William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

thirsty enough to get through a pint of cider and ask for a second. “They called her Mrs. Gadney, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the title was accurate.”
    “Then his name could be anything.” Runcorn wiped crumbs off his mouth. “Did anyone mention an accent? Please don’t tell me she was Irish! We haven’t time to start looking for anything that far away.”
    “No one mentioned it.” Monk reached for a piece of sharp-flavored apple pie, cooked till the slices of fruit were tender but still whole. “And I think they would have. Anyway, her birth would be before they kept general records. We’d have to go to the parish for the church register. What good would it do anyway? It doesn’t help to know where she was born.”
    “It might,” Runcorn argued. “Women often get married wherever they grew up rather than where the husband lives.”
    He was right. Once Monk would have argued, and then pointed out that it didn’t help anyway. Now he took it in its value simply as a word of encouragement to continue. He finished his cider. “You go on looking for anything with Gadney, a marriage with either bride or groom of that name. I’ll start tracing Lambourn’s career. See if anyone can remember who his friends were fifteen years ago. Someone might remember the name Gadney.”
    Runcorn frowned heavily. “They’ll hear about it,” he warned. “How long do you think you have before it’s reported to Bawtry, or someone below him?” There was anxiety in his face. “I’ll come with you. Two of us’ll get there faster than one.”
    Monk shook his head. “Look for the marriage. If Bawtry, or anyone else, questions what I’m doing, I’ve got a reason. Or I can think of one.”
    “Like what?” Runcorn asked. His face reflected he knew the risk they were taking, and Monk was trying to protect him from it.
    Monk thought for a moment. “Like I want to make sure the case against Dinah Lambourn is perfect.” He smiled with a little twist of irony. “I don’t mind lying to them.”
    “Don’t get caught!” There was no answering humor in Runcorn’s eyes, only concern.
    “I’ll meet you back here at six o’clock.” Monk stood up.
    “What if I find something?” Runcorn asked quickly.
    “Nothing I can do about it because I don’t know where I’ll be,” Monk answered. “Wait for me.”
    Runcorn did not argue but rose as well and they went out together into the blustery afternoon.
    M ONK SPENT SEVERAL EXHAUSTING and completely fruitless hours. As discreetly as he could he asked questions of people Lambourn had studied with, and stifled his impatience with difficulty. They were hard to track down, claiming to be too busy to spare him time. Perhaps they were embarrassed to discuss someone whose life had ended in such tragedy, but Monk could not help being crowded by the suspicion thatthey had been warned they would find great disfavor with their superiors if they were to be indiscreet. Doors that had been open before might inexplicably become closed to them in the future.
    He found professors who had taught Lambourn, others who had graduated in medicine at the same time, one man who had changed his studies to chemistry. They remembered Lambourn but could offer nothing of use beyond the facts Monk already knew.
    He could go on for many more hours without exhausting the possibilities, and each time increasing the chances of attracting more attention to his inquiries. Also he did not wish to keep Runcorn waiting. He had a dim recollection that he had done so rather often in the past.
    He found Runcorn sitting at the same small table in the corner of the public house, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wood.
    Monk knew he was not late, but all the same he took out his watch and glanced at it to make doubly certain. He sat down opposite Runcorn.
    Runcorn was frowning, his face troubled. “You’re not going to like it,” he said quietly.
    Monk felt his muscles tighten and his breath catch in his throat. “You found something?”
    Runcorn did not stretch out the tension. “Marriage, no death.”
    Monk was stunned. “So the husband is still alive?”
    “Not now.” Runcorn took a deep breath. “Zenia Gadney was married all right—to Joel Lambourn.”
    “What?” Monk froze. He must have misheard. It was not a bitter or ill-conceived joke; there was not a shred of humor in Runcorn’s eyes.
    “It gets worse,” Runcorn said grimly. “It was about five years before he appeared to have