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“Actually I met a lady on the steps as she was leaving here nearly two weeks ago,” he began with acute self-consciousness. “She was kind enough to recommend several other societies and groups to me, but unfortunately I have mislaid the piece of paper on which I wrote them, and I do not know her well enough to call upon her. Indeed, I do not know her address.” Was he talking too much—answering what had not been asked? “It was a chance meeting because she bumped into me, quite literally, and so we fell into conversation.” He searched the man’s face, but it was perfectly bland. There was not a shred of suspicion or disbelief in it.
“Indeed, sir. Perhaps I can be of assistance. I do know of several other societies which have si
milar areas of interest, although I must say, none of them, to my knowledge, deal in such an erudite manner, or have so fine a group of speakers.”
“That is what the lady said. She was very dainty, almost … so tall.” Monk drew a level at Drusilla’s height. “She had very handsome fair-brown hair and the most remarkable hazel eyes, very wide and candid, a most direct glance.” He hated the description, but it was as she had seemed to him then. “She seemed to me to be of considerable intelligence and ease of manner. An unusual person, and most admirable. I would have judged her to be just above thirty.”
“Sounds like Miss Wyndham,” the porter said, nodding his head. “Very well-spoken young lady.”
“Wyndham?” Monk raised his eyebrows as if he had not heard her name before. “I wonder, would that be Major Wyndham’s daughter, from the Hussars?” As far as he knew, there was no such person.
The porter pursed his lips doubtfully.
“Er, no, sir, I don’t think so. I rather recall overhearing some snatch of conversation suggesting Miss Wyndham came from Buckinghamshire, and her father was in the clergy, before an early demise, poor man. Very sad. He cannot have been an elderly gentleman.”
“Sad indeed,” Monk agreed, his mind racing. Buckinghamshire. It should not be so difficult to trace a well-to-do clergyman who had died recently. He must have been more than a mere parson, and presumably his name was also Wyndham.
“I suppose it happened a few years ago now?” he said, trying to make his voice conversational.
“I really don’t know, sir. It was spoken of with some sadness, but then it would be. And she was not in mourning.”
“I only wish to know so that I did not intrude, and if I should mention it if I have to write,” Monk explained. “Would it be possible for you to give me the lady’s address, then I could request a new list of the places she recommended?”
“Well, sir, I hardly think that would be proper,” the porter said regretfully, nodding to two gentlemen who passed and touching his hat in a gesture of respect. He turned back to Monk. “You see, sir, I’m afraid the society would not sanction such a practice. I’m sure you understand. But if you care to write a letter and leave it with us, there would be no bar to me forwarding it to her.”
“Of course. I understand. Perhaps I shall do that,” Monk accepted because he really had no alternative. A trip to Buckinghamshire seemed indicated, unless he could find some record of the late Reverend Wyndham without recourse to travel. He left the Geographical Society, if not with hope, then at least with a sense of purpose.
But even the most diligent search of the appropriate register of the clergy yielded no Reverend Wyndham in Buckinghamshire, or in any other part of the country. He began to walk very slowly along the footpath away from the library, disappointment deep inside him like the cold and the damp of the afternoon.
Perhaps he had been naive to have thought it might be so easy. Either the information was incorrect, an invention for the benefit of whoever she was telling, or else it was basically true, but she had changed her name, presumably to avoid the disgrace of whatever crime had brought her across Monk’s path.
He ignored a flower seller and a boy with the latest edition of the newspapers.
Perhaps the whole thing was nothing to do with his profession. Maybe he had met her purely personally. Her sense of injury might spring from some sexual betrayal he had committed.
His heart went cold at the thought. Had they been lovers and he had deserted her? Had there perhaps been a child, and he had left her, rather than take responsibility? It was not impossible. Men had done that from time immemorial. God knew, there were illegitimate children all over the country, and bungled abortions as well. He had seen them himself, even since the accident, let alone before. If that were true, she could not hate him any more profoundly than he would hate himself. He deserved the ruin she wished him.
He passed a seller of hot pies, and for a moment the savory aroma tempted him, then his stomach revolted at the thought of eating.
He had to know the truth. At any cost, whatever labor or pain, he must know.
And if he was guilty of such a thing, how could he tell Hester? She would not forgive him for that. She would not stand by with her courage and spirit, and help him fight his way back.
Neither would Callandra. Nor John Evan, for that matter.
He had to be the first to know.
But where to turn next? If Drusilla had changed her name, it could have been anything before, any of a million names.
He stepped off the curb and avoided the traffic and the horse dung.
Except almost all people wanted to keep some sense of identity, some link with the past. There was often a connection, a link of sound, of initial letter, or some other association in the mind. At times it was a family name, a mother or grandmother’s maiden name, for example.
He reached the far pavement just as a landau missed him by no more than a yard.
Perhaps the part about Buckinghamshire was true? Or about the church?
He turned on his heel, back across the road again, and strode back to the library where the directory of all clergy was lodged, and asked to see it again. This time he searched the incumbents of Buckinghamshire for any senior clergyman who had died within the last ten years.
