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“He reminds me of a seaman I knew very slightly in San Francisco, about twenty years ago,” Aaron said lightly. His words were well chosen, but he made them with a casual air. “Young man then, something of an adventurer; a chancer, one way or another. He had a bit of a lilt to his voice. Piers told me he must be from the north of England, Northumberland, perhaps.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t detect that in Mr. Monk,” she answered. “But then I have seen him only a few times, and that mostly in court.”
“In court?”
“Testifying,” she explained. “In his role as commander of the Thames River Police. He has dealt with some very big cases.”
“Of course. I don’t think of someone of his rank doing the groundwork where he could testify to anything.”
“Oh, he does.” That she knew both from his testimony in court, and from Rathbone. “He doesn’t sit in an office and direct other people.”
“An interesting man,” Aaron observed, completely without emotion. Was he merely making polite conversation during their stop in traffic? His comments now suggested it, and yet the tension in his body, still turned toward her, and the stiffness in his face, said that the subject stirred some kind of feeling in him.
“You think the seaman you knew in San Francisco was Monk?” she asked bluntly.
“I hope not.” This time his emotion was quite open. “He answers exactly the description of the man who murdered Piers Astley.”
Beata barely even noticed the jolt as, without warning, the hansom started moving again, throwing her back in the seat. Thank heaven there was now enough noise of traffic outside that she could be excused from giving any answer. Had Monk been in San Francisco? Was that what Aaron was suggesting? Did he believe that? Did Oliver know?
Or was Aaron Clive, for some reason or other, just making trouble?
It was not until she was nearly at her own door that she finally spoke again.
“Did you tell Miriam this?”
He had been staring forward. Now he turned to her again. “I’m sorry, my attention was elsewhere. I beg your pardon?”
“Did you tell Miriam that Monk might be the man who killed Piers? Or at least he might know who did?”
“No,” he said, smiling gently. “There is nothing that could be done about it now. It was nearly twenty years ago, and thousands of miles away in another country. From here it seems almost like another world. There is nothing she could do, and it would only disturb her.”
“Yes…” she said slowly, not meaning it, but what else was there that she could say? “I see.”
—
BEATA KEPT UP HER habit of walking alone in the park, regardless of the weather. In fact a windy or wet day gave her the excuse to wrap a shawl around her shoulders and keep it high under her chin. A suitable hat for such weather also made her hard to recognize, and thereby made polite and meaningless commiserations easily avoidable. Everyone had the best of excuses—“I’m so sorry, I did not realize it was you!”—and so was free to pass by without discourtesy.
She was glad of it. It became harder and harder to think of something polite to say, and to repeat pleasant and artificial remarks about Ingram. Did she miss him? Yes! And the feeling was like breathing clean air again after the filth of fog and smoke, and the smells of the street.
She had wanted to see Oliver so much she had several times considered writing him a letter asking him to call. Then she thought how precipitate that would be, and he could so easily misunderstand her. She had taken it for granted that the feeling between them was mutual, and not spoken in words for decency’s sake. As long as Ingram was alive, it could never be acted upon.
He could not yet decently call on her alone, unless he had legal business and she were too unwell to visit his office. And since he was a trial lawyer, not conversant with wills and property, she had no call for his skills.
Instead she purposely walked the same route, at the same hour, aware that if he were free to do so, he might take a brief walk that would cross her path.
One morning she was pleased to hear, with a flutter of excitement, a lifting of the spirits, his footsteps behind her. She admitted to herself she had been hoping very much that he would come.
“Good morning, Lady York. I hope you are well,” he said just as two men passed them walking in the opposite direction, too busy in their own conversation to notice others. They were dressed in black frock coats and striped trousers, each carrying a rolled umbrella and using it as if it were a walking stick.
She smiled at the typical sight, then met Rathbone’s glance. “I am quite well, thank you. And you?”
“Are we really reduced to such a level?” he asked bluntly.
She felt herself coloring. Had she imagined it, all the teeming words that lay unspoken in the imagination? How unseemly it would be for her to speak first. And if she were wrong, how ridiculous! And mortifying…
She must really collect her wits and tell him what she needed to, for Monk’s sake. She must share with Oliver what Aaron Clive had said.
“I have been meeting with Aaron Clive once or twice regarding the endowment of a c
