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 Monk that 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 die 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 even in the unlikely event it was not self-inflicted, but a domestic quarrel, it was none of my affair, so long as he did not ask me to interfere. And he never did. In fact he did not mention it again as long as I knew him." He smiled slightly. "If you are thinking it was Alexandra, I must say I think you are mistaken, but even if so, he forgave her for it. And nothing like it ever occurred again."
"Alexandra was at the Furnivals' house?"
"I've no idea. I didn't see her."
"I see. Thank you, Dr. Hargrave."
And although he stayed another forty-five minutes, Monk learned nothing else that was of use to him. In fact he could find no thread to follow that might lead him to the reason why Alexandra had killed her husband, and still less why she should remain silent rather than admit it, even to him.
He left in the late afternoon, disappointed and puzzled.
* * * * *
He must ask Rathbone to arrange for him to see the woman again, but while that was in hand, he would go back to her daughter, Sabella Pole. The answer as to why Alexandra had killed her husband must lie somewhere in her nature, or in her circumstances. The only course that he could see left to him was to learn still more about her.
Accordingly, eleven o'clock in the morning saw him at Fenton Pole's house in Albany Street, again knocking on the door and requesting to see Mrs. Pole, if she would receive him, and handing the maid his card.
He had chosen his time carefully. Fenton Pole was out on business, and as he had hoped, Sabella received him eagerly. As soon as he came into the morning room where she was she rose from the green sofa and came towards him, her eyes wide and hopeful, her hair framing her face with its soft, fair curls. Her skirts were very wide, the crinoline hoops settling themselves straight as she rose and the taffeta rustling against itself with a soft, whispering sound.
Without any warning he felt a stab of memory that erased his present surroundings of conventional green and placed him in a gaslit room with mirrors reflecting a chandelier, and a woman talking. But before he could focus on anything it was gone, leaving nothing behind but confusion,