clip, horses' manes streaming, harness jingling loudly. Someone shouted, and a young man darted out into the street.
An elderly man with magnificent whiskers passed an angry remark about the state of society.
Monk remembered the name of someone he could ask about architects and money. He turned and walked briskly across the square and through an archway into a main thoroughfare where he found a hansom and gave the driver an address in Gower Street.
George Bumham was an elderly man with a prodigious memory, and was happy to exercise it to help anyone, even to show off a little. The days were very long now that he was alone, and he delighted in company. He piled more coals on the fire and ordered supper for himself and Monk, and settled comfortably for an evening of companionship and recollections, after shooing away a large and very beautiful black-and-white cat so Monk might have the best chair.
"Known every new architect, painter and sculptor to come to London in the last forty years," he said confidently. "Do you like pork pie, my dear fellow?" He waved casually at the cat. "Off you go, Florence."
"Yes, I do," Monk accepted, sitting down carefully so as not to crush the skirts of his jacket, trying to disregard the cat hairs.
"Excellent!" Mr. Burnham rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. We shall dine on pork pie, hot vegetables and cold pickle. Mrs. Shipton makes the best pickle in this entire city. And what about a little good sherry first? A nice mellow amon-tillado? Good, good!" He reached out and pulled the bell cord. "Now, my dear fellow, what is it you wish to know?" He smiled encouragingly.
Monk had met him during a sensitive case concerning missing money. It had been solved very much to Mr. Burn-ham's satisfaction. A collection of such clients was invaluable. At first Monk had despised the smaller cases, thinking them beneath his talents and no more than a demeaning necessity in his newly reduced circumstances. Now he began to appreciate the value of the clients far beyond the nature of the problems they had presented to him. Sandeman had been one such; Mr. Burnham was another.
"What do you think of the work of Killian Melville?" he asked candidly.
Mr. Burnham cocked his head to one side, his blue eyes bright with interest.
"Sublime," he answered. "In a word-sublime! Finest architect this century." He did not ask why Monk wished to know, but he did not take his gaze from Monk's face.
"Where did he study?" Monk frowned.
"No idea," Mr. Burnham said instantly. "No one does. At least, no one I have met. Appeared in London about five years ago from God knows where. Can't place his accent. Tried to. Don't think it matters. Man is a genius. He can be a law unto himself. Although don't mistake me," he added earnestly. "He's a very pleasant fellow, no airs or graces, no filthy temper, doesn't keep a mistress or practice any excesses, so far as I know." Still he did not ask why Monk was enquiring.
"Could he have studied abroad?" Monk asked.
Florence leaped up into Mr. Burnham's lap, turned around several times and then settled.
"Of course he could!" Mr. Burnham answered. "Probably did, in fact. He is far too original to have gathered all his inspirations here. But if you doubt his technical ability, you have no need. I know Barton Lambert quite well enough to stake all I possess on his having assured himself, beyond even the slightest question, that all Melville's drawings are structurally perfect before he would put forward a halfpenny to have them built." He stroked Florence absentmindedly. "You may rely absolutely upon that as you would upon the Bank of England!
Stand as long as the Tower of London, I assure you." There was absolute conviction in his face, and he smiled as he spoke.
The door opened and a stout and very agreeable woman came in. Mr. Burnham introduced her as Mrs. Shipton, his housekeeper, and requested that supper be served for two. She seemed pleased to have a guest and disappeared briskly about her business.
"A man whose word you would trust?" Monk asked. "And his judgment?"
"Absolutely!" Mr. Burnham answered instantly. "Ask anyone."
Monk smiled. "I am not sure 'anyone' will tell me the truth, or even that they know it."
"Ah!" Mr. Burnham smiled and settled a little farther down in his chair. Florence was purring loudly. "You're a skeptic. Of course you are. It's your job. Silly of me to have forgotten it."
Monk found himself recalling