It was a beautiful day when he set out: a hot, high summer sun beating on the pavements, making the leafier squares pleasant refuges from the shimmering light hazy with the rising smoke of distant factory chimneys. Carriages clattered along the street past him, harnesses jingling, as people rode out to take the air or to pay early afternoon calls, drivers and footmen in livery, brasses gleaming. The smell of fresh horse droppings was pungent in the warmth and a twelve-year-old crossing sweeper mopped his brow under a floppy cap.

Monk walked to Hastings Street. It was little over a mile and the additional time would give him further opportunity to think. He welcomed the challenge of a more difficult case, one which would test his skills. Since the trial of Alexandra Carlyon he had had nothing but trivial matters, things that as a policeman he would have delegated to the most junior constable.

Of course the Carlyon case had been different. That had tested him to the utmost. He remembered it with a complexity of feelings, at once triumphant and painful. And with thought of it came memory of Hermione, and unconsciously he lengthened his pace on the hot pavement, his body tightened and his mouth clenched shut in a hard line. He had been afraid when her face first came fleetingly into his mind; a shred of the past returned, uncertain, haunting him with echoes of love, tenderness, and terrible anxiety. He knew he had cared for her, but not when or how, if she had loved him, what had happened between them that he had nothing left, no letters, no pictures, no reference to her in his possessions.

But regardless of memory, his skill was always there, dedicated and ruthless. He had found her again. Fragment by fragment he had pieced it together until he stood on the doorstep and at last he knew her, the whole gentle almost childlike face, the brown eyes, the halo of hair. The entire memory flooded back.

He swallowed hard. Why was he deliberately hurting himself? The disillusion burned over him in anger as if it had been only moments ago, the searing knowledge that she preferred the comfortable existence of half love; emotions that did not challenge; commitment of the mind and body, but not of the heart; always a reservation to avoid the possibility of real pain.

Her gentleness was accommodation, not compassion. She had not the courage to do more than sip at life; she would never drain the cup.

He was walking so blindly he bumped into an elderly man in a frock coat and apologized perfunctorily. The man stared after him with irritation, his whiskers bristling. An open landau passed with a group of young women huddled together and giggling as one of them waved to some acquaintance. The ribbons on their bonnets danced in the breeze and their huge skirts made them seem to be sitting on mounds of flowered cushions.

Monk had already resolved to look no further into the emotions of his past. He knew more than he wanted to about Hermione; and he had detected or deduced enough about the man who had been his benefactor and mentor, and who would have introduced him into successful commerce had he not been cheated into ruin himself-a fate from which Monk had tried so hard to rescue him, and failed. It was then, in outrage at the injustice, that he had abandoned commerce and joined the police, to fight against such crime; although as far as he could remember, he had never caught that particular fraud. Please God at least he had tried. He could remember nothing, and he felt sick at the thought of trying, in case his discovery shed even further ugly light on the man he had been.

But he had been brilliant. Nothing cast shadow or doubt on that. Even since the accident he had solved the Grey case, the Moidore case, and then the Carlyon case. Not even his worst enemy-and so far that seemed to be Runcorn, although one never knew who else he might discover-but not even Runcorn had said he lacked courage, honesty, or the will to dedicate himself totally to the pursuit of truth, and labor till he dropped, without counting the cost. Although it seemed he did not count the cost to others either.

At least John Evan liked him, although of course he had known him only since the accident, but he had liked him whatever the circumstances. And he had chosen to continue something of a relationship even after Monk had left the force. It was one of the best things to have happened, and Monk hugged it to himself, a warm and acutely valuable thing, a friendship to be nurtured and guarded from his own hasty temper and biting tongue.

Hester Latterly was a different matter. She had been a nurse in the Crimea and was now home in an England that had no use for highly intelligent, and even more highly opinionated, young women-although she was not so young. She was probably at least thirty, too old to be considered favorably for marriage, and thus destined to either continue working to support herself or be permanently dependent upon the charity of some male relative. Hester would loathe that.

To begin with she had found a position in a hospital here in London, but in a very short time her outspoken counsel to doctors, and finally her total insubordination in treating a patient herself, had earned her dismissal. The fact that she had almost certainly saved the patient's life only added to the offense. Nurses were for cleaning the ward, emptying slops, winding bandages, and generally doing as they were told. The practice of medicine was for doctors alone.

After that she had taken up private nursing. Goodness only knew where she was at this moment. Monk did not.

He was in Hastings Street. Number fourteen was only a few yards away, on the far side. He crossed over, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell. It was a gracious house, neo-Georgian, and spoke of quiet respectability.

After a moment or two the door was opened by a maid in a blue stuff dress and white cap and apron.

"Yes sir?" she said inquiringly.

"Good afternoon." He held his hat in his hand courteously, but as if fully expecting to be admitted. "My name is William Monk." He produced a card which gave his name and address but not his occupation. "I am an acquaintance of Mr. Albert Finnister of Halifax, whom I believe to be a cousin of Mrs. Penrose and Miss Gillespie. Since I was in the area, I wondered if I might pay my respects?"

"Mr. Finnister, you said, sir?"

"That is correct, of Halifax in Yorkshire."

"If you'd like to wait in the morning room, Mr. Monk, I will see if Mrs. Penrose is at home."

The morning room where he waited was comfortably furnished but with a care which spoke of a well-managed economy. There was no unnecessary expense. Decoration was a home-stitched sampler modestly framed, a print of a romantic landscape, and a rather splendid mirror. The chair backs were protected by well-laundered antimacassars, and the armrests were worn where countless hands had rubbed them. Certainly there was something of a track across the carpet from door to fireplace. A nicely arranged vase of white daisies sat on the low central table, a pleasingly feminine touch. The bookcase had one brass doorknob which was not quite the same as the others. Altogether it was an agreeable, unexceptional room, designed for comfort rather than to impress.

The door opened and the maid informed him that Mrs. Penrose and Miss Gillespie would be delighted to receive him, if he would come to the withdrawing room.

He followed her obediently back across the hall again to another, larger room, but this time there was no opportunity to look about him. Julia Penrose was standing by the window in a rose-colored afternoon dress, and a young woman about eighteen or nineteen, whom he assumed to be Marianne, was sitting on the small sofa. She looked very pale in spite of her darker natural coloring, hair almost black and springing from her brow in a remarkable widow's peak. She also had a small mole high on her left cheekbone in what Monk thought the Regency dandies would have called the "gallant" position. Her eyes were very blue.