know her? He might have been keen for justice, as he was for Alexandra Carlyon - even passionate for it - but the emotion that boiled up in him at the memory of Hermione was far more than a hunger for the right solution to a case. It was deep and wholly personal. She haunted him as she could have only if he loved her. The ache was boundless for a companionship that had been immeasurably sweet, a gentleness, a gateway to his better self, the softer, generous, tender part of him.
Why? Why had they parted? Why had he not married her?
He had no idea what the reason was, and it frightened him.
Perhaps he should leave the wound unopened. Let it heal.
But it was not healing. It still hurt, like a skin grown over a place that suppurated yet.
Markham was looking at him.
"You still want to find Mrs. Ward?" he asked.
"Yes - yes I do."
"Well she left The Grange. I suppose she had too many memories from there. And folk still talked, for all it was proved she 'ad nothing to do with it. But you know 'ow it is - in an investigation all sorts o' things come out, that maybe 'ave nothing to do with the crime but still are better not known. I reckon there's no one as 'asn't got something they'd sooner keep quiet."
"No, I shouldn't think so," Monk agreed. "Where did she go, do you know?"
"Yes - yes, she bought a little 'ouse over Milton way. Next to the vicarage, if I remember rightly. There's a train, if you've a mind to get there."
"Thank you." He ate the treacle pudding with a dry mouth, washed it down with the cider, and thanked Mark-ham again.
* * * * *
It was Sunday just after midday when he stood on the step of the Georgian stone house next to the vicarage, immaculately kept, weedless graveled path, roses beginning to bloom in the sun. Finally he summoned courage to knock on the door. It was a mechanical action, done with a decision of the mind, but almost without volition. If he permitted his emotions through he would never do it.
It seemed an age of waiting. There was a bird singing somewhere behind him in the garden, and the sound of wind in the young leaves in the apple trees beyond the wall around the vicarage. Somewhere in the distance a lamb bleated and a ewe answered it.
Then without warning the door opened. He had not heard the feet coming to the other side. A pert, pretty maid stood expectantly, her starched apron crisp, her hair half hidden by a lace cap.
His voice dried in his throat and he had to cough to force out the words.
"Good morning, er - good afternoon. I - I'm sorry to trouble you at this - this hour - but I have come from London - yesterday. . ."He was making an extraordinary mess ofthis. When had he ever been so inarticulate? "Maylspeak with Mrs. Ward, please? It is a matter of some importance." He handed her a card with his name, but no occupation printed.
She looked a little doubtful, but regarded him closely, his boots polished and very nearly new, his trousers with a little dust on the ankles from his walk up from the station, but why not on such a pleasant day? His coat was excellently cut and his shirt collar and cuffs very white. Lastly she looked at his face, normally with the confidence of a man of authority but now a facade, and a poor one. She made her decision.
"I'll ask." Something like amusement flickered in her smile and her eyes definitely had laughter in them. "If you'll come to the parlor and wait, please, sir."
He stepped inside and was shown to the front parlor. Apparently it was a room not frequently used; probably there was a less formal sitting room to the rear of the house.
The maid left him and he had time to look. There was a tall upright clock against the nearest wall, its case elaborately carved. The soft chairs were golden brown, a color he found vaguely oppressive, even in this predominantly gentle room with patterned carpet and curtains, all subdued and comfortable. Over the mantelpiece was a landscape, very traditional, probably somewhere in the Lake District - too many blues for his taste. He thought it would have been subtler and more beautiful wim a limited palette of grays and muted browns.