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He went straight from the Old Bailey back to the police station and up to Runcorn’s office to report his progress to date in the Queen Anne Street case.
Runcorn looked at Monk’s extremely smart jacket and his eyes narrowed and a flick of temper twitched in his high, narrow cheeks.
“I’ve been waiting for you for two days,” he said as soon as Monk was through the door. “I assume you are working hard, but I require to be informed of precisely what you have learned—if anything! Have you seen the newspapers? Sir Basil Moidore is an extremely influential man. You don’t seem to realize who we are dealing with, and he has friends in very high circles—cabinet ministers, foreign ambassadors, even princes.”
“He also has enemies within his own house,” Monk replied with more flippancy than was wise, but he knew the case was going to become uglier and far more difficult than it was already. Runcorn would hate it. He was terrified of offending authority, or people he thought of as socially important, and the Home Office would press for a quick solution because the public was outraged. At the same time he would be sick with fear lest he offend Moidore. Monk would be caught in the middle, and Runcorn would be only too delighted, if the results at last gave him the opportunity, to crush Monk’s pretensions and make his failure public.
Monk could see it all ahead, and it infuriated him that even foreknowledge could not help him escape.
“I am not amused by riddles,” Runcorn snapped. “If you have discovered nothing and the case is too difficult for you, say so, and I shall put someone else on it.”
Monk smiled, showing his teeth. “An excellent idea—sir,” he answered. “Thank you.”
“Don’t be impertinent!” Runcorn was thoroughly out of countenance. It was the last response he had expected. “If you are giving me your resignation, do it properly, man, not with a casual word like this. Are you resigning?” For a brief moment hope gleamed in his round eyes.
“No sir.” Monk could not keep the lift in his voice. The victory was only a single thrust; the whole battle was already lost. “I thought you were offering to replace me on the Moidore case.”
“No I am not. Why?” Runcorn’s short, straight eyebrows rose. “Is it too much for your skills? You used to be the best detective on the force—at least that was what you told everyone!” His voice grated with sour satisfaction. “But you’ve certainly lost your sharpness since your accident. You didn’t do badly with the Grey case, but it took you long enough. I expect they’ll hang Grey.” He looked at Monk with satisfaction. He was sharp enough to have read Monk’s feelings correctly, his sympathy for Menard.
“No they won’t,” Monk retorted. “They brought in the verdict this afternoon. Deportation for twenty-five years.” He smiled, letting his triumph show. “He could make quite a decent life for himself in Australia.”
“If he doesn’t die of fever,” Runcorn said spitefully. “Or get killed in a riot, or starve.”
“That could happen in London.” Monk kept his face expressionless.
“Well, don’t stand there like a fool.” Runcorn sat down behind his desk. “Why are you afraid of the Moidore case? You think it is beyond your ability?”
“It was someone in the house,” Monk answered.
“Of course it was someone in the house.” Runcorn glared at him. “What’s the matter with you, Monk? Have you lost your wits? She was killed in the bedroom—someone broke in. No one suggested she was dragged out into the street.”
Monk took malicious pleasure in disabusing him.
“They were suggesting a burglar broke in,” he said, framing each word carefully and precisely, as if to someone slow of understanding. He leaned a little forward. “I am saying that no one broke in and whoever murdered Sir Basil’s daughter, he—or she—was in the house already—and is still in the house. Social tact supposes one of the servants; common sense says it is far more probably one of the family.”
Runcorn stared at him aghast, the blood draining from his long face as the full implication came home to him. He saw the satisfaction in Monk’s eyes.
“Preposterous,” he said with a dry throat, the sound robbed of its force by his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “What’s the matter with you, Monk? Do you have some personal hatred against the aristocracy that you keep on accusing them of such monstrosity? Wasn’t the Grey case enough for you? Have you finally taken leave of your senses?”
“The evidence is incontrovertible.” Monk’s pleasure was only in seeing the horror in Runcorn. The inspector would immeasurably rather have looked for an intruder turned violent, acutely difficult as it would be to trace such a one in the labyrinths of petty crime and poverty in the rookeries, as the worst slum tenements were known, whole areas where the police dared not intrude, still less maintain any rule of law. Even so it would be less fraught with personal danger than accusing, even by implication, a member of a family like the Moidores.
Runcorn opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Yes sir?” Monk prompted, his eyes wide.
A succession of emotions chased each other over Runcorn’s face: terror of the political repercussions if Monk offended people, behaved clumsily, could not back up with proof every single allegation he made; and then the double-edged hope that Monk might precipitate some disaster great enough to ruin him, and rid Runcorn of his footsteps forever at his heels.
“Get out,” Runcorn said between his teeth. “And God help you if you make a mistake in this. You can be certain I shan’t!”
“I never imagined you would—sir.” And Monk stood at attention for a second—in mockery, not respect—then turned for the door.
He despaired Runcorn, and it was not until he was almost back to his rooms in Grafton Street that it occurred to him to wonder what Runcorn had been like when they first met, before Monk had threatened him with his ambition, his greater agility of mind, his quick, cruel wit. It was an unpleasant thought, and it took the warmth out of his feeling of superiority. He had almost certainly contributed to what the man had become. That Runcorn had always been weak, vain, less able, was a thin excuse, and any honesty at all evaporated it. The more flawed a man was, the shoddier it was to take advantage of his inadequacies to destroy him. If the strong were irresponsible and self-serving, what could the weak hope for?
Monk went to bed early and lay awake staring at the ceiling, disgusted with himself.
The funeral of Octavia Haslett was attended by half the aristocracy in London. The carriages stretched up and down Langham Place, stopping the normal traffic, black horses whenever possible, black plumes tossing, coachmen and footmen in livery, black crepe fluttering, harnesses polished like mirrors, but not a single piece that jingled or made a sound. An ambitious person might have recognized the crests of many noble families, not only of Britain but of France and the states of Germany as well. The mourners wore black, immaculate, devastatingly fashionable, enormous skirts hooped and petticoated, ribboned bonnets, gleaming top hats and polished boots.
Everything was done in silence, muffled hooves, well-oiled heels, whispering voices. The few passersby slowed down and bowed their heads in respect.
