But when Monk arrived on Monday morning, breathless and a little late, he was unable to begin investigation on Yeats and his visitor. Runcorn was in his room, pacing the floor and waving a piece of blue notepaper in his hand. He stopped and spun around the moment he heard Monk's feet.

"Ah!" He brandished the paper with a look of bright, shimmering anger, his left eye narrowed almost shut.

The good-moming greeting died on Monk's tongue.

"Letter from upstairs." Runcorn held up the blue paper. "The powers that be are after us again. The Dowager Lady Shelburne has written to Sir Willoughby Gentry, and confided to the said member of Parliament"-he gave every vowel its full value in his volume of scorn for that body-"that she is not happy with the utter lack of success the Metropolitan Police Force is having in apprehending the vile maniac who so foully murdered her son in his own house. No excuses are acceptable for our dilatory and lackadaisical attitude, our total lack of culprits to hand." His face purpled in his offense at the injustice of it, but there was no misery in him, only a feeding rage. "What the hell are you doing, Monk? You're supposed to be such a damn good detective, you've got your eyes on a superintendency-the commissionership, for all I know! So what do we tell this-this ladyship?"

Monk took a deep breath. He was more stunned by Runcorn's reference to himself, to his ambition, than anything in the letter. Was he an overweeningly ambitious man? There was no time for self-defense now; Runcorn was standing in front of him commanding an answer.

"Lamb's done all the groundwork, sir." He gave Lamb the praise that was due him. "He's investigated all he could, questioned all the other residents, street peddlers, locals, anyone who might have seen or known anything." He could see from Runcorn's face that he was achieving nothing, but he persisted. "Unfortunately it was a particularly foul night and everyone was in a hurry, heads down and collars up against the rain. Because it was so wet no one hung around, and with the overcast it was dark earlier than usual."

Runcorn was fidgeting with impatience.

"Lamb spent a lot of time checking out the villains we know," Monk continued. "He's written up in his report that he's spoken to every snout and informer in the area. Not a peep. No one knows anything; or if they do, they're not saying. Lamb was of the opinion they were telling the truth. I don't know what else he could have done." His experience offered nothing, but neither could his intelligence suggest any omission. All his sympathy was with Lamb.

"Constable Harrison found a watch with the initials J.G. on it in a pawnbroker's-but we don't know it was Grey's.''

"No," Runcorn agreed fiercely, running his finger with distaste along the deckle edge of the notepaper. It was a luxury he could not afford. "Indeed you don't! So what are you doing, then? Take it to Shelburne Hall-get it identified."

"Harrison's on his way."

"Can't you at least find out how the bloody man got in?"

"I think so," Monk said levelly. "There was a visitor for one of the other residents, a Mr. Yeats. He came in at nine forty-five and left at roughly ten thirty. He was a biggish man, dark, well muffled. He's the only person unaccounted for; the others were women. I don't want to leap to conclusions too soon, but it looks as if he could be the murderer. Otherwise I don't know any way a stranger could have got in. Grimwade locks up at midnight, or earlier if all the residents are in, and after that even they have to ring the bell and get him up."

Runcorn put the letter carefully on Monk's desk.

"And what time did he lock up that night?" he asked.

"Eleven," Monk replied. "No one was out."

"What did Lamb say about this man who visited Yeats?" Runcorn screwed up his face.

"Not much. Apparently he only spoke to Yeats once, and then he spent most of the time trying to find out something about Grey. Maybe he didn't realize the importance of the visitor at that time. Grimwade said he took him up to Yeats's door and Yeats met him. Lamb was still looking for a thief off the street then-"

"Then!" Runcorn leapt on the word, sharp, eager. "So what are you looking for now?"

Monk realized what he had said, and that he meant it. He frowned, and answered as carefully as he could.

"I think I'm looking for someone who knew him, and hated him; someone who intended to kill him."

"Well for God's sake don't say so to the Dowager Lady Shelburne!" Runcorn said dangerously.

"I'm hardly likely to be speaking to her," Monk answered with more than a trace of sarcasm.

"Oh yes you are!" There was a ring of triumph in Run-corn's voice and his big race was glowing with color. "You are going down to Shelburne today to assure Her Ladyship that we are doing everything humanly possible to apprehend the murderer, and that after intensive effort and brilliant work, we at last have a lead to discovering this monster." His lip curled very faintly. "You're generally so blunt, damn near rude, in spite of your fancy airs, she won't take you for a liar." Suddenly his tone altered again and became soft. "Anyway, why do you think it was someone who knew him? Maniacs can kill with a hell of a mess; madmen strike over and over again, hate for no reason."

"Possibly." Monk stared back at him, matching dislike for dislike. "But they don't scout out the names of other residents, call upon them, and then go and kill someone else. If he was merely a homicidal lunatic, why didn't he kill Yeats? Why go and look for Grey?"

Runcorn's eyes were wide; he resented it, but he took the point.

"Find out everything you can about this Yeats," he ordered. "Discreetly, mind! I don't want him scared away!"

"What about Lady Shelburne?" Monk affected innocence.

"Go and see her. Try to be civil, Monk-make an effort! Evan can chase after Yeats, and tell you whatever he finds when you get back. Take the train. You'll be in Shelburne a day or two. Her Ladyship won't be surprised to see you, after the rumpus she's raised. She demanded a report on progress, in person. You can put up at the inn. Well, off you go then. Don't stand there like an ornament, man!"

Monk took the train on the Great Northern line from the King's Cross Station. He ran across the platform and jumped in, slamming the carriage door just as the engine belched forth a cloud of steam, gave a piercing shriek and jolted forward. It was an exciting sensation, a surge of power, immense, controlled noise, and then gathering speed as they emerged from the cavern of the station buildings out into the sharp late-afternoon sunlight.

Monk settled himself into a vacant seat opposite a large woman in black bombazine with a fur tippet around her neck (in spite of the season) and a black hat on at a fierce angle. She had a packet of sandwiches, which she opened immediately and began to eat. A little man with large spectacles eyed them hopefully, but said nothing. Another man in striped trousers studiously read his Times.

They roared and hissed their way past tenements, houses and factories, hospitals, churches, public halls and offices, gradually thinning, more interspersed with stretches of green, until at last the city fell away and Monk stared with genuine pleasure at the beauty of soft countryside spread wide in the lushness of full summer. Huge boughs clouded green over fields heavy with ripening crops and thick hedgerows starred with late wild roses. Coppices of trees huddled in folds of the slow hills, and villages were easily marked by the tapering spires of churches, or the occasional squarer Norman tower.

Shelburne came too quickly, while he was still drinking in the loveliness of it. He grabbed his valise oif the rack and opened the door hastily, excusing himself past the fet woman in the bombazine and incurring her silent displeasure. On the platform he inquired of the lone attendant where Shelburne Hall lay, and was told it was less than a mile. The man waved his arm to indicate the direction, then sniffed and added, "But the village be two mile in t'opposite way, and doubtless that be w'ere you're a-goin'."