him of anything as a provocation?”
“Having an affair with the hostess of the dinner party at which it happened.” This time it was Rathbone who smiled bleakly.
Monk saw it and the light flickered in his eyes. “A crime of passion,” he observed.
“I think not,” Rathbone answered. “But I don’t knowwhy. She seems to have a depth of feeling in inappropriate places for that.”
“Could she have a lover herself?” Monk asked. “There would be a great deal less latitude for that than for anything he might do in such a field.”
“Possibly.” Rathbone found the thought distasteful, but he could not reason it away. “I shall need to know.”
“Did she do it?”
Rathbone thought for several moments before answering.
“I don’t know. Apparently her sister-in-law believes it was the younger daughter, who is seemingly very lightly balanced and has been emotionally ill after the birth of her child. She quarreled with her father both before the night of his death and at the dinner party that evening.”
“And the mother confessed to protect her?” Monk suggested.
“That is what the sister-in-law says she believes.”
“And what do you believe?”
“Me? I don’t know.”
There was a moment’s silence while Monk hesitated.
“You will be remunerated by the day,” Rathbone remarked almost casually, surprised by his own generosity. “At double police pay, since it is temporary work.” He did not need to add that if results were poor, or hours artificially extended, Monk would not be used again.
Monk’s smile was thin but wide.
“Then you had better tell me the rest of the details, so I can begin, thankless or not. Can I see Mrs. Carlyon? I imagine she is in prison?”
“Yes. I will arrange permission for you, as my associate.”
“You said it happened at a dinner party …”
“At the house of Maxim and Louisa Furnival, in Albany Street, off Regent’s Park. The other guests were Fenton and Sabella Pole, Sabella being the daughter; Peverell and Damaris Erskine, the victim’s sister and brother-in-law; and a Dr. Charles Hargrave and his wife—and of course General and Mrs. Carlyon.”
“And the medical evidence? Was that provided by this Dr. Hargrave or someone else?”
“Hargrave.”
A look of bitter amusement flickered in Monk’s eyes.
“And the police? Who is on the case?”
Rathbone understood, and for once felt entirely with Monk. A pompous fool who was prepared to allow others to suffer to save his pride infuriated him more than almost anything else.
“I imagine it will fall under Runcorn’s command,” he said, meeting Monk’s eyes with understanding.
“Then there is no time to be wasted,” Monk said, straightening up and rising from his seat. He squared his shoulders. “The poor devils haven’t a chance without us. God knows who else they will arrest—and hang!” he added bitterly.
Rathbone made no answer, but he was aware of the quick stab of memory, and he felt Monk’s anger and pain as if it were his own.
“I’m going to see them now,” he said instead. “Tell me what you learn.” He rose to his feet as well and took his leave, passing the landlady on the way out and thanking her.
At the police station Rathbone was greeted with civility and some concern. The desk sergeant knew his reputation, and remembered him as being associated with Monk, whose name still called forth both respect and fear not only in the station but throughout the force.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the sergeant said carefully. “And what can I do for you?”
“I should like to see the officer in charge of the Carlyon case, if you please.”
“That’ll be Mr. Evan, sir. Or will you be wanting to see Mr. Runcorn?” His blue eyes were wide and almost innocent.
“No thank you,” Rathbone said tartly. “Not at this stage, I think. It is merely a matter of certain physical details I should like to clarify.”
“Right sir. I’ll see if ’e’s in. If ’e in’t, will
“Having an affair with the hostess of the dinner party at which it happened.” This time it was Rathbone who smiled bleakly.
Monk saw it and the light flickered in his eyes. “A crime of passion,” he observed.
“I think not,” Rathbone answered. “But I don’t knowwhy. She seems to have a depth of feeling in inappropriate places for that.”
“Could she have a lover herself?” Monk asked. “There would be a great deal less latitude for that than for anything he might do in such a field.”
“Possibly.” Rathbone found the thought distasteful, but he could not reason it away. “I shall need to know.”
“Did she do it?”
Rathbone thought for several moments before answering.
“I don’t know. Apparently her sister-in-law believes it was the younger daughter, who is seemingly very lightly balanced and has been emotionally ill after the birth of her child. She quarreled with her father both before the night of his death and at the dinner party that evening.”
“And the mother confessed to protect her?” Monk suggested.
“That is what the sister-in-law says she believes.”
“And what do you believe?”
“Me? I don’t know.”
There was a moment’s silence while Monk hesitated.
“You will be remunerated by the day,” Rathbone remarked almost casually, surprised by his own generosity. “At double police pay, since it is temporary work.” He did not need to add that if results were poor, or hours artificially extended, Monk would not be used again.
Monk’s smile was thin but wide.
“Then you had better tell me the rest of the details, so I can begin, thankless or not. Can I see Mrs. Carlyon? I imagine she is in prison?”
“Yes. I will arrange permission for you, as my associate.”
“You said it happened at a dinner party …”
“At the house of Maxim and Louisa Furnival, in Albany Street, off Regent’s Park. The other guests were Fenton and Sabella Pole, Sabella being the daughter; Peverell and Damaris Erskine, the victim’s sister and brother-in-law; and a Dr. Charles Hargrave and his wife—and of course General and Mrs. Carlyon.”
“And the medical evidence? Was that provided by this Dr. Hargrave or someone else?”
“Hargrave.”
A look of bitter amusement flickered in Monk’s eyes.
“And the police? Who is on the case?”
Rathbone understood, and for once felt entirely with Monk. A pompous fool who was prepared to allow others to suffer to save his pride infuriated him more than almost anything else.
“I imagine it will fall under Runcorn’s command,” he said, meeting Monk’s eyes with understanding.
“Then there is no time to be wasted,” Monk said, straightening up and rising from his seat. He squared his shoulders. “The poor devils haven’t a chance without us. God knows who else they will arrest—and hang!” he added bitterly.
Rathbone made no answer, but he was aware of the quick stab of memory, and he felt Monk’s anger and pain as if it were his own.
“I’m going to see them now,” he said instead. “Tell me what you learn.” He rose to his feet as well and took his leave, passing the landlady on the way out and thanking her.
At the police station Rathbone was greeted with civility and some concern. The desk sergeant knew his reputation, and remembered him as being associated with Monk, whose name still called forth both respect and fear not only in the station but throughout the force.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the sergeant said carefully. “And what can I do for you?”
“I should like to see the officer in charge of the Carlyon case, if you please.”
“That’ll be Mr. Evan, sir. Or will you be wanting to see Mr. Runcorn?” His blue eyes were wide and almost innocent.
“No thank you,” Rathbone said tartly. “Not at this stage, I think. It is merely a matter of certain physical details I should like to clarify.”
“Right sir. I’ll see if ’e’s in. If ’e in’t, will
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