“The prosecutor?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “A chance, but he's not optimistic. Would you like a cup of tea? You . . . look . . .” He hesitated, not sure how literal to be.

“No-yes.” Monk shrugged. “Tea won't help.” He made as if to stand up, too restless to wait, but then apparently found it painful, and reclined back into his chair.

“It was a rough chase?” Rathbone said with a dry smile.

Monk winced. “Very.”

Rathbone rang his bell and when the clerk appeared he ordered tea. “I want it, even if you don't. Now, tell me why you've come. It wasn't to know the Crown Prosecutor's opinion of the case.”

“No,” Monk agreed, then remained silent for several seconds.

Rathbone felt a chill inside. For something to have affected Monk this deeply it must be very ugly indeed. He had another appointment in twenty minutes. He could not afford delay, and yet he knew impatience would be clumsy, and he had no desire to add to the burden, whatever it was. Perhaps Monk sensed his urgency. He looked up suddenly, as if having reached a resolve. His jaw was clenched and there was a muscle flicking in his temple. His words came out in a tight, level, carefully controlled monotone, as though he dared not allow any emotions through or it would all explode beyond his mastery.

“I met a woman some time ago, by chance, on the steps of the Geographical Society in Sackville Street. We became acquainted and I saw her several times after that. She was charming, intelligent, full of wit and enthusiasm.” His voice was a flat concentrated monotone. “She expressed interest in the Stonefield case, because I was looking to find trace of Angus Stonefield. The long and short of it is we spent an evening together walking around Soho area looking for places where either Angus or Genevieve Stonefield might have met a lover. Of course we didn't find anything. I don't know if either of us expected to. It was an evening of enjoyment, away from the restrictions of society for her, and from the misery of poverty and crime for me.”

Rathbone nodded but did not interrupt. It sounded very natural. He had no idea what was coming.

“I took her home in a hansom-” Monk stopped, his face white.

Rathbone said nothing to fill the silence.

Monk took a deep breath and gritted his teeth.

“We were passing along North Audley Street and were forced to slow because one of the large houses had been holding some social event and the guests were leaving. Suddenly she tore open the bodice of her gown, stared at me with passionate hatred, then shrieked and threw herself out of the moving hansom. She landed sprawled in the street, picked herself up and ran, screaming that I had assaulted her.”