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By the time he was downstairs the duty constable had composed himself and retired to his desk. He opened his mouth to say something, but Monk did not listen, and he was relieved of the necessity.
It was not until Monk was out in the street in the rain that he felt the first chill of realization that he had thrown away not only his career but his livelihood. Fifteen minutes ago he had been an admired and sometimes feared senior policeman, good at his job, secure in his reputation and his skill. Now he was a man without work, without position, and in a short while he would be without money. And over Percival.
No—over the hatred between Runcorn and himself over the years, the rivalry, the fear, the misunderstandings.
Or perhaps over innocence and guilt?
9
MONK SLEPT POORLY and woke late and heavy-headed. He rose and was half dressed before he remembered that he had nowhere to go. Not only was he off the Queen Anne Street case, he was no longer a policeman. In fact he was nothing. His profession was what had given him purpose, position in the community, occupation for his time, and now suddenly desperately important, his income. He would be all right for a few weeks, at least for his lodgings and his food. There would be no other expenditures, no clothes, no meals out, no new books or rare, wonderful visits to theater or gallery in his steps towards being a gentleman.
But those things were trivial. The center of his life had fallen out. The ambition he had nourished and sacrificed for, disciplined himself towards for all the lifetime he could remember or piece together from records and other people’s words, that was gone. He had no other relationships, nothing else he knew to do with his time, no one else who valued him, even if it was with admiration and fear, not love. He remembered sharply the faces of the men outside Runcorn’s door. There was confusion in them, embarrassment, anxiety—but not sympathy. He had earned their respect, but not their affection.
He felt more bitterly alone, confused, and wretched than at any time since the climax of
the Grey case. He had no appetite for the breakfast Mrs. Worley brought him and ate only a rasher of bacon and two slices of toast. He was still looking at the crumb-scattered plate when there was a sharp rap on the door and Evan came in without waiting to be invited. He stared at Monk and sat down astride the other hard-backed chair and said nothing, his face full of anxiety and something so painfully gentle it could only be called compassion.
“Don’t look like that!” Monk said sharply. “I shall survive. There is life outside the police force, even for me.”
Evan said nothing.
“Have you arrested Percival?” Monk asked him.
“No. He sent Tarrant.”
Monk smiled sourly. “Perhaps he was afraid you wouldn’t do it. Fool!”
Evan winced.
“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized quickly. “But your resigning as well would hardly help—either Percival or me.”
“I suppose not,” Evan conceded ruefully, a shadow of guilt still lingering in his eyes. Monk seldom remembered how young he was, but now he looked every inch the country parson’s son with his correct casual clothes and his slightly different manner concealing an inner certainty Monk himself would never have. Evan might be more sensitive, less arrogant or forceful in his judgment, but he would always have a kind of ease because he was born a minor gentleman, and he knew it, if not on the surface of his mind, then in the deeper layer from which instinct springs. “What are you going to do now, have you thought? The newspapers are full of it this morning.”
“They would be,” Monk acknowledged. “Rejoicing everywhere, I expect? The Home Office will be praising the police, the aristocracy will be congratulating itself it is not at fault—it may have hired a bad footman, but that kind of misjudgment is bound to happen from time to time.” He heard the bitterness in his voice and despised it, but he could not remove it, it was too high in him. “Any honest gentleman can think too well of someone. Moidore’s family is exonerated. And the public at large can sleep safe in its beds again.”
“About right,” Evan conceded, pulling a face. “There’s a long editorial in the Times on the efficiency of the new police force, even in the most trying and sensitive of cases, to wit-in the very home of one of London’s most eminent gentlemen. Runcorn is mentioned several times as being in charge of the investigation. You aren’t mentioned at all.” He shrugged. “Neither am I.”
Monk smiled for the first time, at Evan’s innocence.
“There’s also a piece by someone regretting the rising arrogance of the working classes,” Evan went on. “And predicting the downfall of the social order as we know it and the general decline of Christian morals.”
“Naturally,” Monk said tersely. “There always is. I think someone writes a pile of them and sends one in every time he thinks the occasion excuses it. What else? Does anyone speculate as to whether Percival is actually guilty or not?”
Evan looked very young. Monk could see the shadow of the boy in him so clearly behind the man, the vulnerability in the mouth, the innocence in the eyes.
“None that I saw. Everyone wants him hanged,” Evan said miserably. “There seems to be general relief all ’round, and everyone is very happy to call the case closed and put an end to it. The running patterers have already started composing songs about it, and I passed one selling it by the yard on the Tottenham Court Road.” His words were sophisticated, but his expression belied them. “Very lurid, and not much resemblance to the truth as we saw it—or thought we did. All twopenny dreadful stuff, innocent widow and lust in the pantry, going to bed with a carving knife to defend her virtue, and the evil footman afire with unholy passions creeping up the stairs to have his way with her.” He looked up at Monk. “They want to bring back drawing and quartering. Bloodthirsty swine!”
“They’ve been frightened,” Monk said without pity. “An ugly thing, fear.”
Evan frowned. “Do you think that’s what it was—in Queen Anne Street? Everyone afraid, and just wanted to put it onto someone, anyone, to get us out of the house, and to stop thinking about each other and learning more than they wanted to know?”
Monk leaned forward, pushing the plates away, and rested his elbows on the table wearily.
“Perhaps.” He sighed. “God—I’ve made a mess of it! The worst thing is that Percival will hang. He’s an arrogant and selfish sod, but he doesn’t deserve to die for that. But nearly as bad is that whoever did kill him is still in that house, and is going to get away with it. And try as they might to ignore things, forget things, at least one of them has a fair idea who it is.” He looked up. “Can you imagine it, Evan? Living the rest of your life with someone you know committed murder and let another man swing for it? Passing them on the stairs, sitting opposite them at the dinner table, watching them smile and tell jokes as if it had never happened?”
“What are you going to do?” Evan was watching him with intelligent, troubled eyes.
“What in hell’s name can I do?” Monk exploded. “Runcorn’s arrested Percival and will send him to trial. I haven’t any evidence I’ve not already given him, and I’m not only off the case, I’m off the force. I don’t even know how I’m going to keep a roof over my head, damn it. I’m the last person to help Percival—I can’t even help myself.”
