"I'm sorry." Monk found he meant it with savage honesty. He imagined Mary as she must have been when she was alive, the pale, river-wet face animated with emotion, anger, amazement, grief. "That's a very hard thing for anyone to bear." Like a physical blow, he remembered that Hester's father had also taken his own life, and the pain of it was close and real in a way that no power of words alone could have given.

Argyll looked at him with surprise, as if he had heard the emotion through the polite phrases. "Yes. Yes, it is." It was clear he had not expected Monk to allow his feelings to show. "I… I don't know how poor Jenny will deal with this. It's…" He failed to find the words for what he was struggling to say, perhaps even to himself.

"Would it be easier for Mrs. Argyll if we were here, so that she could ask us any questions she wishes to?" Monk asked. "Or would you prefer to tell her privately?"

Argyll hesitated. He seemed torn by a genuine indecision.

Monk waited. The clock on the mantel struck the quarter hour; otherwise there was silence.

"Perhaps I should not deny her the chance to speak with you," Argyll said at last. "If you will excuse me, I shall inform her alone, and then see what she wishes." He took Monk's acquiescence for granted and rose to his feet. He walked out of the room a little unsteadily, only saving himself from bumping into the doorjamb at the last moment, and leaving the door itself gaping open.

"Poor man," Orme said softly. "Wish we could tell 'im it were an accident." He looked at Monk with a question in his eyes.

"So do I," Monk agreed. It began to look as if Mary Havilland had at least temporarily lost her mental balance, but he did not want to say so, even to Orme.

The butler came in and stood like a black shadow just inside the door.

"Mrs. Argyll asked me to see if there is anything I could bring for you gentlemen. Perhaps a glass of"-he considered-"ale?" He was not going to offer them a glass of good sherry they would not appreciate, and certainly not the best brandy.