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“You have helped. At least now I know what I was doing before the accident. It is somewhere to begin.” That was a lie, but there was nothing to be gained in the truth.

“Do you think Joscelin Grey was killed over something to do with the business? Could he have known something about this Mr. Marner?” Her face was blank and sad with the sharpness of memory, but she did not evade the thought. “Was the business fraudulent, and he discovered it?”

Again he could only lie.

“I don’t know. I’ll start again, from the beginning. Do you know what manner of business it was, or at least the names of some of the friends of your father who invested in it? They would be able to give me the details.”

She told him several names and he wrote them down, with addresses. He thanked her, feeling a little awkward, wanting her to know, without the embarrassment for both of them of his saying it, that he was grateful—for her candor, her understanding without pity, the moment’s truce from all argument or social games.

He hesitated, trying to think of words. She put her hand very lightly on his sleeve and met his eyes for an instant. For a wild moment he thought of friendship, a closeness better than romance, cleaner and more honest; then it disappeared. There was the battered corpse of Joscelin Grey between him and everyone else.

“Thank you,” he said calmly. “You have been very helpful. I appreciate your time and your frankness.” He smiled very slightly, looking straight into her eyes. “Good afternoon, Miss Latterly.”

12

THE NAME MARNER meant nothing to Monk, and the following day, even after he had been to three of the addresses Hester had given him, he still had no more than a name and the nature of the business—importing. It seemed no one else had met the elusive Mr. Marner either. All inquiries and information had come from Latterly, through Joscelin Grey. The business was for the importing of tobacco from the United States of America, and a very profitable retailing of it was promised, in alliance with a certain Turkish house. No one knew more than that; except of course a large quantity of figures which indicated the amount of capital necessary to begin the venture and the projected increase to the fortunes of those who participated.

Monk did not leave the last house until well into the afternoon, but he could not afford time for leisure. He ate briefly, purchasing fresh sandwiches from a street seller, then went to the police station to seek the help of a man he had learned investigated business fraud. He might at least know the name of dealers in tobacco; perhaps he could find the Turkish house in question.

“Marner?” the man repeated agreeably, pushing his fingers through his scant hair. “Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of him. You don’t know his first name, you say?”

“No, but he floated a company for importing tobacco from America, mixing it with Turkish, and selling it at a profit.”

The man pulled a face.

“Sounds unpleasant—can’t stand Turkish myself—but then I prefer snuff anyway. Marner?” He shook his head. “You don’t mean old Zebedee Marner, by any chance? I suppose you’ve tried him, or you wouldn’t ask. Very sly old bird, that. But I never knew him mixed up with importing.”

“What does he do?”

The man’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

“Losing your grip, Monk? What’s the matter with you?” He squinted a little. “You must know Zebedee Marner. Never been able to charge him with anything because he always weasels his way out, but we all know he’s behind half the pawnbrokers, sweatshops and brothels in the Limehouse area right down to the Isle of Dogs. Personally I think he takes a percentage from the child prostitutes and the opium as well, although he’s far too downy to go anywhere near them himself.” He sighed in disgust. “But then, of course, there’s a few who wouldn’t say as far as that.”

Monk hardly dared hope. If this were the same Marner, then here at last was something that could lead to motive. It was back to the underworld, to greed, fraud and vice. Reason why Joscelin Grey should