Runcorn's hate. What about himself, his personal life? Or had he no one, was he only a public man?
And what before the police? His files here went back only twelve years, so there must have been more than eight years before that. Had he spent them all learning, climbing, improving himself with his faceless mentor, his eyes always on the goal? He was appalled at his own ambition, and the strength of his will. It was a little frightening, such single-mindedness.
He was at the Latterlys' door, ridiculously nervous. Would she be in? He had thought about her so often; he realized only now and with a sense of having been foolish, vulnerable, that she had probably not thought of him at all. He might even have to explain who he was. He would seem clumsy, gauche, when he said he had no further news.
He hesitated, unsure whether to knock at all, or to leave, and come again when he had a better excuse. A maid came out into the areaway below him, and in order not to appear a loiterer, he raised his hand and knocked.
The parlor maid came almost immediately. Her eyebrows rose in the very slightest of surprise.
"Good evening, Mr. Monk; will you come in, sir?" It was sufficiently courteous not to be in obvious haste to get him off the doorstep. "The family have dined and are in the withdrawing room, sir. Do you wish me to ask if they will receive you? "
"Yes please. Thank you." Monk gave her his coat and followed her through to a small morning room. After she had gone he paced up and down because he could not bear to be still. He hardly noticed anything about the furniture or the pleasant, rather ordinary paintings and the worn carpet. What was he going to say? He had charged into a world where he did not belong, because of something he dreamed in a woman's face. She probably found him distasteful, and would not have suffered him if she were not so concerned about her father-in-law, hoping he could use his skills to discover something that would ease her grief. Suicide was a terrible shame, and in the eyes of the church financial disgrace would not excuse it. He could still be buried in unconsecrated ground if the conclusion were in-. evitable.
It was too late to back away now, but it crossed his mind. He even considered concocting an excuse, another reason for calling, something to do with Grey and the letter in his flat, when the parlor maid returned and there was no time.
"Mrs. Latterly will see you, sir, if you come this way."
Obediently, heart thumping and mouth dry, he followed the maid.
The withdrawing room was medium sized, comfortable, and originally furnished with the disregard for money of those who have always possessed it, but the ease, the unos-tentation of those for whom it has no novelty. Now it was still elegant, but the curtains were a little faded in portions where the sun fell on them, and the fringing on the swags with which they were tied was missing a bobble here and there. The carpet was not of equal quality with the piecrust tables or the chaise longue. He felt pleasure in the room immediately, and wondered where in his merciless self-improvement he had learned such taste.
His eyes went to Mrs. Latterly beside the fire. She was no longer in black, but dark wine, and it brought a faint flush to her skin. Her throat and shoulders were as delicate and slender as a child's, but there was nothing of the child in her face. She was staring at him with luminous eyes, wide now, and too shadowed to read their expression.
Monk turned quickly to the others. The man, fairer than she and with less generous mouth, must be her husband, and the other woman sitting opposite with the proud face with so much anger and imagination in it he knew immediately; they had met and quarreled at Shelburne Hall- Miss Hester Latterly.
"Good evening, Monk." Charles Latterly did not stand. "You remember my wife?" He gestured vaguely towards Imogen. "And my sister, Miss Hester Latterly. She was in the Crimea when our father died." There was a strong accent of disapproval in his voice and it was apparent that he resented Monk's involvement in the affair.
Monk was assailed by an awful thought-had he somehow disgraced himself, been too brash, too insensitive to their pain and added not only to