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hair at the university, in Ingram’s name,” she began. She saw the look of distaste in Oliver’s highly expressive face, and understood it totally. “I know,” she murmured with a twisted smile. “But I cannot say anything to the contrary.”
“But it troubles you?” he asked. “Don’t deny it: It is in your voice, and your eyes.”
She knew that he was looking at her intently and was very conscious of it. And yet she wanted him to. She must control her voice and sound normal. She made a small gesture of dismissal with her hand. “That is not what concerns me at the moment. I was speaking with him in the carriage on the way home. He mentioned the death of Miriam’s first husband, Piers Astley….”
“What of it? Was it not years ago?” He was puzzled. They stopped and stood facing each other on the path. The wind gusted and blew her skirts. He held his hat in his hand, in case it blew away. There is little more comical than an otherwise dignified man chasing his hat across the grass.
“Nearly twenty,” she agreed. “And over five thousand miles away…” Why was she reluctant now to tell him? Would he think she was asking him to become involved? But of course she was.
“Beata? What is it?” There was concern in his voice.
She met his eyes and saw fear in them. Why? Was he afraid she was going to expect something of him more than he wanted to give?
“What is it?” he repeated, more urgently.
She could feel the heat in her face. “He said there was a man who looked very much as Mr. Monk must have, twenty years ago, in San Francisco. He was a seaman, an adventurer.”
“Oh…?”
Why did he look so worried?
“It probably wasn’t him,” she added. “This man had a slight northern accent. Aaron thought Northumberland, or somewhere like that.”
“Monk is Northumbrian,” Rathbone said quietly.
She shook her head. “I didn’t hear it in his voice.”
“He’s ambitious, and will have lost it deliberately.” He smiled very slightly as he said it, but there was a furrow between his brows. She knew the expression.
Now she was cold. “You think it could have been him?”
“I don’t know. What did Clive say of him?”
Now she had to say it. “That he fits the description of the man who killed Piers Astley.”
“Killed him accidentally…or murdered him?”
“Murdered…”
Suddenly she wanted to put it to the test, the outcome of which she feared more than any other. She began to walk, very slowly. The wind was edged with ice and the path curved down to pass into the shelter of trees.
He caught up with her, taking her arm as they came to some steps.
“This is absurd. Monk would not murder anyone,” he said so decisively that she wondered if it was himself he was trying to convince.
She took a breath, steadying herself. “Not even if perhaps the man concerned were abusing his wife?”
“Was he? Then Miriam would have said so,” he pointed out.
She faced straight ahead. She must say it, otherwise it would be a tacit lie. “I don’t mean beating her…I mean the sort of abuse one practices only ever in private.” Now she could never take it back. She could not look at him. She imagined the revulsion in his eyes.
“She told you that happened?” he asked levelly.
She tried to read the emotion in his voice and failed.
“You don’t tell anyone such things….” she replied.
He said nothing. They walked a few paces farther on. They were on the level now and he let go of her arm. The wind scythed across the grass, cutting through scarves and veils, even through the woolen fabric of coats.
