"But do you believe it?" she asked, searching his face.

"I don’t know. Not easily. But logic forces me to accept it." That was the truth, but he was reluctant to say it. When Miriam had denied it he had more than believed her. He had liked her, and felt compelled to go farther than duty necessitated in order to defend her. But he was not governed by emotion. He must let reason be the last determiner.

Hester sat silently for several minutes, sipping her own tea.

"I don’t believe Cleo Anderson was part of killing anyone for gain," she said at last. "I still think we should help her; ’

"Do you?" He looked at her as closely as his weariness and sense of disillusion would allow. He saw the bewilderment in her, the confusion of thought and feelings, and understood it precisely. "Are you sure you are not looking for a spectacular trial to show people the plight of men like John Robb, old and ill and forgotten, now that the wars they fought are all won and we are safe?"

She drew in her breath to deny it indignantly, then saw in his eyes that he was a step ahead of her.

"Well, I wouldn’t mind if something were to draw people’s ’s attention to it," she conceded. "But I wasn’t using Cleo. I believe she took the medicines to give to those who needed them, not for any profit for herself, and if she killed James Treadwell, at least in part he deserved it."

"And when did it become all right for us to decide that someone deserves to die?"

She glared at him.

He smiled and stood up slowly. It was an effort. He was even more tired than he had thought, and the few moments relaxing had made it worse.

"What are we going to do?" She stood up also, coming towards him almost as if she would block his way to the door. "She hasn’t any money. She can’t afford a lawyer, never mind a good one. And now Miriam is charged as well, there is no one to help her. You can’t expect Lucius Stourbridge to."

He knew what she wanted: that they should go to Oliver Rathbone and try to persuade him to use his professional skill, free of charge, to plead for Cleo Anderson. Because of their past friendship—love would not be too strong a word, at least on Rathbone’s part—she would also probably rather that Monk asked him, so that it did not appear that she was abusing his affection.

Oliver Rathbone was the last person of whom he wanted to ask any favors, no matter on whose behalf. Was it guilt, because he had asked Hester to marry him before Rathbone had, knowing that Rathbone also loved her?

That was ridiculous. Rathbone had had his opportunity and failed to take it ... for whatever reason. Monk was not responsible.

Perhaps it was a certain guilt because he had seized a happiness that he knew Rathbone would have treasured, or in some ways would have been more worthy of. There was too often a fear at the back of his mind that Rathbone could have made her happier, given her things Monk never could—not only material possessions and security, or social position, but emotional certainties. He would not have loved her more, but he might have been a better man to share her life with, an easier one, a man who would have caused her less fear or doubt, less anxiety. At the very least, she would have known Rathbone’s past. There were no ghosts, no black regions or forgotten holes.