Monk felt a little sick. He knew how much Hester had believed in all the people in the clinic, considered them friends, colleagues, people she trusted with a common passion.

“I have to ask him,” he said. “I can’t—”

“No,” she cut across his words. “I will. I won’t let him dupe me, I promise.”

“Hester …”

She stood up. “I will. Now—today.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I know.”

He looked at her stiff, straight back, the way she walked, the very careful manner in which she picked up the plates and put them into the basin to wash, deliberately, as if in a moment’s absence of mind she might grip them so hard she would break one.

Perhaps he should let her speak to Squeaky. Then she would not feel so powerless, so incapable.

“I’ll wait outside,” he told her.

She was standing at the basin, and she turned to give him a swift look, something close to a smile. “I’ve got to leave bread out for Scuff, and butter and jam. I’ll waken him, and then I’m ready.”

SQUEAKY LOOKED UP FROM his ledger as Hester came into his room and closed the door behind her.

“You look as if you lost sixpence and found nothing,” he said dourly. “Her ladyship giving you difficulties?”

“No, not at the moment,” she replied. She took the envelope out of her pocket, and then the list as well. She put them both on the table in front of him, but kept her finger on the list, leaning forward a little so her weight was on her hand.

There was not a flicker in his face.

“It’s torn,” he observed. “In’t no use like that. What’re you giving it to me for? Get Claudine ter make it out again.”

“Is it Claudine’s hand?” she asked.

“Course it is! You gone blind or summink?” He squinted up at her. “You look sick. What’s wrong?” Now he was anxious, even concerned for her.

She turned the paper over.

He frowned, looking at it, reading it. “What in hell’s that?” he demanded. “It means summink, or you wouldn’t be looking at it with a face on you like a burst boot. Who’s supposed to go … Oh, jeez!”

The usual trace of color vanished from his sallow face. “It’s to do with that bleeding murder, isn’t it? You can’t think Claudine had anything to do with it? That’s just stupid. You’ve taken leave of your wits if you think she’d even know about things like that. You think she went up there and done in Mickey Parfitt? With Cardew’s necktie, and all? You think he left it behind here, and she—”