AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Either that or it wasn’t there then,” Monk agreed, staring back at him without a flicker. “Which is what I said before. Only a fool would keep things like that, when he could clean the knife and put it back in the kitchen without any difficulty at all. Nobody would be surprised to see a footman in the kitchen; they’re in and out all the time on errands. And they are frequently the last to go to bed at night because they lock up.”
Runcorn opened his mouth to argue, but Monk overrode him.
“Nobody would be surprised to see Percival about at midnight or later. He could explain his presence anywhere in the house, except someone else’s bedroom, simply by saying he had heard a window rattle, or feared a door was unlocked. They would simply commend him for his diligence.”
“A position you might well envy,” Runcorn said. “Even your most fervent admirer could hardly recommend you for yours.”
“And he could as easily have put the peignoir on the back of the kitchen range and closed the lid, and it would be burned without a trace,” Monk went on, disregarding the interruption. “Now if it were the jewelry we found, that would make more sense. I could understand someone keeping that, in th
e hope that some time they would be able to sell it, or even give it away or trade it for something. But why keep a knife?”
“I don’t know, Monk,” Runcorn said between his teeth. “I don’t have the mind of a homicidal footman. But he did keep it, didn’t he, damn it. You found it.”
“We found it, yes,” Monk agreed with elaborate patience which brought the blood dark and heavy to Runcorn’s cheeks. “But that is the point I am trying to make, sir. There is no proof that it was Percival who kept it—or that it was he who put it there. Anyone could have. His room is not locked.”
Runcorn’s eyebrows shot up.
“Oh indeed? You have just been at great pains to point out to me that no one would keep such a thing as a bloodstained knife! Now you say someone else did—but not Percival. You contradict yourself, Monk.” He leaned even farther across the desk, staring at Monk’s face. “You are talking like a fool. The knife was there, so someone did keep it—for all your convoluted arguments—and it was found in Percival’s room. Get out and arrest him.”
“Someone kept it deliberately to put it in Percival’s room and make him seem guilty.” Monk forgot his temper and began to raise his voice in exasperation, refusing to back away either physically or intellectually. “It only makes sense if it was kept to be used.”
Runcorn blinked. “By whom, for God’s sake? This laundrymaid of yours? You’ve no proof against her.” He waved his hand, dismissing her. “None at all. What’s the matter with you, Monk? Why are you so dead against arresting Percival? What’s he done for you? Surely you can’t be so damned perverse that you make trouble simply out of habit?” His eyes narrowed and his face was only a few feet from Monk’s.
Monk still refused to step backward.
“Why are you so determined to try to blame one of the family?” Runcorn said between his teeth. “Good God, wasn’t the Grey case enough for you, dragging the family into that? Have you got it into your mind that it was this Myles Kellard, simply because he took advantage of a parlormaid? Do you want to punish him for that—is that what this is about?”
“Raped,” Monk corrected very distinctly. His diction became more perfect as Runcorn lost his control and slurred his words in rage.
“All right, raped, if you prefer—don’t be pedantic,” Runcorn shouted. “Forcing yourself on a parlormaid is not the next step before murdering your sister-in-law.”
“Raping. Raping a seventeen-year-old maid who is a servant in your house, a dependent, who dare not say much to you, or defend herself, is not such a long way from going to your sister-in-law’s room in the night with the intention of forcing yourself on her and, if need be, raping her.” Monk used the word loudly and very clearly, giving each letter its value. “If she says no to you, and you think she really means yes, what is the difference between one woman and another on that point?”
“If you don’t know the difference between a lady and a parlormaid, Monk, that says more about your ignorance than you would like.” Runcorn’s face was twisted with all the pent-up hatred and fear of their long relationship. “It shows that for all your arrogance and ambition, you’re just the uncouth provincial clod you always were. Your fine clothes and your assumed accent don’t make a gentleman of you—the boor is still underneath and it will always come out.” His eyes shone with a kind of wild, bitter triumph. He had said at last what had been seething inside him for years, and there was an uncontrollable joy in its release.
“You’ve been trying to find the courage to say that ever since you first felt me treading on your heels, haven’t you?” Monk sneered. “What a pity you haven’t enough courage to face the newspapers and the gentlemen of the Home Office that scare the wits out of you. If you were man enough you’d tell them you won’t arrest anyone, even a footman, until you have reasonable evidence that he’s guilty. But you aren’t, are you? You’re a weakling. You’ll turn the other way and pretend not to see what their lordships don’t like. You’ll arrest Percival because he’s convenient. Nobody cares about him! Sir Basil will be satisfied and you can wrap it up without offending anyone who frightens you. You can present it to your superiors as a case closed—true or not, just or not—hang the poor bastard and close the file on it.”
He stared at Runcorn with ineffable contempt. “The public will applaud you, and the gentlemen will say what a good and obedient servant you are. Good God, Percival may be a selfish and arrogant little swine, but he’s not a craven lickspittle like you—and I will not arrest him until I think he’s guilty.”
Runcorn’s face was blotched with purple and his fists were clenched on the desk. His whole body shook, his muscles so tight his shoulders strained against the fabric of his coat.
“I am not asking, Monk, I am ordering you. Go and arrest Percival—now!”
“No.”
“No?” A strange light flickered in Runcorn’s eyes: fear, disbelief and exultancy. “Are you refusing, Monk?”
Monk swallowed, knowing what he was doing.
“Yes. You are wrong, and I am refusing.”
“You are dismissed!” He flung his arm out at the door. “You are no longer employed by the Metropolitan Police Force.” He thrust out one heavy hand. “Give me your official identification. As of this moment you have no office, no position, do you understand me? You are dismissed! Now get out!”
Monk fished in his pocket and found his papers. His hands were stiff and he was furious that he fumbled. He threw them on the desk and turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the door open.
Out in the passage he almost pushed past two constables and a sergeant with a pile of papers, all standing together frozen in disbelief and a kind of awed excitement. They were witnessing history, the fall of a giant, and there was regret and triumph in their faces, and a kind of guilt because such vulnerability was unexpected. They felt both superior and afraid.
Monk passed them too quickly for them to pretend they had not been listening, but he was too wrapped in his own emotions to heed their embarrassment.
