his breeches were stained and torn, as if he had crawled a considerable distance. It was difficult to be certain of anything about the person who had delivered the blow. The weapon had not been found, but it must have been long, heavy and rounded, and swung with great force.
"Could a woman have done that, do you think?" Monk asked, then immediately wished he had not. He should not look for Robb to offer him the comfort that it could not have been Miriam. Why should she do such a thing? She could be a victim, too. They simply had not found her yet.
But if she was alive, where was she? If she was free to come forward, and was innocent, surely she would have?
And why had she left the Stourbridge house in the first place?
"May I see the coat?" he requested, looking at Robb before he answered.
"Of course," Robb replied. He did not answer as to whether he thought a woman could have dealt the blow. It was a foolish question, and Monk knew it. A strong woman, angry or frightened enough, with a heavy object at hand could certainly have hit a man sufficiently hard to kill him, especially with a blow as accurate as this one.
They left the morgue and went out into the sun again, walking briskly along the pavement. Robb seemed to be in a hurry, glancing once or twice at his watch. It was apparently more than a simple desire to be away from the presence of death which urged him on.
Monk would have freed Robb from the necessity of showing him the carriage and horses if he felt he could overlook them, but they were the deciding factor whether to bring Harry or Lucius Stourbridge all the way to Hampstead and distress them with identifying the body. It would certainly cause them additional anguish.
Robb was going at such a pace he stepped out into the street almost under the wheels of a hansom, and Monk had to grasp him by the arm to stop him.
Robb flushed and apologized.
"Have you an appointment?" Monk enquired. "This is only a courtesy you are doing me. I can wait."
"The horses are in a stable about a mile away," Robb answered, watching the traffic for a break so they could cross. "It's not exactly an appointment..." The subject seemed to embarrass him.
A coach and four went by, ladies inside looking out, a flash of pastels and lace. It was followed by a brewer's dray, drawn by shire horses with braided manes and feathered feet, their flanks gleaming. They tossed their heads as if they knew how beautiful they were.
Monk and Robb seized the chance to cross behind them. On the farther side Robb drew in breath, looking straight ahead of him. "My grandfather is ill. I drop in to see him every so often, just to help. He's getting a little ..." His features tightened and still he did not look at Monk. Strictly speaking, he was taking police time to go home in the middle of the day.
Monk smiled grimly. He had no happy memories of the police hierarchy. He knew his juniors had been afraid of him with just cause, which was painful to him now. He had seen it in their nervousness in his presence, the expectation of criticism, just or not, the not-well-enough-concealed dislike.
His own superior had been another matter. Runcorn was the only one he could recall, and between them there had been friendship once, long ago. But for years before the final quarrel which had led to Monk's dismissal there had been nothing but rivalry and bitterness.
He felt his own body tighten, but he could not help it.
"We'd better go and see him," he answered. "I'll get a pie or a sandwich and eat it while you do whatever you have to do for him. I'll tell you what I know about Treadwell. If this is him, it'll help." Robb considered it only for a second before he accepted.
The old man lived in two rooms in a house about five minutes' swift walk from the police station. Inside, the house was shabby but clean, and Robb deliberately made no apology. What Monk thought did not matter to him. All his emotions and his attention were on the old man who sat hunched up in the one comfortable chair. His shoulders were wide but thin now, and bowed over as if his chest hurt when he breathed. His white hair was carefully combed,