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“I hope I have.” Monk raised his eyebrows. “I’m beginning to think perhaps I should have taken them to someone with the courage to use them openly and let the court decide what they prove.”
Runcorn blinked, his eyes hot, full of confusion. That defensive look was just the same as it had been when he and Monk had quarreled over the case years ago. Only Runcorn had been younger, his face unlined. Now the innocence had gone, he knew Monk and had tasted defeat, and final victory had not wiped it out.
What had that case been about? Had they solved it in the end?
“Not your place,” Runcorn was saying. “You’d be withholding evidence, and that’s a crime. Don’t think I wouldn’t prosecute you, because I would.” Then a deep pleasure came into his eyes. “But I know you, Monk. You’ll give them to me because you wouldn’t miss the chance of showing up someone important. You can’t abide success, people who have made it to the top, because you haven’t yourself. Envious, that’s what you are. Oh, you’ll give me those letters. You know it, and I know it.”
“Of course you know it,” Monk said. “That’s what terrifies you. You’ll have to use them. You’ll have to be the one to go and question Sir Herbert, and when he can’t answer, you are going to have to press him, drive him into a corner, and in the end arrest him. And the thought of it scares you bloodless. It’ll ruin your social aspirations. You’ll always be remembered as the man who ruined the best surgeon in London!”
Ru
ncorn was white to the lips, sweat beads on his skin. But he did not back down.
“I’ll—” He swallowed. “I’ll be remembered as the man who solved the Prudence Barrymore murder,” he said huskily. “And that’s more than you will, Monk! You’ll be forgotten!”
That stung, because it was probably true.
“You won’t forget me, Runcorn,” Monk said viciously. “Because you’ll always know I brought you the letters. You didn’t find them yourself. And you’ll remember that every time someone tells you how clever you are, what a brilliant detective—you’ll know it is really me they are talking about. Only you haven’t the courage or the honor to say so. You’ll just sit there and smile, and thank them. But you’ll know.”
“Maybe!” Runcorn rose in his seat, his face red. “But you damn well won’t, because it will be in the clubs, and halls and dining rooms where you’ll not be invited.”
“Neither will you—you fool,” Monk said with stinging scorn. “You are not a gentleman, and you never will be. You don’t stand like one, you don’t dress like one, you don’t speak like one—and above all you haven’t the nerve, because you know you aren’t one. You are a policeman with ambitions above yourself. Especially for the policeman who is going to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope—and that’s how you’ll be remembered!”
Runcorn’s shoulders hunched as if he intended hitting Monk. For seconds they stared at each other, both poised to lash out.
Then gradually Runcorn relaxed. He sat back in his chair again and looked up at Monk, a very slight sneer curling his lips.
“You’ll be remembered too, Monk, not among the great and famous, not among gentlemen—but here in the police station. You’ll be remembered with fear—by the ordinary P.C.s you bullied and made miserable, by the men whose reputations you destroyed because they weren’t as ruthless as you or as quick as you thought they should be. You ever read your Bible, Monk? ‘How are the mighty fallen?’ Remember that?” His smile widened. “Oh, they’ll talk about you in the public houses and on the street comers, they’ll say how good it is now you’re gone. They’ll tell the new recruits who complain that they don’t know they’re born. They should see what a real hard man is—a real bully.” The smile was all the way to his eyes. “Give me the letters, Monk, and go and get on with your prying and following and whatever it is you do now.”
“What I do now is what I have always done,” Monk said between his teeth, his voice choking. “Tidy up the cases you can’t manage and clean up behind you!” He thrust the letters out and slammed them on the desk. “I’m not the only one who knows about them, so don’t think you can hide them and blame some other poor sod who is as innocent as that poor bloody footman you hanged.” And with that he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Runcorn white-faced, his hands shaking.
8
SIR HERBERT STANHOPE was arrested and charged, and Oliver Rathbone was retained to conduct his defense. He was one of the most brilliant lawyers in London and, since Monk’s first case after his accident, well acquainted with both Monk and Hester Latterly. To say it was a friendship would be both to understate it and to overstate it. With Monk it was a difficult relationship. Their mutual respect was high; indeed, it amounted to admiration. They also felt a complete trust not only in the competence but each in the professional integrity of the other.
However, on a personal level matters were different. Monk found Rathbone more than a little arrogant and complacent, and he had mannerisms which irritated Monk at times almost beyond bearing. Rathbone, on the other hand, found Monk also arrogant, abrasive, willful, and inappropriately ruthless.
With Hester it was quite different. Rathbone had a regard for her which had grown deeper and more intimate with time. He did not consider her totally suitable as a lifetime companion. She was too opinionated, had very little idea of what it was suitable for a lady to interest herself in—to wit, criminal cases. And yet, curiously, he enjoyed her company more than that of any other woman, and he found himself caring surprisingly deeply what she thought and felt for him. His mind turned to her more often than he could satisfactorily explain to himself. It was disconcerting, but not entirely unpleasant.
And what she thought and felt for him were emotions she had no intention of allowing him to know. At times he disturbed her profoundly—for example, when he had kissed her so suddenly and gently over a year ago. And there had been a sweetness in their time spent at Primrose Hill with his father, Henry Rathbone, whom Hester liked enormously. She would always remember the closeness she had felt walking in the garden in the evening, and the scents of summer in the wind, cut grass and honeysuckle, the leaves of the apple orchard beyond the hedge, dark against the stars.
And yet at the back of her mind there was always Monk. Monk’s face intruded into her thoughts; his voice, and its words, spoke in the silence.
Rathbone was not in the least surprised to receive the call from Sir Herbert Stanhope’s solicitors. Such a man would naturally seek the best defense available, and there were many who would aver without question that that was Oliver Rathbone.
He read all the papers and considered the matter with care. The case against Sir Herbert was strong, but far from conclusive. He had had the opportunity, along with at least a score of other people. He had had the means, as did anyone with sufficient strength in his or her hands—and with a group of women like the average nurses, that included almost everyone. The only evidence of motive was the letters written by Prudence Barrymore to her sister—but they were a powerful indictment, uncontested.
Reasonable doubt would be sufficient to gain an acquittal in law and avoid the hangman’s noose. But to save Sir Herbert’s reputation and honor there must be no doubt at all. That meant he must provide another suspect for the public to blame. They were the ultimate jury.
But first he must seek an acquittal before the court. He read the letters again. They required an explanation, a different interpretation that was both innocent and believable. For that he would have to see Sir Herbert himself.
It was another hot day, sultry with an overcast sky. He disliked visiting the prison at any time, but in the close, oppressive heat it was more unpleasant than usual. The odors were of clogged drains, closed rooms containing exhausted bodies, fear ebbing slowly to despair. He could smell the stone as the doors closed behind him with a hard, heavy clang and the warder led him to the room where he would be permitted to interview Sir Herbert Stanhope.
It was bare gray stone with only a simple wooden table in the center and a chair on either side. One high window, barred and with an iron grille, let in the light high above the eye level of even the tallest man. The warder looked at Rathbone.
“Call when you want out, sir.” And without adding anything further he turned and left Rathbone alone with Sir Herbert. In spite of the fact that they were both prominent men, they had not met before, and they regarded each other with interest. For Sir Herbert it might well prove to be a matter of his life or death. Oliver Rathbone’s skill was the only shield between him and the noose. Sir Herbert’s eyes narrowed and he concentrated intensely, weighing the face he saw with its broad forehead, curious very dark eyes for a man otherwise fair, long sensitive nose and beautiful mouth.
Rathbone also regarded Sir Herbert carefully. He was bound to defend this man, a famous public figure, at least in the medical world. The center of the case upon which would rest a good many reputations—his own included, if he did not conduct himself well. It was a terrible responsibility to have a man’s life in one’s hands—not as it was for Sir Herbert, where it lay on the dexterity of the fingers, but simply upon one’s judgment of other human beings, the knowledge of the law, and the quickness of your wits and your tongue.
