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Petherton blinked. “I didn’t see it.”
“Wouldn’t it have been close to his hand?” Monk continued almost casually.
“It wasn’t.” Petherton shook his head. “Perhaps he had moved, and it was half under him?”
“Hidden by his jacket?”
“I told you, he didn’t have a jacket, just a shirt,” Petherton repeated.
“Were you wearing a jacket?”
“Yes, of course I was. It was October and early in the morning. Barely light. It was cold.” Petherton was now frowning and clearly troubled. “It doesn’t make complete sense, does it? Would a man intent on committing suicide walk half a mile, or more, in the cold, before dawn? I never thought of that before.” He chewed on his lip. “He must have been half out of his mind with despair over something … and yet he looked so peaceful, as if he had just sat down there against the tree and let it happen.” He stopped there and looked at Monk.
“He had taken a lot of opium,” Monk said, watching Petherton’s face. “That was probably why he looked so calm. He was probably all but insensible from it.”
“Then how did he climb that hill?” Petherton said immediately. “Or is that what you are saying-he took it once he got up there? Then he’d still want a jacket while he was walking. I wonder what happened to it.”
“Did you see the footprints of anyone else there?” Monk asked.
Petherton looked surprised. “I didn’t look. It was very early daylight. Only just enough to see by. You think someone was with him?”
“Well, as you point out, he surely would have worn a jacket, unless he went out early the previous evening, and didn’t intend to go so far,” Monk replied.
Petherton saw what he was leading to. “Or meant only to go for a short walk, and return home? As I remember, it was actually a very mild evening the previous day. It turned cold overnight. I was outside myself. Pottering in the garden until quite late.”
Monk changed his direction of approach.
“Did you see anything that could have had opium in it, or water to take a powder with?”
“No. I didn’t search his pockets!” Again the faint revulsion showed in his face.
“But could he have had a bottle or a vial in them?” Monk persisted.
“Not a bottle. A small vial in a trouser pocket, I suppose. What are you saying happened?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Petherton. That is what I need to find out. But for your own sake as well as that of the investigation, please do not discuss this with anyone. God knows, we have had sufficient tragedy already.” He said the words easily, but he felt a weight in his mind as he struggled to think of any answer but suicide, and failed to find one, in spite of the small anomalies they had just discussed. Was it even conceivable that Dinah had gone out after him, followed him up a path that perhaps he often took? Was it she who had found him and removed the knife and the vial to make the death seem more suspicious than it was?
Monk thanked Petherton again, and left him looking just as confused as he himself felt. He walked out into the fresh air and turned west toward the police station to look for Constable Watkins.
That proved to be far more difficult than he had expected. First he was mistakenly directed to Deptford, an awkward journey that took him over an hour, only to discover that Constable Watkins had already left and gone back to Greenwich.
In Greenwich, Watkins was involved in an investigation and Monk was told to wait. After an hour he asked again. With profuse apologies, the sergeant told him that Watkins had been called away and would not return until the following day. And no, he did not know where Watkins lived.
It was too late to find Dr. Wembley again, and until Monk had confirmed Petherton’s story with Watkins, there was no purpose anyway. He had wasted a whole day, and he went home angry and more sure than ever that he was being intentionally misled, although whether to protect Lambourn or to hide some secret, he did not know.
He was at the police station in Greenwich the next morning by half-past seven, much to the dismay of the sergeant at the desk. He waited there until Constable Watkins came in. The sergeant attempted to block Monk, but there was an old woman in a drab cotton dress and torn shawl who was distracting his attention, complaining about a stray dog.
“Constable Watkins?” Monk said loudly and clearly.
The young man turned around to face him. “Yes, sir. Morning, sir. Do I know you?” There was absolutely no guile in his wide blue eyes.
“No, Constable, you don’t,” Monk replied with a smile. “I’m Commander Monk of the Thames River Police at Wapping. I need to ask you very briefly about an incident that was reported to you, just to verify certain facts. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea to start the day? And a sandwich?”
“Not necessary, sir, but … yes, thank you, sir,” Watkins accepted, trying to hide his relish at the thought of a fresh sandwich, and not making much of a success of it.
The sergeant shifted his weight from one foot to the other, drawing in his breath sharply. Monk knew in that moment that he had had orders not to let this happen.
“Constable!” he said sharply. “Mr. Monk-Constable Watkins has duties, sir. He can’t just …” He looked at Monk’s face and his voice wavered.
