"Did Treadwell threaten you?" he asked.

"No." But there was no surprise in her voice or in the profile of her face. Whom was she protecting? Cleo Anderson, who had been almost a mother to her? Some other lover from the past, or a relative of her first husband?

"Was he threatening someone else? Blackmailing you?" he persisted. All sorts of arguments sprang to his lips about not being able to help her if she would not help herself, but they died unspoken because it was too painfully apparent she had no belief that help was possible. "Was Treadwell blackmailing you about something in your life here in Hampstead?"

"No." She lifted her head again. "There was nothing to blackmail me about." Tears filled her eyes. Emotion had broken through the ice of despair for a few moments, then it withered again. The stark cell with its wooden cot and straw mattress, the bare walls and stifling air were hardly real to her. Her world was within herself and her own pain. Surely, she had not yet even imagined what would follow if she did not present some defense. Either she had some reason for attacking Treadwell or else it was simply someone else who had killed him. The only other alternative was that she had not even been present and had no idea what had happened. Then why did she not say so?

He looked at her hunched figure where she sat, half turned away from him, unresponsive.

"Miriam!" He put out his hand and touched her. Her body was rigid. "Miriam! What happened? Why did you leave the Stourbridge house? Was it something to do with Treadwell?"

"No..." There was a driving core of emotion in her voice. "No," she repeated. "It had nothing to do with Treadwell. He was merely good enough to drive me."

"You simply asked him, and he agreed?" he said with surprise. "Did he not require some reason?"

"Not reason. Recompense."

"You paid him?"

"My locket. It doesn’t matter."

That she would part so easily with a personal item of jewelry was a measure of how desperate she had been. He wondered what had become of the locket. It had not been with Treadwell’s clothes. Had his murderer taken it?

"Where is it now?" he asked. "Did you take it back?"

She frowned. "Where is it? Isn’t it with him ... with his body?"

"No."

She lifted her shoulders very slightly, less than a shrug. "Then I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Don’t waste your effort on it, Mr. Monk. Maybe it will find its way to someone who will like it. I would rather it were not lost down some drain, but if it is, I can’t help it now."

"What should I put my effort into, Miriam?"

She did not answer for so long he was about to repeat himself when at last she spoke.

"Comfort Lucius..." Without warning, her composure broke and she bent her head and covered her face, sobs shaking her body.