William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

spend above an hour praising another woman.
    “Fine features are very well,” he said casually, as if it were merely a passing thought. “But without intelligence they very soon become tedious. I could listen all evening to a woman with the gifts of intelligence and expression. I could not look at one woman all evening, no matter how lovely her face.”
    “You have remarkable perception and sensitivity, Mr. Monk,” she responded, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “I am afraid there are very few men with such finely developed values.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think so, Mrs. Waterson? How kind of you to say so. I don’t think anyone has ever told me such a thing before.” He looked suitably satisfied. He refused to think what Hester would have said of him for such playacting. The only thing that mattered was learning something that would help Rathbone’s case. And so far he had singly failed in that.
    He began again. “It must be tempting to use the power of such beauty, nonetheless, in a young girl with no experience, no maturity to fall back upon.” He must not forget that Mrs. Waterson was certainly the wrong side of thirty-five.
    “Of course,” she agreed.
    He waited expectantly, ignoring the young woman three or four yards away gazing at him with bright eyes full of laughter and invitation, obviously bored with her very correct and rather callow partner.
    “Perhaps she did not succumb to the temptation?” he said sententiously.
    “Oh, I’m afraid she did,” Mrs. Waterson explained instantly, and with satisfaction. “One could not help but be aware that she was brought up to regard beauty as of the utmost importance, and therefore she would have been less than human not to have tested its power. And quite naturally it was greater than she expected—or was able to deal with gracefully.” She waited to see Monk’s reaction. Would he think unkindly of her if she seemed critical?
    “How very understanding of you, Mrs. Waterson,” he said, biting his tongue. “You speak with the sympathy of one who knows it at firsthand.” He said it with a perfectly straight face. Without an ability to act one could not be a successful detective, and he had every intention of being successful.
    “Well …” She debated whether to be modest or not, and threw caution to the winds. The orchestra was playing withrhythm and gaiety. She had drunk several glasses of champagne, and all she usually indulged in was lemonade. There was laughter and color and movement all around her. Light from chandeliers glittered on jewels and hair and bare necks and arms. Mr. Waterson was very agreeable, but he had far too little imagination. He took things for granted. “In my younger days, before I was married, of course, I did have one or two adventures,” she conceded. “Perhaps I was not always wise.”
    “No more than to make you interesting, I am sure,” Monk said with a smile. “Was Miss Lambert as … wise?”
    She bridled a little. It was not becoming to appear uncharitable.
    “Well … possibly not. She set more store by beauty than I ever did. I always considered good character to be of more lasting worth, and a certain intelligence to stand one in greater service.”
    “How right you are. And so it has.” He accepted a dish of sweetmeats from a passing waiter and offered it to her.
    He remained talking for another half hour but learned no more than Zillah’s exercise of her charms and the greater attention she paid to her physical assets, under her mother’s expert tutelage, than other less well schooled girls of her age. It was hardly a sin. In fact, many might consider it a virtue. It was admired when women took the time and care to make themselves as pleasing as possible. It was in many ways a compliment to a man, if a trifle daunting to the unsure or nervous.
    Monk got home at quarter to three in the morning, exhausted. He had a clearer picture of both Zillah and her mother, but it was of no use whatever that he could see. Certainly they possessed no fault that Melville could complain of, and no characteristics that were not observable in the slightest of acquaintance.
    He slept late and woke with a headache. He had a large breakfast and felt considerably better.
    He saw the morning newspapers but decided he had no time to read them, and if there were anything of use Rathbonewould know it anyway and would have sent an appropriate message.
    He needed Hester’s opinion. She bore little