Gabriel was sitting up on the bed, but he was fully dressed. It was only the second time Monk had seen him other than under the covers. He realized with a sense of shock how thin Gabriel was. Quite apart from the empty sleeve of his shirt, neatly tucked up and fastened, in the warm room with the sunlight streaming in, the thin cotton fabric showed how his body had wasted even on the other side. Heat, hunger and pain had taken a fearful toll on him. It would be half a year at least before he regained the health he had had before Cawnpore. Monk became acutely curious of his own body with its lean muscles and ease of movement, his energy, the power he did not even have to think of. So much was a matter of fortune. He could have been in the army instead of the police. He might have been in India. He could have been in Gabriel Sheldon's place, and Gabriel in his. Except he would not have had Perdita to care for him and to be responsible for. But he could have! She was just the sort of gentle, charming woman he had fallen in love with so many times.

Gabriel was looking at him, waiting for him to speak.

"Keelin Melville?" he said at last, when Monk was still silent.

"Yes," Monk replied, coming in. "They held the inquest this morning."

Gabriel's face was unreadable. It flew to Monk's mind that Gabriel must have thought of suicide himself in the early days of his maiming and disfigurement. How often had he lain on his back in agonizing pain and helplessness and wished he were dead? Melville could at least have escaped most of her difficulties. She could have left England and started again in a dozen different places. She was young, healthy; she had sufficient means to travel and no unbreakable ties. Wolff could have gone with her, had he wished to. She was whole of body and had her health and very considerable good looks. In Italy or France she could even have lived openly as a woman and married Wolff. Perhaps she would have had to practice her profession through him, give him credit for her creation or her technical skill ... but was that not still infinitely better than dying?

Why had she given up?

"What is it?" Gabriel asked, watching him.

How honest should he be? There was a difference between the candor of respect and the tactlessness of acting without thought or compassion.

"Suicide," Monk replied. "They brought in a verdict of suicide, although they couldn't decide what actually turned the balance between misery and despair or, for that matter, how or precisely when she took the poison."

Perdita gave a little sigh.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel said quietly. "She must have found it beyond bearing." He looked for a moment as if he was going to say something more, then changed his mind.