He was aware of movement to his left, and turned to see Hester coming towards him. She seemed even thinner in the candlelight and the severe gray dress, her hair screwed back unflatteringly. Her eyes looked larger than he had remembered, her mouth softer and more capable of passion, or pain. He wished intensely that he had not come. He did not want to see her, especially here. Enid Ravensbrook had caught typhoid here and nearly died.

That thought crushed his mind, closing out almost everything else. “Has something happened in your case?” she asked as soon as she was close enough to him to speak without being overheard.

“Nothing conclusive,” he replied. “I've found Caleb, but not Angus.”

“What happened?” Her expression was sharp with interest.

He did not want to tell her, because he did not want to stand here in this fearful place, talking to her. If he had had any luck, she would have been at Ravensbrook House.

“Why aren't you with Lady Ravensbrook?” he said curtly. “She can't be fully recovered yet.”

“It's Genevieve's turn,” she said with surprise. “Callandra needs help here. I would have thought you might see that for yourself. I assume from your temper that your conversation with Caleb Stone was unsatisfactory? I don't know what else you expected. He was hardly going to confess and lead you to the body.”

“On the contrary,” he said impatiently. “He did confess!”

She raised her eyebrows. “And led you to the body?”

“No . . .”

“Then confession wasn't much use, was it? Did he tell you how he killed him, or where?”

“No.”

“Or even why?”

He was thoroughly annoyed. It would not be so infuriating if she were always so obstructive and unintelligent, but memories kept coming to his mind of other times, when she had been so different, full of perception and courage. He should make some allowance. She must be very tired. Perhaps it was only natural that she should be a little slowwitted in the circumstances. But then he wished intensely that she was not here anyway.

He hated having to admire her for it. It was like gall in his mouth, and the hotter taste of fear. In fact, perhaps that was what it was-fear. And that was natural. It was hard to lose a friend, even one you only partially liked. No decent man could view it with equanimity.

“Did he tell you why?” she demanded, cutting across his thoughts. “It might be some help.”

The dim hump of the body nearest them groaned and moved restlessly in the straw.

“No,” Monk said abruptly. “No, he didn't.”

“I suppose it doesn't matter, except insofar as it might have been a clue to-” She stopped. “I don't know what.”

“Of course it matters,” he contradicted her instantly. “He might not have acted alone. Maybe Genevieve put him up to it.”

She was startled. “Genevieve! That's ridiculous! Why would she? She has everything to lose and nothing to gain from Angus's death.”