William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

have. Her confinements were without incident. Her children were born normally, and thrived. She herself recovered her health as soon and as happily as most women do. There is really nothing to tell.”
    “Not like Sabella?”
    His face shadowed. “No—no, I am afraid Sabella was one of those few who suffer profoundly. No one knows why it happens, but occasionally a woman will have a difficult time carrying a child, during confinement, or afterwards. Sabella was quite well right up until the last week. Her confinement was long and extremely painful. At one time I was fearful lest we lose her.”
    “Her mother would be most distressed.”
    “Of course. But then death in childbirth is quite common, Mr. Monk. It is a risk all women take, and they are aware of it.”
    “Was that why Sabella did not wish to marry?”
    Hargrave looked surprised. “Not that I know of. I believe she genuinely wished to devote her life to the Church.” Again he raised his shoulders very slightly. “It is not unknown among girls of a certain age. Usually they grow out of it. It is a sort of romance, an escape for a young and overheated imagination. Some simply fall in love with an ideal of man, a figure from literature or whatever, some with the most ideal of all—the Son of God. And after all”—he smiled with a gentle amusement touched only fractionally with bitterness—“it is the one love which can never fall short of our dreams, never disillusion us, because it lies in illusion anyway.” He sighed. “No, forgive me, that is not quite right. Imean it is mystical, its fulfillment does not rest with any real person but in the mind of the lover.”
    “And after the confinement and the birth of her child?” Monk prompted.
    “Oh—yes, I’m afraid she suffered a melancholia that occasionally occurs at such times. She became quite deranged, did not want her child, repelled any comfort or offer of help, any friendship; indeed any company except that of her mother.” He spread his hands expressively. “But it passed. These things do. Sometimes they take several years, but usually it is only a matter of a month or two, or at most four or five.”
    “There was no question of her being incarcerated as insane?”
    “No!” Hargrave was startled. “None at all. Her husband was very patient, and they had a wet nurse for the child. Why?”
    Monk sighed. “It was a possibility.”
    “Alexandra? Don’t see how. What are you looking for, Mr. Monk? What is it you hope to find? If I knew, perhaps I could save your time, and tell you if it exists at all.”
    “I don’t know myself,” Monk confessed. Also he did not wish to confide in Hargrave, or anyone else, because the whole idea involved some other person who was a threat to Alexandra. And who better than her doctor, who must know so many intimate things?
    “What about the general?” he said aloud. “He is dead and cannot care who knows about him, and his medical history may contain some answer as to why he was killed.”
    Hargrave frowned. “I cannot think what. It is very ordinary indeed. Of course I did not attend him for the various injuries he received in action.” He smiled. “In fact I think the only time I attended him at all was for a cut he received on his upper leg—a rather foolish accident.”
    “Oh? It must have been severe for him to send for you.”
    “Yes, it was a very nasty gash, ragged and quite deep. It was necessary to clean it, stop the bleeding with packs, then to stitch it closed. I went back several times to make quite sure it healed properly, without infection.”
    “How did it happen?” A wild thought occurred to Monkthat it might have been a previous attack by Alexandra, which the general had warded off, sustaining only a thigh injury.
    A look of puzzlement crossed Hargrave’s face.
    “He said he had been cleaning an ornamental weapon, an Indian knife he had brought home as a souvenir, and taken it to give to young Valentine Furnival. It had stuck in its scabbard, and in forcing it out it slipped from his grasp and gashed him on the leg. He was attempting to clean it, or something of the sort.”
    “Valentine Furnival? Was Valentine visiting him?”
    “No—no, it happened at the Furnivals’ house. I was sent there.”
    “Did you see the weapon?” Monk asked.
    “No—I didn’t bother. He assured me the blade itself was clean, and that since it was such a dangerous thing he had disposed of it. I saw no reason to pursue it, because