She felt herself tighten, ready to argue, but kept her temper, waiting for what else he would say.

He smiled slightly, just an easing of the tiredness in him. "I went back to the Havilland house and spoke to the cook and one of the maids," he went on. "They said Havilland received a note that night, hand-delivered to the back door. As soon as he read it he burnt it, and then told the butler to go to bed and he would lock up himself."

"He was going to meet someone in the stable!" she said instantly, sitting upright and staring at him. "Whom?"

He looked rueful. "They had no idea. The envelope had only his name on it. The cook saw it briefly, and the maid who carried it doesn't read."

"Well, who could it be?" she said eagerly. At last there was something to grasp hold of. She felt a surge of hope, which was absurd. It should not matter to her so much. She had never known Mary Havilland. She might not have liked her in the least if she had. She was remembering her own grief, the feeling of having been bruised all over, stunned by confusion, when she had first stood on the dockside at Scutari and read the letter from her brother, telling her of her fathers suicide, and then her mother's death from what was termed a broken heart. She could not help imagining Mary Havilland feeling the same searing pain.

Except that Hester had believed it and Mary had not. Had Mary been wrong, making it harder for herself, and for her sister, by refusing to accept the inevitable? "Who could it be?" she repeated.

Monk was watching her, his eyes soft with knowledge of her pain.

"I don't know, except that since he immediately made arrangements to meet the person, it must have been either someone he knew or at the least someone he was not surprised to hear from. Nor did he seem to need to answer it, so whoever it was knew he would come."

"You must find out!" she said unhesitatingly.

It was unreasonable, and she knew it as she spoke, but he did not argue. Was that for her? Or was the anger at his loss, the sense of incompleteness, still raw inside him, too? Or worse, was it the challenge that he must be perfect at his new job, equal to his own vision of what Durban would have done?

"William…," she started.

"I know." He smiled.

"Do you?" she asked doubtfully.

His eyes were gentle, amused. "Yes."

However, in the morning Hester set out on her own path towards learning what she hoped would be both more about Mary Havilland, and something to further the cause in which she had promised to help Sutton.

First she called at the clinic in Portpool Lane to complete the books and ledgers and pass them to Margaret.

"That's complete and up to date," she said when she'd finished, suddenly finding it difficult to hide her emotion. She was going to miss the work, the struggles and victories, and most of all the people. The sense of loss was even worse than she had expected.

Margaret was looking at her, aware for the first time that there was something new and harsh still unsaid. "What is it, Hester?" Her voice was so gentle it brought Hester to the edge of tears.

How much could she say that it was Monk and not she who was forcing this decision?

"I have agreed to stay at home for a while," she began. "William's new job is… different." She swallowed hard. "You're managing very well now. Claudine is excellent, and Bessie. I could never raise money as you do."

Margaret looked stunned. "A while? How long a while?" She bit her lip. "You mean always, don't you?"

"I think so."

Margaret stepped forward and put her arms around Hester, hugging her tightly. She did not say anything. It was as if she understood. Perhaps, knowing Monk and remembering last year, she did.

Hester did not want to say good-bye to Bessie and the others girls, especially Claudine, but it would have been cowardly not to. She promised to call in occasionally, and she would keep her word. Monk could not object to that.

She left into the cold, sharp morning again, not as confident or light of foot as she had come. That was foolish, even vain. She must shake herself out of it.

She arrived at the Applegates' house still a little early for the most civil calls, especially to someone she barely knew. However, she had been in the morning room only a matter of minutes when Rose Applegate came sweeping in. She was dressed extremely elegantly, as if she was expecting important company. Hester's heart sank. Perhaps Rose's original enthusiasm was more an intention of kindness than a real desire to become involved, and Hester had misread it because she wanted to. Certainly Rose's high-necked gown with its gorgeous lace collar and tiny velvet bows on the skirt was up-to-the-minute fashion. By comparison she herself was dowdy. She was acutely aware of the social gulf between them. It seemed at the moment an uncrossable abyss.

"Good morning, Mrs. Monk," Rose greeted her, her curious face alight with pleasure. "Has there been news? Is there something we can do?" Then she looked a trifle self-conscious. "I'm sorry, that is most discourteous of me. How are you?" It was not customary to offer refreshment of any kind at this hour, and it seemed Rose observed the proprieties exactly. The room was formal; the maid had been immaculate in starched cap and apron. The hall was already polished and swept. Hester had smelled the pleasant, damp aroma of wet tea leaves scattered and taken up to collect the dust, and of lavender and beeswax to shine the wood.

"Good morning, Mrs. Applegate," she replied. "No, I'm afraid there is little fresh so far." She had nothing to lose by telling the truth. It was probably all lost anyway. "My husband learned a bit more about Mr. Havilland's anxieties, but if Mary's father found out anything precise, we do not know what it was. According to Mr. Sixsmith, who is in charge, he had something of an obsession about enclosed spaces and finally became quite irrational about it. Mr. Sixsmith said that was what finally unhinged his reason and brought about his death."

Rose was clearly startled. "Good heavens!" She sat down rather suddenly, disregarding the crumpling of her skirt, and motioned for Hester to sit also. "That sounds so terribly reasonable, doesn't it? But it's not true!"

Hester recounted what Monk had told her the previous evening-at least regarding the cook's opinion of Mary, though not yet about the letter.

"That is the Mary I know," Rose agreed quickly. She leaned forward. "She was not a sentimental sort of person, Mrs. Monk. She was very practical and quite able to stand up to a truth she did not wish to hear, if it was indeed the truth. I don't know where to begin, but if you have any idea at all, please let us do something to establish her innocence."

"Innocence…?"

"Of having killed herself!" Rose said quickly, the emotion now clear in her face, her eyes very bright as though on the brink of tears. "And, if the account is true-God forgive me-innocent of having taken Toby Argyll with her. That is a terrible thing to think of anyone, and I refuse to let it be said by default, because it would be easier for us all to pretend it was over."

Hester was suddenly heartened. "What are the alternatives?" she asked. "What did happen? How can we demonstrate it so it cannot be denied?"

"Oh, dear!" Rose sat bolt upright. "I see what you mean. If it was not suicide, then it was an accident, or it was murder. That is a very dreadful thought."

"It seems to me to be inescapable," Hester pointed out.

The door opened and Morgan Applegate came in. His eyes went immediately to his wife, then to Hester. He was polite and, to judge from the expression on his face, pleased to see her. However, there was something faintly protective in the way he went to Rose and remained standing by her chair, as if, without even giving it a thought, he would make certain Hester did not somehow distress or disturb her.