The thing lying at the back of his mind, troubling him all the time, was why he had not been back to see Beth in eight years. She seemed the only family he had, and yet he had virtually ignored her. Why?

Runcorn was staring at him.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Yes sir." He snapped to attention. "I agree, sir. I think there may be something very unpleasant indeed. One has to hate very much to beat a man to death as Grey was beaten. I imagine if it is something to do with the family, they will do everything they can to hush it up. In fact the eldest son, the present Lord Shelburne, didn't seem very eager for me to probe it. He tried to guide me back to the idea that it was a casual thief, or a lunatic."

"And Her Ladyship?"

"She wants us to continue."

"Then she's fortunate, isn't she?" Runcorn nodded his head with his lips twisted. "Because that is precisely what you are going to do!"

Monk recognized a dismissal.

"Yes sir; I'll start with Yeats." He excused himself and went to his own room.

Evan was sitting at the table, busy writing. He looked up with a quick smile when Monk came in. Monk found himself overwhelmingly glad to see him. He realized he had already begun to think of Evan as a friend as much as a colleague.

"How was Shelburne?" Evan asked.

"Very splendid," he replied. "And very formal. What about Mr. Yeats?"

"Very respectable." Evan's mouth twitched in a brief and suppressed amusement. "And very ordinary. No one is saying anything to his discredit. In fact no one is saying anything much at all; they have trouble in recalling precisely who he is."

Monk dismissed Yeats from his mind, and spoke of the thing which was more pressing to him.

"Runcorn seems to think it will become unpleasant, and he's expecting rather a lot from us-"

"Naturally." Evan looked at him, his eyes perfectly clear. "That's why he rushed you into it, even though you're hardly back from being ill. It's always sticky when we have to deal with the aristocracy; and let's face it, a policeman is usually treated pretty much as the social equal of a parlor maid and about as desirable to be close to as die drains; necessary in an imperfect society, but not fit to have in the withdrawing room."

At another time Monk would have laughed, but now it was too painful, and too urgent.

"Why me?" he pressed.

Evan was frankly puzzled. He hid what looked like embarrassment with formality.

"Sir?"

"Why me?" Monk repeated a little more harshly. He could hear the rising pitch in his own voice, and could not govern it.

Evan lowered his eyes awkwardly.

"Do you want an honest answer to that, sir; although you must know it as well as I do?"

"Yes I do! Please?"

Evan faced him, his eyes hot and troubled. "Because you are the best detective in the station, and the most ambitious. Because you know how to dress and to speak; you'll be equal to the Shelburnes, if anyone is." He hesitated, biting his lip, then plunged on. "And-and if you come unstuck either by making a mess of it and failing to find the murderer, or rubbing up against Her Ladyship and she complains about you, there are a good few who won't mind if you're demoted. And of course worse still, if it turns out to be one of the family-and you have to arrest him-"

Monk stared at him, but Evan did not look away. Monk felt the heat of shock ripple through him.

"Including Runcorn?" he said very quietly.

"I think so."

"And you?"

Evan was transparently surprised. "No, not me," he said simply. He made no protestations, and Monk believed him.

"Good." He drew a deep breath. "Well, we'll go and see Mr. Yeats tomorrow."

"Yes sir." Evan was smiling, the shadow gone. "I'll be here at eight."

Monk winced inwardly at the time, but he had to agree. He said good-night and turned to go home.

But out in the street he started walking the other way, not consciously thinking until he realized he was moving in the general direction of St. Marylebone Church. It was over two miles away, and he was tired. He had already walked a long way in Shelburne, and his legs were aching, his feet sore. He hailed a cab and when the driver asked him, he gave the address of the church.

It was very quiet inside with only die dimmest of light through the fast-graying windows. Candelabra shed little yellow arcs.

Why the church? He had all the peace and silence he needed in his own rooms, and he certainly had no conscious thought of God. He sat down in one of the pews.

Why had he come here? No matter how much he had dedicated himself to his job, his ambition, he must know someone, have a friend, or even an enemy. His life must have impinged on someone else's-beside Runcorn.

He had been sitting in the dark without count of time, struggling to remember anything at all-a face, a name, even a feeling, something of childhood, like the momentary glimpse at Shelburne-when he saw the girl in black again, standing a few feet away.

He was startled. She seemed so vivid, familiar. Or was it only that she seemed to him to be lovely, evocative of something he wanted to feel, wanted to remember?

But she was not beautiful, not really. Her mouth was too big, her eyes too deep. She was looking at him.

Suddenly he was frightened. Ought he to know her? Was he being unbearably rude in not speaking? But he could know any number of people, of any walk of life! She could be a bishop's daughter, or a prostitute!

No, never with that face.

Don't be ridiculous, harlots could have faces with just that warmth, those luminous eyes; at least they could while they were still young, and nature had not yet written itself on the outside.

Without realizing it, he was still looking at her.

"Good evening, Mr. Monk," she said slowly, a faint embarrassment making her blink.

He rose to his feet. "Good evening, ma'am." He had no idea of her name, and now he was terrified, wishing he had never come. What should he say? How well did she know him? He could feel the sweat prickly on his body, his tongue dry, his thoughts in a stultified, wordless mass.

"You have not spoken for such a long time," she went on. "I had begun to fear you had discovered something you did not dare to tell me."

Discovered! Was she connected with some case? It must be old; he had been working on Joscelin Grey since he came back, and before that the accident. He fished for something that would not commit him and yet still make sense.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't discovered anything else." His voice was dry, artificial to his own ears. Please God he did not sound so foolish to her!

"Oh." She looked down. It seemed for a moment as if she could not think of anything else to say, then she lifted her head again and met his eyes very squarely. He could only think how dark they were-not brown, but a multitude of shadows. "You may tell me the truth, Mr. Monk, whatever it is. Even if he killed himself, and for whatever reason, I would rather know.''

"It is the truth," he said simply. "I had an accident about seven weeks ago. I was in a cab that overturned and I broke my arm and ribs and cracked my head. I can't even remember it. I was in hospital for nearly a month, and then went north to my sister's to regain my strength. I'm afraid I haven't done anything about it since then."

"Oh dear." Her face was tight with concern. "I am sorry. Are you all right now? Are you sure you are better?"

She sounded as if it mattered to her. He found himself wanned ridiculously by it. He forced from his mind the idea that she was merely compassionate, or well-mannered.

"Yes, yes thank you; although there are blanks in my memory." Why had he told her that? To explain his behavior-in case it hurt her? He was taking too much upon himself. Why should she care, more than courtesy required? He remembered Sunday now; she had worn black then too, but expensive black, silk and fashionable. The man accompanying her had been dressed as Monk could not afford to be. Her husband? The thought was acutely depressing, even painful. He did not even think of the other woman.