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He began again. “It must be tempting to use the power of such beauty, nonetheless, in a young girl with no experience, no maturity to fall back upon.” He must not forget that Mrs. Waterson was certainly the wrong side of thirty-five.
“Of course,” she agreed.
He waited expectantly, ignoring the young woman three or four yards away gazing at him with bright eyes full of laughter and invitation, obviously bored with her very correct and rather callow partner.
“Perhaps she did not succumb to the temptation?” he said sententiously.
“Oh, I’m afraid she did,” Mrs. Waterson explained instantly, and with satisfaction. “One could not help but be aware that she was brought up to regard beauty as of the utmost importance, and therefore she would have been less than human not to have tested its power. And quite naturally it was greater than she expected—or was able to deal with gracefully.” She waited to see Monk’s reaction. Would he think unkindly of her if she seemed critical?
“How very understanding of you, Mrs. Waterson,” he said, biting his tongue. “You speak with the sympathy of one who knows it at firsthand.” He said it with a perfectly straight face. Without an ability to act one could not be a successful detective, and he had every intention of being successful.
“Well …” She debated whether to be modest or not, and threw caution to the winds. The orchestra was playing with rhythm and gaiety. She had drunk several glasses of champagne, and all she usually indulged in was lemonade. There was laughter and color and movement all around her. Light from chandeliers glittered on jewels and hair and bare necks and arms. Mr. Waterson was very agreeable, but he had far too little imagination. He took things for granted. “In my younger days, before I was married, of course, I did have one or two adventures,” she conceded. “Perhaps I was not always wise.”
“No more than to make you interesting, I am sure,” Monk said with a smile. “Was Miss Lambert as … wise?”
She bridled a little. It was not becoming to appear uncharitable.
“Well … possibly not. She set more store by beauty than I ever did. I always considered good character to be of more lasting worth, and a certain intelligence to stand one in greater service.”
“How right you are. And so it has.” He accepted a dish of sweetmeats from a passing waiter and offered it to her.
He remained talking for another half hour but learned no more than Zillah’s exercise of her charms and the greater attention she paid to her physical assets, under her mother’s expert tutelage, than other less well schooled girls of her age. It was hardly a sin. In fact, many might consider it a virtue. It was admired when women took the time and care to make themselves as pleasing as possible. It was in many ways a compliment to a man, if a trifle daunting to the unsure or nervous.
Monk got home at quarter to three in the morning, exhausted. He had a clearer picture of both Zillah and her mother, but it was of no use whatever that he could see. Certainly they possessed no fault that Melville could complain of, and no characteristics that were not observable in the slightest of acquaintance.
He slept late and woke with a headache. He had a large breakfast and felt considerably better.
He saw the morning newspapers but decided he had no time to read them, and if there were anything of use Rathbone would know it anyway and would have sent an appropriate message.
He needed Hester’s opinion. She bore little resemblance to Zillah Lambert, but she had been Zillah’s age once. That might come to him as a surprise, but surely she would remember it. And as far back as that she would have been living at home with her parents, long before her father was ruined, before anyone even thought of the possibility of a war in the Crimea. Most people would not have had the slightest idea even of where it was. And Florence Nightingale herself would have been dutifully attending the balls and soirées and dinners in search of a suitable husband. So would Hester Latterly. She would know the game and its rules.
It was not far from Fitzroy Street to Tavistock Square and he walked briskly in the sun, passing ladies out taking the air, gentlemen stretching their legs and affecting to be discussing matters of great import but actually simply enjoying themselves, watching passersby, raising their hats to female acquaintances and generally showing off. Several people drove past in smart gigs or other light equipages of one sort or another, harnesses gleaming, horses high stepping.
When he reached the Sheldon house he was admitted by the footman, who remembered him and advised him that Miss Latterly was presently occupied but he was sure that Lieutenant Sheldon would be happy to see him in a short while, if he cared to wait.
Monk accepted because he very much wished to stay, and because he had developed a sincere regard for the young man and would hate to have him feel rejected, even though Monk’s departure would have had nothing whatever to do with Lieutenant Sheldon’s disfigurement.
“Thank you. That would be most agreeable.”
“If you will be good enough to warm yourself in the withdrawing room for a few minutes, sir, I shall inform Lieutenant Sheldon you are here.”
“Of course.”
Actually, he was not cold, and as it transpired, the footman returned before he had time to relax and conducted him upstairs.
Gabriel was up and dressed, although he looked extremely pale and it obviously had cost him considerable effort. He tired easily, and although he tried to mask it, the amputation still gave him pain. Monk had heard that people frequently felt the limb even after it was gone, exactly as though the shattered bone or flesh were still there. To judge from the pallor of Gabriel’s face and the occasional gasp or gritted teeth, such was the case with him. Also, he had not yet fully accustomed himself to the alteration in balance caused by the lack of an arm.
However, he was obviously pleased to see Monk and rose to his feet, smiling and extending his right hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Monk. How are you? How nice of you to call.”
Monk took his hand and shook it firmly, feeling the answering grip.
“Excellent, thank you. Very good of you to allow me to visit Miss Latterly again. I am afraid this case is rapidly defeating me, and I think a woman’s view on it is my last resort.”
“Oh, dear.” Gabriel sat down awkwardly and gestured to the other chair for Monk. “Can you talk about it?”
“I have nothing to lose,” Monk confessed. It would be insensitive to speak of Gabriel’s health. He must be exhausted with thinking of it, explaining, worrying, having to acknowledge with every breath that he was different.
