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"No. I’m afraid it was five days ago." Monk felt foolish as he said it, and he was ready for disinterest, and even contempt, in the young man’s eyes. Instead he saw his whole body stiffen and heard a sharp intake of breath.
"Could you describe the driver of this coach, sir, and the coach itself? Possibly the horses, even?"
Monk’s pulse quickened. "You’ve seen them?" Then instantly he regretted the unprofessionalism of such a betrayal of emotion. But it was too late to withdraw it. Comment would only make it more obvious.
Robb’s face was guarded. "I don’t know, sir. Could you describe them for me?" He could not keep the edge from his voice, the sharpness of needing to know.
Monk told him every detail of the coach: the color, style, dimensions, maker’s name. He said that the horses were a brown and a bay, no white markings, fifteen hands and fifteen-one, respectively, and seven and nine years old.
Robb looked very grave. "And the driver?" he said softly.
The knot tightened in Monk’s stomach. "Average height, brown hair, blue eyes, muscular build. At the time he was last seen he was wearing livery." He knew even before he had finished speaking that Robb knew much about it, and none of it was good.
Robb pressed his lips together hard a moment before speaking.
"I’m sorry, sir, but I think I may have found your coach and horses ... and your driver. I don’t know anything about the young lady. Would you come inside with me, sir?"
The desk sergeant’s face fell as he realized he was going to be excluded from the rest of the story.
Monk remembered to thank him, something he would not have done even a short while ago. The man nodded, but Monk’s gesture did not solve his disappointment.
Robb led Monk to a tiny office piled with papers. Monk felt a jolt of familiarity, as if he had been carried back in time to the early days of his own career. He still did not know how long ago that was.
Robb took a pile of books off the guest chair and dropped them on the floor. There was no room on the already precariously piled table.
"Sit down, sir," he offered. He had not yet asked Monk’s name. He sat in the other chair. He was a young man in whom good manners were so schooled they came without thought.
"William Monk," Monk introduced himself, and was idiotically relieved to see no sign of recognition in the other man’s face. The name meant nothing to him.
"I’m sorry, Mr. Monk," Robb apologized. "But at the moment I am investigating a murder of a man who answers fairly well to the description you have just given me. What is worse, I’m afraid, is that about half a mile away we found a coach and two horses which are almost certainly the ones you are missing. The coach is exactly as you say, and the horses are a brown and a bay, well matched, about fifteen hands or so." He tightened his lips again. "And the dead man was dressed in livery."
Monk swallowed. "When did you find him?"
"Five days ago," Robb replied, meeting Monk’s eyes gravely. "I’m sorry."
"And he was murdered? You are sure?"
"Yes. The police surgeon can’t see any way he could have come by those injuries by accident."
"Fallen off the box?" Monk suggested. Treadwell would certainly not have been the first coachman to be a little drunk or careless and topple off the driving seat, striking his head against an uneven cobblestone or the edge of the curb. Many a man had fallen under his own wheels, and even been trampled by vehicles behind him unable to stop in time.
Robb shook his head, his eyes not leaving Monk’s face. "If he’d fallen off the box his clothes would show it. You can’t land on the road hard enough for injuries like that and leave no mark on the shoulders and back of your coat, no threads torn or pulled, no stains of mud or manure. Even though the streets are pretty dry now, there’s always something. Even his breeches would have been scuffed differently if he’d rolled."
"Differently?" Monk said quickly. "What do you mean? In what way were they scuffed?"
"All on the knees, as if he’d crawled quite a distance some time before he died."
"Trying to escape?" Monk asked.
Robb chewed his lip. "Don’t know. It wasn’t a fight. He was only struck the one blow."
Monk was startled. "One blow killed him? Then he crawled before he was struck? Why?"
"Not necessarily." Robb shook his head again. "Doctor says he bled inside his head. Could have been alive for quite a while and crawled a distance, knowing he was hurt but not how bad, and that he was dying."
"Then could he have fallen forward and caught himself one severe blow on an angle of the box? Or even been down and kicked by one of the horses?"
"Doctor said he was struck from behind." Robb swung his arms out to his right and brought them sideways and forward hard. "Like that... when he was standing up. Caught him on the side of the head. Not a lot of blood—but lethal."
