"I see. Thank you very much for your honesty," Monk said, rising to his feet. "Just one more thing: Who investigated Mr. Havilland's death?"

"A Superintendent Runcorn," Cardman replied. "He was very civil about it, and seemed to be thorough. I cannot think of anything more that he could have done." He stood also.

Runcorn! That was the worst answer Cardman could have given. The past returned to Monk like a draft of cold air. How many times had he second-guessed Runcorn-gone over his work, corrected a flaw here and there, and altered the conclusion? It seemed as if he had always needed to prove himself the cleverer. Increasingly he disliked the man he had been then. The fact that he disliked Runcorn even more mitigated nothing.

"Mr. Argyll did not doubt the correctness of the verdict?" he asked aloud, his voice rasping with emotion.

"No, sir, just Miss Mary." Grief filled Cardman's face, and he seemed unashamed of it, as if at least in front of Monk he felt no need to mask it anymore. He swallowed hard. "Sir, I would be most grateful if you could inform us when ... when she is ... if Mrs. Argyll doesn't..." He did not know how to finish.

"I will make certain you are told," Monk said hoarsely. "But you might consider whether the female staff wish to attend. Burials can be ... very arduous."

"You are telling me it will be in unhallowed ground. I know, sir. If Miss Mary was strong enough to go to her fathers burial, we can go to hers."

Monk nodded, tears in his throat, for Mary Havilland, for Hester's father, for uncounted people in despair.

Cardman saw him to the door in silent understanding.

Outside in the street Monk began to walk back down the hill towards Westminster Bridge. It would be the best place to catch a hansom, but he was in no hurry. He must face Runcorn in his own station and yet again challenge his judgment, but he was not ready to do it yet. Were it not for the thought of Mary Havilland buried in the grave of an outcast, her courage and loyalty to her father credited as no more than the dementia of a bereaved woman, he would have accepted the verdict and consider he had done all that duty required.

But he remembered her face, the white skin, the strong bones and the gentle mouth. She was a fighter who had been beaten. He refused to accept that she had surrendered. At least he could not yet.