idea was funny. She had the most transparent emotions any of them had seen. Her happiness
swept the house in a whirlwind; her misery wrapped it in a purple gloom.
It would be futile, and painful, to try to deceive Charles now.
* * * * *
It was the following afternoon before she had the opportunity to speak alone with Imogen for any length of time. Imogen had been out all morning and came in in a swirl of agitation, swinging her skirts around as she swept into the hallway and deposited a basket full of linen on the settle at the bottom of the stairs and took off her hat.
"Really, I don't know what the vicar's wife is thinking of," she said furiously. "Sometimes I swear that woman believes all the world's ills can be cured with an embroidered homily on good behavior, a clean undershirt and a jar of homemade broth. And Miss Wentworth is the last person on earth to help a young mother with too many children and no maidservant."
"Mrs. Addison?" Hester said immediately.
“Poor creature doesn't know whether she is coming or going," Imogen argued. "Seven children, and she's as thin as a slat and exhausted. I don't think she eats enough to keep a bird alive—giving it all to those hungry little mouths forever asking for more. And what use is Miss Wentworth? She has fits of the vapors every few minutes! I spend half my time picking her up off the floor."
"I'd have fits of the vapors myself if my stays were as tight as hers," Hester said wryly. "Her maid must lace them with one foot on the bedpost. Poor soul. And of course her mother's trying to marry her off to Sydney Ab-ernathy—he has plenty of money and a fancy for wraith-like fragility—it makes him feel masterful."
"I shall have to see if I can find a suitable homily for her on vanity." Imogen ignored the basket and led the way through to the withdrawing room and threw herself into one of the large chairs. "I am hot and tired. Do have Martha bring us some lemonade. Can you reach the bell?"
It was an idle question, since Hester was still standing.
Absently she pulled the end. "It isn't vanity," she said, still referring to Miss Wentworth. "It's survival. What is the poor creature to do if she doesn't marry? Her mother and sisters have convinced her the only alternative is shame, poverty and a lonely and pitiful old age."
"That reminds me," Imogen said, pushing her boots off. "Have you heard from Lady Callandra's hospital yet? I mean the one you want to administer."
"I don't aim quite so high; I merely want to assist," Hester corrected.
"Rubbish!" Imogen stretched her feet luxuriously and sank a little further into the chair. "You want to order around the entire staff."
The maid came in and stood waiting respectfully.
"Lemonade, please, Martha," Imogen ordered. "I'm so hot I could expire. This climate really is ridiculous. One day it rains enough to float an ark, the next we are all suffocated with heat."
"Yes ma'am. Would you like some cucumber sandwiches as well, ma'am?"
"Oh yes. Yes I would—thank you."
"Yes ma'am." And with a whisk of skirts she was gone.
