But surely Monk had the intelligence and the imagination to outwit him? He was walking slowly, almost feeling his way as the fog turned to darkness.

He could barely hear the muffled footsteps of others returning home in the late afternoon. Carriage lamps hung like moons suspended in the shrouds of mist. The sound of horses' hooves had no sharpness on the freezing cobbles.

There was so much of himself he did not know, but at least since the accident he had never been permanently defeated in a case that really mattered-a few thefts, never a murder. Before the accident he knew only from what he had read of his own case notes in the police files.

But every case he read showed a man of relentless tenacity, broad imagination and a passion for truth. There had been other adversaries as harsh and violent as Caleb Stone, and none of them had beaten him. He had walked a mile and a half along the West India Dock Road before he finally found a hansom and directed it to take him home to Fitzroy Street. He was expecting Genevieve Stonefield. He had promised her some report of his progress, and he must be there when she arrived. He settled back in the seat and closed his eyes for the long, slow journey. It would be well over an hour at this time of night, and in this weather, even as far as Bloomsbury.

By the time he had changed his clothes and had a hot cup of tea, and Genevieve had arrived, he was set in his determination not only to find the truth but to prove it.

“Come in, Mrs. Stonefield.” He closed the door behind her and helped her with her wet cloak and bonnet. She looked extremely tired. There were fine lines in her face which had not been there a few days earlier.

“Thank you,” she accepted, sitting down reluctantly, perched on the edge of the chair as if to relax would somehow leave her vulnerable.

“How is Lady Ravensbrook?” he asked.

“Ill,” she answered, her eyes dark with distress. “Very ill. We do not know if she will live. Miss Latterly is doing everything for her that can be done, but it may not be enough. Mr. Monk, have you learned anything about my husband? My situation is growing desperate.”

“I am very sorry about Lady Ravensbrook,” Monk said quietly, and he meant it. He had liked her in the brief moment they had met. Her face had had courage and intelligence. It hurt to think of her dying so pointlessly. He looked at Genevieve. How much more must she feel a helpless sense of loss.

She was sitting rigidly on the edge of her chair, face earnest, waiting for him to answer her questions.