by Anne Perry
An hour later as they walked up Greek Street towards Soho Square, the subject arose, and he was obliged to answer it.
“But maybe the body will turn up?” she said, stepping up the pavement from the road. She swaggered a couple of steps, mimicking the prostitutes, and burst into laughter again. “I’m sorry!” she said happily. “But it’s such fun not to care a fig for an evening, not to worry if everything is correct, who is looking at you or listening to you, if old Lady So-and-So will disapprove, and who she will repeat it to. Such freedom is terribly sweet. Thank you, William, for a unique evening!” And before he could reply, she hurried on. “Perhaps they are keeping it hidden for a reason?”
“What reason?” he asked amusedly. He was enjoying himself too much to care about the illogicality of it all. Tomorrow would be time enough to pursue the real. Tonight was his own, and Drusilla’s.
“Ah!” She stopped suddenly and swung around, her eyes wide and dancing with excitement. “I have it! What if Angus turns up again, alive and well, saying he was hurt in a terrible fight with Caleb, in which he was injured, perhaps knocked on the head, and was unable to contact anyone. He was insensible, delirious. He thinks Caleb is dead.…”
“But he’s alive,” Monk pointed out. “I’ve seen him, and he admitted having killed Angus. In—”
“No, no,” she interrupted eagerly. “Wait! Don’t keep stopping me! Of course he is—and he did! Don’t you see? The Angus who turns up is really Caleb. He and Genevieve have done away with Angus, and when it is too late to tell them apart, and the body has”—she wrinkled her nose—“decomposed sufficiently, all the doctors can say is that it was one of the brothers! By that time there will be no firm flesh in the face to recognize, no uncallused hands, clean fingernails, anything like that. If she says the man who returns is Angus, who will argue with her?” Her hand tightened on his arm. “William, it’s brilliant. It explains everything!”
He searched for a flaw in it, and could not see one. He did not believe it, but it was perfectly possible. The longer he thought about it, the more possible it grew.
“Doesn’t it?” she demanded eagerly. “Tell me I’m a brilliant detective, William! You must take me into partnership—I’ll find the theories to fit all your cases. Then you can go and find the evidence to prove them.”
“A wonderful idea,” he said with a laugh. “Would you like dinner on it?”
“Yes, yes I would. With champagne.” She looked around at the brightly lit street with its inviting windows. “Where shall we dine? Please let us make it somewhere exciting, disreputable and utterly delicious. I’m sure you must know such a place.”
He probably had, before his accident. Now he could only guess. He must not take her where she could be bored, or where anything would happen which would embarrass or disgust her. And of course he could hardly expect Callandra to pay the bill for this. For a start, she would disapprove. She would consider it a betrayal of Hester, no matter how absurd that was. And it was absurd. His relationship with Hester was not one of choice but of circumstances which had thrown them together. There was no romance in it, only a kind of cooperation in certain areas—almost a business relationship, one might say.
Drusilla was waiting, her face full of expectancy.
“Of course,” he agreed, not daring to expose his ignorance. “A little further along.” With any luck, he would see something within the next two or three hundred yards. It was an excellent area for cafés, taverns and coffeehouses.
“Wonderful,” she said happily, turning to walk forward again. “You know, I am really hungry. How unladylike of me to admit it. That’s another thing about this evening I enjoy so much. I can be hungry! I can even drink what I please. Perhaps I shan’t have champagne. Perhaps I shall have stout. Or porter.”
They had an excellent meal at a tavern where the landlord told mildly bawdy jokes and laughed uproariously, and one of the regular customers lampooned various politicians and members of the royal family. The atmosphere was homely and warm and a multitude of odors, almost all of them pleasant, wrapped them round in an island from all the day-to-day reality of their separate worlds.
Afterwards they walked nearly to the end of the street back to Soho Square before picking up a hansom to take her home, and from there he could take it on to Fitzroy Street himself.
He realized with surprise he had no idea where she lived, and he was interested when she gave the driver an address on the edge of Mayfair. They sat close together in the alternating darkness and light as they bowled along Oxford Street westwards, then turned left down North Audley Street. He could not remember having felt more perfectly at ease in anyone’s company, and yet never for an instant bored or irritated. He looked forward intensely to the next time he should see her. He must think of other things to do which would entertain her when the business of Angus Stonefield was concluded.
They were passing a large house where some kind of party was coming to an end. The street was full of carriages and they were obliged to slow their pace. There were lights everywhere, torches and carriage lamps, the blaze of chandeliers from the open doors. At least a dozen people stood around on the footpath, and five or six more in the street. Liveried footmen assisted a woman to get her massive skirts into her carriage. Grooms held horses’ heads, coachmen steadied the reins.
Suddenly Drusilla lurched forward. Her face had changed utterly. There was a blind hatred in her which made her almost unrecognizable. Her hands went to the bosom of her gown and with a convulsive movement she tore it open, ripping the fabric, exposing her pale flesh and gashing it with her fingernails till it smeared blood. She screamed, again and again, piercingly, as if in mortal terror. She beat her fists against his chest, forcing her way past him, then plunged headlong into the street, landing in a heap in the road. Immediately she clambered to her feet, still screaming, and ran towards the astonished footman, now trying to control a startled horse, which was taking fright at the commotion.
Monk was too stunned even to comprehend what was happening. It was not until another footman tried to climb into the hansom, his face contorted with outrage, shouting, “Blackguard! Beast!” that Monk electrified into life. He lifted his foot and sent the man sprawling backwards, then yelled at the cabby to drive!
The cab lurched forward, the driver perhaps more frightened than obedient, hurling Monk hard back against the seat. It was a moment before he regained his balance, and they were going at a very smart pace southwards.
“Fitzroy Street!” he shouted at the driver. “As fast as you can! Do you hear me?”
The driver shouted something back, and a moment later they turned. Monk’s mind was numb. It was inconceivable. It was as if he had suddenly taken leave of his wits and plunged into some total insanity. One moment they had been the closest of companions, happy and at ease; the next she had changed as if she had ripped off a mask and exposed something hideous, a creature filled with hatred and consumed by it, deranged, prepared to risk injury by falling out of a moving carriage.
And the accusation she had made against him could ruin him. Only as he reached Fitzroy Street and the cab stopped did he realize the implications of what she had done. It was there in the cabby’s face, the horror, and the contempt.
He opened his mouth to protest his innocence, and saw the uselessness of it. He thrust his hand into his pocket and paid the man, then strode across the footpath, up the steps and in the front door. He was cold to the bone.
7
MONK WOKE the next morning and memory returned like a cold tide, almost choking him. He gasped for breath, and sat up, his body shaking. The evening had been wonderful, full of laughter and companionship. Then suddenly, without the slightest warning whatever, Drusilla had changed from the caring, intimate friend she had been, and became a screaming accuser, her face contorted with hate. He could remember it with fearful clarity, as if it were still in front of him, the lips drawn back, the ugliness in mouth and eyes, the triumph.
But why?
He hardly knew her, and everything they had shared had been of the greatest pleasure. She was a sophisticated, delightful woman of society, dabbling in a few hours’ amusement rather more daring than usual. She was bored with her own circle. She had chosen Monk to take her out of it briefly. And she had chosen him! Her interest had been perfectly plain from the moment they had met on the Geographical Society steps. Looking back on it now, she had bumped into him every bit as much as he into her. Perhaps he should have wondered then why she was so willing to court his company. Most women would have been more cautious, more circumspect. But he had assumed that she was bored with the restrictions society placed on her and longed for the freedom he represented.
Was she mad? Her behavior was more than unstable, it was unbalanced. This charge would ruin him, but if she insisted that he attempted to force his attentions on her, which she could not possibly believe, then she stood to be at best the subject of speculation as well as sympathy, and at worst the butt of less than charitable gossip. Perhaps she had escaped from Bedlam, or some other asylum for the insane.
He lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
No, that was stupid. If she were demented, then it would be a private matter, cared for by her family. That must be it. She had temporarily escaped her keepers. When she was found again, it would all be explained. They would understand. Quite probably she had behaved wildly before. Perhaps she had even done the same thing to some other unfortunate man.
He rose, washed and shaved. It was while he was staring at his face in the glass, its lean planes, the level gray eyes hard and clever, the wide lips with the faint scar beneath, that he remembered seeing the same face when he first came back from hospital. He had not known it then, not found it even faintly familiar. He had searched it then as he might a stranger’s, looking for character, the weaknesses and the strengths, the marks of appetite, the signs of gentleness or humor or pity.
The next question was obvious. Was Drusilla Wyndham mad, or had she known him before, and hated him? Had he done her some injury which she could never forgive, and this was her revenge?
He did not know!
Slowly he cleaned his shaving things and put them away, his hands moving automatically.
But if he had known her, then she must surely have expected him also to know her now? How had she dared approach him as if they were strangers? Had she changed so much she had assumed he would never recognize her?
That was ridiculous. She was a remarkable woman, not merely beautiful but most unusual. Her carriage, her dignity, and her wit were unique. How could she expect any man to see her and then forget her so completely that in meeting again, seeing her repeatedly, speaking with her, hearing her laugh, he would still not remember?
He walked over to the window and stared out at the gray morning, carriages passing below with lamps still lit.
She must know of the loss of his memory.
But how? Who could have told her? No one knew except his personal friends: Hester, Callandra, Oliver Rathbone, and of course John Evan, the young policeman who had been so loyal during that first terrible case after the accident.
Why did she hate him enough to do this? It was no sudden impulse. She had lied and connived from the beginning, sought him out, charmed him, and deliberately placed him where he could be accused and had no defense. They were alone. Her reputation was intact, it was a situation in which it was quite justifiable to be. He could imaginably have assaulted her, and she had witnesses, at least to her distress and escape.
Who would believe his account?
No one. It made no sense at all. He could hardly believe it himself.
He dressed, and forced himself to eat the breakfast his landlady brought.
“You don’t look well, Mr. Monk,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do ’ope as yer not coming down wi’ summink. ’Ot mustard poultice, me ma always used to say. Swear by it, she did. Any’ow, tell me if yer needs one, an’ I’ll make it for yer.”
“Thank you,” he said absently. “Think I’m just tired. Don’t worry.”
“Well, you mind yerself, then.” She nodded. “Gets yerself ter some funny parts, you do. Wouldn’t be surprised if yer picked up summink nasty.”
He mumbled a noncommittal reply, and she busied herself clearing away.
There was a knock on the outside door and Monk rose to answer it. The blast of cold air chilled him. The daylight was damp and gray.
“Letter for you, mister,” a small boy said, smiling at him from beneath an oversized cap. “Fer Mr. Monk. That’s you, innit? I knows yer. I seen yer abaht.”
“Who gave it to you?” Monk demanded as a glance at the writing showed it unfamiliar. It was elegant, feminine, and not Hester’s, Callandra’s or Genevieve Stonefield’s.
“Lady in a carriage, guv. Dunno her name. Give me threepence ter give it yer.”
His stomach leaped. Perhaps this was some explanation? It would all make sense. It was a mistake.
“Lady with fair hair and brown eyes?” he demanded. “Fair ’air, dunno about eyes.” The boy shook his head. “Thank you.” Monk tore the letter open. It was dated that morning.
Mr William Monk,
I had never assumed you to be a gentleman of my own station, but I had imagined you to have the rudiments of decency, or I should never have consented to spend a moment’s time in your company, other than as ordinary courtesy demanded. I found your differences entertaining, no more. I am bored with the narrow confines of my own place in society, stifled by the rules and conventions. You offered a stimulating view of another level of life.
I cannot believe you so misunderstood my courtesy that you imagined I was willing to allow our acquaintance to be more. The only explanation for your behaviour lies in your disregard for the feelings of others, and your willingness to use people to achieve your own satisfactions, regardless of the cost to them.
I can never forgive you for what you have done to me, and I shall do all in my power to see that you pay to the uttermost farthing. I shall pursue this through the law, by word of mouth, and through the civil courts if need be. You shall know with every breath you take that I am your enemy, and you will rue the day you chose to use me as you have. Such betrayal will always find its punishment.
Drusilla Wyndham
He read it again. His hands were shaking. It was incredible.
But on second reading it was exactly the same.
“Y’ all right, mister?” the boy said anxiously.
“Yes,” Monk lied. “Yes, thank you.” He fished in his pocket and took out threepence. He would not have her pay more than he.
The boy took it with thanks, then changed his mind, painfully.
“She already gimme.”
“I know.” Monk breathed in, trying to steady himself. “Keep it.”
“Fank yer, guv.” And before his good fortune could vanish, the boy turned and ran down the street, his boots clattering on the cold pavement.
Monk closed the door and went back to his inner room. His landlady had gone. He sat down, the letter still in his hand, although he did not look at it anymore.
It could not possibly refer to last night, or any other time over the last week. She could only mean some acquaintance they had had in the past.
It always came back to the past, and that great void in his memory, the darkness where anything might exist.
She had used the word betrayal. That implied trust. Was he really a man to do such a thing? He had never betrayed anyone since the accident. Honor was one virtue he possessed. He had never broken his word. He would not let himself down by such an act.
Could he have changed so much? Had the blow to his head not only obliterated all the past from his mind, but also altered his nature? Was that possible?
He paced the floor back and forth, trying to think of all the things he had pieced together about himself from before the accident, the fragments that had come back to him, the flashes from his childhood in the north, glimpses of the sea, its
violence and its beauty. He recalled his eagerness to learn, fleeting impressions; a face, a sense of injustice and desperation, the man who had been his mentor, and who had been deceived and ruined, and Monk had been unable to help. Nothing he could do had saved him. That was when he had abandoned commerce and dedicated himself to the police.
That was not a man who would betray!
In the police he had risen quickly. He knew from a dozen minor evidences, people’s faces when he met them again, remarks half heard. He had been cruel of tongue, critical, at times ruthless. Runcorn, his old superior, had hated him, and little by little Monk had learned it was not without cause. Monk had contributed to Runcorn’s failures and inadequacies, he had undermined him steadily, even if Runcorn had at least in part brought it upon himself with his petty hatreds and his personal ambitions, which he was prepared to achieve on the backs of others.
Was that a kind of betrayal?
No. It was cruelty, but it was not dishonest. Betrayal was always eventually a kind of deceit.
He knew almost nothing about his relationships with women. The only one of whom he had any recollection was Hermione, whom he had thought he loved, and in that he was the loser. If anyone was betrayed it was he. It was Hermione who had been so much less than she promised, she who had been too shallow to grasp at love, who had preferred the comfortable, the unchallenging, the safe. He could still feel the hollowness of loss when he had found her again, so full of hope, and then the disillusion, the utter emptiness.
But he must have known Drusilla! That hatred on her face had some terrible reason, some foundation in a relationship where she felt so wronged she had been prepared to do even this to be revenged.
He had already read through all the letters and the bills he could find when he first returned home from the accident, trying then to reconstruct some framework to his life. There was little enough. He was careful with money, but extravagant as far as personal appearance was concerned. His tailor’s bills were high, as were his shirtmaker’s and bootmaker’s, even his barber’s.