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Stourbridge was staring at Monk, waiting for him to begin.
But Monk was uncertain where to start. Harry Stourbridge was not what he had imagined, and he found himself unexpectedly sensitive to his feelings.
"What do you know of Mrs. Gardiner?" he asked, more brusquely than he had intended. Pity was of no use to Lucius or his father. He was here to address their problem, not wallow in emotions.
"You mean her family?" Stourbridge understood straightaway what Monk was thinking. "She never spoke of them. I imagine they were fairly ordinary. I believe they died when she was quite young. It was obviously a matter of sadness to her, and none of us pursued the subject."
"Someone will have cared for her while she was growing up," Monk pressed. He had no idea if it was a relevant point, but there were so few obvious avenues to follow.
"Of course," Stourbridge agreed, sitting down at last. "She was taken in by a Mrs. Anderson, who treated her with the greatest kindness. Indeed, she still visits her quite frequently. It was from Mrs. Anderson’s home that she met Mr. Gardiner, when she was about seventeen, and married him two years later. He was considerably older than she." He crossed his legs, watching Monk anxiously. "I made enquiries myself, naturally. Lucius is my only son, and his happiness is of the greatest importance to me. But nothing I learned explains what has happened. Walter Gardiner was a quiet, modest man who married relatively late. He was nearly forty. But his reputation was excellent. He was rather shy, a trifle awkward in the company of women, and he worked extremely hard at his business—which, incidentally, was the selling of books. He made a modest success of it and left Miriam well provided for. By all accounts she was very happy with him. No one had an ill word to say for either of them."
"Did they have children?" Monk asked.
A shadow crossed Stourbridge’s eyes. "No. Unfortunately not. That is a blessing that does not come to every marriage." He drew in his breath and let it out s
ilently. "My wife and I have only the one child." There was a sharp memory of pain in his face, and Monk was very aware of it. It was a subject he himself had considered little. He had no title or estates to leave, and he had no memory of ever considering marriage, far less a family. He felt in no way incomplete without such a thing. But, then, Hester was not an ordinary woman. He had married her with no thought of the comfort of domestic life. She was not the one he would have chosen if he had. The thought made him smile unconsciously. One could not tell what the future might bring. He had already surprised himself by changing as radically as he had. Perhaps in a few years he would think of children. Now he was honest enough to know that he would resent such other demands on Hester’s time and emotion as a child would have to be.
Stourbridge was waiting for his attention.
"She is somewhat older than your son," Monk put in as tactfully as he could. "Exactly how much older is she?"
A flash of amusement crossed Stourbridge’s face.
"Nine years," he replied. "If you are going to ask if she could give him an heir, the answer is that I do not know. Of course, we would like it if Lucius were to have a son, but it is not our main concern. There is no guarantee of such a thing, Mr. Monk, whomever one marries, and Miriam was never made to believe it was a condition of the marriage."
Monk did not argue, but he would judge for himself whether Mrs. Stourbridge shared her husband’s feelings. So far his questions had elicited nothing in which he could see any reason for Miriam Gardiner to have left. He wished he had a clearer picture of her in his mind. Seen through the eyes of Lucius and Harry Stourbridge, she was the model of the ideal woman. Their image gave her no flesh and blood, and certainly no passions. Had they seen anything of the real woman beneath the surface they so much admired? Was it any use asking Harry Stourbridge anything further, except bare facts?
"Was this her first visit to this house?" Monk said suddenly.
Stourbridge looked slightly surprised.
"No, not at all. She had been here half a dozen times. If you are thinking we did not make her welcome, or that she felt overwhelmed or less than comfortable with the idea of living among us, you are mistaken, Mr. Monk."
"Would she have lived here, in this house?" Monk asked, envisioning a score of reasons why she might have found the prospect unendurable. Having been mistress of her own home, no matter how ordinary compared with this house, so close to Kensington Gardens, she might find the sheer loss of privacy insupportable. Hester would have! He could not imagine her spending the best part of her life under someone else’s roof. When she had nursed privately, as she had since returning from the Crimea, she had always known that any position was temporary and that, whatever its difficulties, it would reach an end. And she’d had a measure of privacy, and of autonomy, in that the care of the patient was in her charge.
A whole new concept of imprisonment opened up to him.
Harry Stourbridge was smiling.
"No, Mr. Monk. I have properties in Yorkshire, and Lucius is very fond of life in the north. Miriam had visited there some months ago—I confess, when the weather was a good deal less clement—but she was charmed by the area and was looking forward to moving there and being mistress of her own household."
So fear of losing a certain freedom was not what had driven Miriam Gardiner away. Monk tried again. "Was there anything different about this visit, Major Stourbridge?"
"Not that I am aware, except that it was a trifle more celebratory." His face pinched with sadness and his voice dropped. "They were to be married in four weeks. They desired a quiet wedding, a family affair. Miriam did not wish large crowds or great expense. She thought it both unseemly and unnecessary. She loved Lucius very deeply, of that I have no doubt whatever." He looked bemused. "I don’t know what has happened, Mr. Monk, but she did not leave because she ceased to love him or to know how profoundly he loves her."
It was pointless to argue. The belief in Stourbridge’s voice was complete. It was going to be uniquely painful if facts proved him to be mistaken and Monk were to find himself in the position of having to tell him so. He should never have accepted this case. He could not imagine any happy solution.
"Tell me something of your coachman, James Treadwell," he asked instead.
Stourbridge’s fair brows rose. "Treadwell? Yes, I see what you mean. A perfectly adequate coachman. Good driver, knows horses, but I admit he is not a man for whom I have any natural liking." He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. "I knew men like him in the army. They can sit a horse like a centaur, wield a sword, ride over any terrain, but one cannot rely on them. Always put themselves first, not the regiment. Don’t stand their ground when the battle’s against them."
"But you kept him on?"
Stourbridge shrugged slightly. "You don’t put a man out because you think you know his type. Could be wrong. I wouldn’t have had him as a valet, but a coachman is a very different thing. Besides, he’s a nephew of my cook, and she’s a good woman. She’s been with the family nearly thirty years. Started as a scullery maid when my own mother was still alive."
Monk understood. Like everything else, it was so easily appreciated, so very normal. It left him little more to ask, except for an account of the day itself on which Miriam Gardiner had fled.
"I can give you a guest list, if you wish," Stourbridge offered. "But it included no one Miriam had not met before— indeed, no one who was not a friend. Believe me, Mr. Monk, we have all searched our minds trying to think of anything that could have happened to cause her such distress, and we can think of nothing whatever. No one is aware of any quarrel, even any unfortunate or tactless remark." Instinctively, he glanced out of the window, then back at Monk again. "Miriam was standing alone. The rest of us were either playing croquet or watching, when quite suddenly she gasped, went as white as paper, stood frozen for a moment, then turned and stumbled away, almost falling, and ran towards the house." His voice cracked. "None of us has seen her since!"
