William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

The harm was done. He could not ease his conscience with belated patronage.
    It was from the local doctor, unprepared to see him back, and full of respect, that he learned how unremitting had been his pursuit of the case and how his attention to detail, his observation of mannerisms and subtle, intuitive guesses had finally learned the poison used, the unsuspected lover who had driven Margery to rid herself of her husband, and sent her to her own early death.
    “Brilliant,” the doctor had said again, shaking his head.“Brilliant, you were, and no mistake. Never used to ’ave time for Lunnon folk myself, before that. But you surely showed us a thing or two.” He eyed Monk with interest untouched by liking. “And bought that picture from Squire Leadbetter for a pretty penny. Spent your money like you ’ad no end of it, you did. Folks still talk about it.”
    “Bought the picture …?” Monk frowned, trying to recall. There was no picture of any great beauty among his things. Had he given it to the woman?
    “Lord bless me, don’t you remember?” The doctor looked amazed, his sandy eyebrows raised in incredulity. “Cost more’n I make in a month, it did, an’ no mistake. I suppose you were that pleased with yourself in your case. An’ it was a clever piece o’ work, I’ll give you that. We all knew no one else could ’ave done it, an’ p’raps the poor creature got all she deserved, God forgive ’er.”
    And that was the final seal on his disappointment. If he had gone out and committed some extravagance, of which he now had no trace, to celebrate his success in the case, he could hardly have anguished over Margery Worth’s death. This was another ruthlessly brilliant case for Inspector Monk, but it was no clue to the woman who trespassed again and again into his mind these days, who intruded when he thought of Alexandra Carlyon, and who stirred in him such memories of loneliness, of hope, and of having struggled so hard to help her, and not knowing now whether he had failed or succeeded, or how—or even why.
    It was late. He thanked the doctor, stayed one more night, and on the morning of Thursday the eleventh, caught the earliest train back to London. He was tired not by physical effort, but by disappointment and a crowding sense of guilt, because he had less than two weeks left before the trial, and he had wasted over two days pursuing a wild goose of his own. Now he still had no idea why Alexandra had killed the general, or what he could tell Oliver Rathbone to help him.
        In the afternoon he used the permission Rathbone had obtained for him and went again to the prison to see Alexandra.Even as he was going in the vast gates and the gray walls towered over him, he had little idea what he could say to her beyond what he or Rathbone had already said, but he had to try at least one more time. It was June 11, and on June 22 the trial was to begin.
    Was this history repeating itself—another fruitless attempt with time running out, scrambling for evidence to save a woman from her own acts?
    He found her in the same attitude, sitting on the cot, shoulders hunched, staring at the wall but seeing something in her own mind. He wished he knew what it was.
    “Mrs. Carlyon …”
    The door slammed behind him and they were alone.
    She looked up, a slight flicker of surprise over her face as she recognized him. If she had expected anyone, it must have been Rathbone. She was thinner than last time, wearing the same blouse, but the fabric of it pulled tighter, showing the bones of her shoulders. Her face was very pale. She did not speak.
    “Mrs. Carlyon, we have only a short time left. It is too late to deal in pleasantries and evasions. Only the truth will serve now.”
    “There is only one truth that matters, Mr. Monk,” she said wearily. “And that is that I killed my husband. There are no other truths they will care about. Please don’t pretend otherwise. It is absurd—and doesn’t help.”
    He stood still in the middle of the small stone floor, staring down at her.
    “They might care why you did it!” he said with a hard edge to his voice, “if you stopped lying about it. You are not mad. There was some reason behind it. Either you had a quarrel there at the top of the stairs, and you lunged at him and pushed him over backwards, and then when he fell you were still so possessed with rage you ran down the stairs after him and as he lay on the floor, tangled in the suit of armor in its