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“I admire a man of wisdom,” Monk agreed. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
When Evan came into the coffee shop his long, humorous face with its aristocratic nose and rueful mouth looked full of anxiety. He sat down opposite Monk, ignoring the coffee placed there for him.
“What is it?” he asked. “It must be important to bring you to the station.” He searched Monk’s face. “You look awful. Are you ill?”
Monk drew a deep breath, and as briefly as possible without omitting anything essential, he told him the story.
Evan did not interrupt, but his expression grew more and more distressed as the account neared its climax.
“What can I do?” he said finally when Monk finished. “Surely she won’t try to prosecute? She’d be rained as well … and she’d never prove anything! The worst—” He stopped.
“Yes?” Monk said, biting his lip. “You were going to say the worst that could happen is that her own circle would believe her? It isn’t. Even those who don’t believe her will deny me the benefit of the doubt.”
Evan had barely touched his coffee, and they were both unaware of the bustle and noise around them, the hum of chatter and aroma of food.
“No, actually I was going to say the worst that happened to her was that her gown was torn. She was in no way harmed in her person. But I suppose a torn gown is enough. It indicates an intention to do a great deal more.” Evan regarded his cold coffee with distaste. He had not touched it. “We must find out who she is, and why she is prepared to take such a violent and costly revenge. Tell me all you know about her, and I’ll search all your past case files. Her name is Drusilla Wyndham? How old is she? What is her appearance? Where does she live? Whom does she associate with?”
Monk realized how idiotically little he did know. He felt foolish and the embarrassment of it burned up his cheeks.
“I don’t even know if her name is correct,” he said grimly. “I never saw her in company of anyone else. I would hazard she is in her early thirties. She is very small, slender, dainty but with a fine figure. She has a beautiful face.…” He winced as he said it. “Fair brown hair, hazel eyes, and a charming voice with a little catch in it when she laughs. I have no idea where she lives, or with whom she associates, except that the Geographical Society would appear to be one place she frequents. She dresses very well, but not extravagantly. The chief charm of her appearance is her grace and her poise.”
“Not a lot,” Evan said with a look of concern. “You said she was in her early thirties, and yet presumably unmarried? Is that not odd for such a charming young woman? Could she be widowed?”
“I don’t know.” Monk had been too delighted in her company to tax himself with such questions. He realized now what a self-indulgent oversight it was.
“I presume she was well-spoken?” Evan continued. “That would narrow it at least to one class of person.”
A couple sat down at the table next to them, still side by side, and laughing.
“Yes … she is well-bred,” Monk agreed.
“But hardly a lady,” Evan added with a sudden twist of dry humor. “Doesn’t give us a great deal to help. I’ll start with the cases where someone was hanged, or died in prison, and where there was a woman of that general description involved somewhere, a relative or close friend, some other victim of the tragedy.”
“Of course, it could be someone I didn’t catch,” Monk said with sudden thought. “Perhaps a case I didn’t solve, and the crime went unpunished. Perhaps she thinks I failed justice.”
Evan rose to his feet, leaning a little on the table.
“Don’t make it harder than it has to be,” he said quietly. “Let’s begin with the more obvious. Anyway”—he smiled—“I don’t think you had many unsolved cases, from what I hear of you.”
Monk said nothing, and watched Evan as he made his way out, turning once at the door to give a tiny salute of courage.
Monk spent the afternoon with the police as they continued dragging the river around the Isle of Dogs and across Bugsby’s Reach, and searched the docks and inlets and the slums and alleys along the water’s edge. They even searched some of the pigsties and middens or cesspits. They found much that was filthy, violent and tragic, including two dead bodies, but neither of them could have been Angus Stonefield. One was a child, the other a woman.
Monk went home in the dark close to despair. He had never seen such an accumulation of human misery, and he was weary, his body ached and he was cold to the bone. His feet were soaked and he no longer had any sensation left in his toes. He would not go with them again. Reluctantly he felt a new respect, deep and painful, gouging out undiscovered parts of himself, for men who could see such things day after day and still keep their courage and their innate kindness and sense of hope. All he felt was anger, and since he could change nothing, his brain told him that was useless, but his stomach still knotted inside.
The following morning he woke early, long before the light, and lay in bed planning what he would do to find Drusilla Wyndham. It might not save his reputation or his livelihood, but he had to know to answer the fears and the darkness within himself. What manner of man was he? That was the one truth which was inescapable. And there were increasing times when the dread of that answer was worse than the answer itself, because his imagination covered them all.
He rose at seven and ate a solitary breakfast, then before eight, left and walked for almost an hour, his head bent in thought, heedless of passersby, of carriages clattering within feet of him, idlers, street sellers, crossing sweepers, neatly suited office clerks hurrying to business, fashionable rakes and gamblers returning from a night’s pleasure.
Finally just before nine he took a hansom to the Geographical Society, and went in at the entrance to seek some official of whom he could inquire.
He was uncharacteristically nervous. Usually his confidence intimidated people. He had only to meet their eyes and ask curtly in his precise diction, and he was answered. Today he felt at a disadvantage even before he spoke.
How far had she spread the accusation? Had these people already heard? He did not feel like a villain, only a fool!
“Good morning, sir?” the porter said inquiringly. “May I be of service? Were you seeking information regarding any particular meeting, or speaker?”
Monk had already composed his lie. It was the sort of thing he had done often enough before, when it mattered infinitely less personally. It had been so much easier then.
