Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

marry her off to Sydney Ab-ernathy—he has plenty of money and a fancy for wraith-like fragility—it makes him feel masterful."
    "I shall have to see if I can find a suitable homily for her on vanity." Imogen ignored the basket and led the way through to the withdrawing room and threw herself into one of the large chairs. "I am hot and tired. Do have Martha bring us some lemonade. Can you reach the bell?"
    It was an idle question, since Hester was still standing.
    Absently she pulled the end. "It isn't vanity," she said, still referring to Miss Wentworth. "It's survival. What is the poor creature to do if she doesn't marry? Her mother and sisters have convinced her the only alternative is shame, poverty and a lonely and pitiful old age."
    "That reminds me," Imogen said, pushing her boots off. "Have you heard from Lady Callandra's hospital yet? I mean the one you want to administer."
    "I don't aim quite so high; I merely want to assist," Hester corrected.
    "Rubbish!" Imogen stretched her feet luxuriously and sank a little further into the chair. "You want to order around the entire staff."
    The maid came in and stood waiting respectfully.
    "Lemonade, please, Martha," Imogen ordered. "I'm so hot I could expire. This climate really is ridiculous. One day it rains enough to float an ark, the next we are all suffocated with heat."
    "Yes ma'am. Would you like some cucumber sandwiches as well, ma'am?"
    "Oh yes. Yes I would—thank you."
    "Yes ma'am." And with a whisk of skirts she was gone.
    Hester filled the few minutes while the maid was absent with trivial conversation. She had always found it easy to talk to Imogen and their friendship was more like that of sisters than of two women related only by marriage, whose patterns of life were so different. When Martha had brought the sandwiches and lemonade and they were alone, she turned at last to the matter which was pressing so urgently on her mind.
    "Imogen, that policeman, Monk, was here again yesterday—"
    Imogen's hand stopped in the air, the sandwich ignored, but there was curiosity in her face and a shadow of amusement. There was nothing that looked like fear. But then Imogen, unlike Hester, could conceal her feelings perfectly if she chose.
    "Monk? What did he want this time?"
    "Why are you smiling?"
    "At you, my dear. He annoys you so much, and yet I think part of you quite likes him. You are not dissimilar in some ways, full of impatience at stupidity and anger at injustice, and perfectly prepared to be as rude as you can."
    "I am nothing like him whatever," Hester said impatiently. "And this is not a laughing matter." She could feel an irritating warmth creep up in her cheeks. Just once in a while she would like to take more naturally to feminine arts, as Imogen did as easily as breathing. Men did not rush to protect her as they did Imogen; they always assumed she was perfectly competent to take care of herself, and it was a compliment she was growing tired of.
    Imogen ate her sandwich, a tiny thing about two inches square.
    "Are you going to tell me what he came for, or not?"
    "Certainly I am." Hester took a sandwich herself and bit into it; it was lacily thin and the cucumber was crisp and cool. "A few weeks ago he had a very serious accident, about the time Joscelin Grey was killed."
    "Oh—I'm sorry. Is he ill now? He seemed perfectly recovered."
    "I think his body is quite mended," Hester answered, and seeing the sudden gravity and concern in Imogen's face felt a gentleness herself. "But he was struck very severely on the head, and he cannot remember anything before regaining his senses in a London hospital."
    "Not anything." A flicker of amazement crossed Imogen's fece. "You mean he didn't remember me—I mean us?"
    "He didn't remember himself," Hester said starkly. "He did not know his name or his occupation. He did not recognize his own face when he saw it in the glass."
    "How extraordinary—and terrible. I do not always like myself completely—but to lose yourself! I cannot imagine having nothing at all left of all your past—all your experiences, and the reason why you love or hate things."
    "Why did you go to him, Imogen?"
    "What? I mean, I beg your pardon?"
    "You heard what I said. When we first saw Monk in St. Marylebone Church you went over to speak to him. You knew him. I assumed at the time that he knew you, but he did not. He did not know anyone."
    Imogen looked away, and very carefully took another sandwich.
    "I presume it is something