Was this James Treadwell? Only someone from the Stourbridge household could tell him beyond doubt.

"Do you want to see the clothes?" Robb asked, watching his face.

"Please."

But they told him no more than Robb himself had. There was only one likely conclusion: the man had been standing upright when someone had hit him a powerful blow which had sent him forward onto his knees, possibly even stunned him senseless for a while. The knees of his breeches were stained and torn, as if he had crawled a considerable distance. It was difficult to be certain of anything about the person who had delivered the blow. The weapon had not been found, but it must have been long, heavy and rounded, and swung with great force.

"Could a woman have done that, do you think?" Monk asked, then immediately wished he had not. He should not look for Robb to offer him the comfort that it could not have been Miriam. Why should she do such a thing? She could be a victim, too. They simply had not found her yet.

But if she was alive, where was she? If she was free to come forward, and was innocent, surely she would have?

And why had she left the Stourbridge house in the first place?

"May I see the coat?" he requested, looking at Robb before he answered.

"Of course," Robb replied. He did not answer as to whether he thought a woman could have dealt the blow. It was a foolish question, and Monk knew it. A strong woman, angry or frightened enough, with a heavy object at hand could certainly have hit a man sufficiently hard to kill him, especially with a blow as accurate as this one.

They left the morgue and went out into the sun again, walking briskly along the pavement. Robb seemed to be in a hurry, glancing once or twice at his watch. It was apparently more than a simple desire to be away from the presence of death which urged him on.

Monk would have freed Robb from the necessity of showing him the carriage and horses if he felt he could overlook them, but they were the deciding factor whether to bring Harry or Lucius Stourbridge all the way to Hampstead and distress them with identifying the body. It would certainly cause them additional anguish.

Robb was going at such a pace he stepped out into the street almost under the wheels of a hansom, and Monk had to grasp him by the arm to stop him.

Robb flushed and apologized.

"Have you an appointment?" Monk enquired. "This is only a courtesy you are doing me. I can wait."

"The horses are in a stable about a mile away," Robb answered, watching the traffic for a break so they could cross. "It’s not exactly an appointment..." The subject seemed to embarrass him.

A coach and four went by, ladies inside looking out, a flash of pastels and lace. It was followed by a brewer’s dray, drawn by shire horses with braided manes and feathered feet, their flanks gleaming. They tossed their heads as if they knew how beautiful they were.